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סיפור נוסף
[URL]https://ruthbachrach.weebly.com/blog[/URL]
I will start this story halfways. The beginning and the end will be added later on, if ever, if necessary. I f I am able to.
There are parties going on this weekend. I stayed at home. Pain, black and poisenouse like mold rotting its way thrhough my lungs, heart, inner vacumes.
Light was pouring into this boat-house. His small, bright, cold blue eyes, filled with water; I could notice the little red veins exploding in them. Sharp, obsevring blue eyes, got cloudy and turned inside.
I moved from my sit on the couch next to Young Os, my camera man; we were sitting next to each other like one of the couples he advices and holds therapeutic session with.
I moved from my place on the couch, about 1,75m away from him, and came to sit on the edge of the seat near him. I held my breath. Attemptig with all my will power not to touch his hand and hug it, like a preciuouse baby, between both mine. His hand was amazingly small, thin, delicate, fingers. It surprised me, knowing, only from hear-say, their power and their agility and skill. I did not touch his hand.
I was sitting there crying, tears streaming silently over my chiks, dripping over my white T and white trousers.
Thank you, I whispered. Thank you for sharing this with me.; for sharing this now. Thank you for your tears.
Upon leaving, he tried to bless me; to give me a fare well gift. May you make as much art as you want. May you bring into the touchable reality whatever is you want to.
He tried to be the strong man he usualy plays; to assume this role here as well.
I thanked him politely, paid and was gone.
I came to him and asked him to teach me how to draw my own blood. Eagerness and thoughtlessness, and lack of organisational skills are more often then I am willing to admit my good fairies.
Forgot to ask him if he was agreeing with me filming this session, and did so only just before Os, my lovely camera man, whom I learned to know that day, and I had to leave to meet him in his boat-house.
We started a, what seemed to be, a difficult and tiresom, useless discussion about weather, when, if and how me drawing my own blood under his guiding will be filmed. What would such a recording be used for; how; will he apear on it? His voice, guiding me? His hands?
He was not happy about it at all. This was not something he was willig to be recorded; teaching drawing blood is dangerouse, and he does not want it being published, that he does that, this is not something he is going to show the world and be prowd of.
I tried to explain him my position; the way I look at things. I don't think he got it, not at first he did not.
It is not about showing anything to anybody, I said. It is not about being proud, I said. It is just about those visions I have and I need to bring them down into this real, material world. I speak and my hands move in the air; I make gestures, try to make him feel what I do.
There is no recognition in those small, cold blue eyes, under the silver small reading spectacles resting halfway his small nose.
He is the local BDSM-guru; couching ppl / couples in the technichal and emotional aspects of the BDSM.
He told me he and some other Doms hadden a coffee - club, and once the question came up: what would you have done if you happened to live during WW II, how would you act?
He said he was happy not to be put in a situation to have to make a choise. I said: "Well, this is the only question there is, isn't it ? Who are You? What would you have done?"
Look into your own soul's eyes and ask yourself the only question that matters.
I complimented him with his search for honesty and integrtity.
He told us lot's of Doms want to brake the Sub; and build them back again.
yes, he said. We can brake a person, everybody is brakeable; but we don't know how to build, rebuild, a person.
Yes, he said, you can brake everybody.
and me? who am I in here ?
He is about 55, my age. Quiet a long man, with a more that a starting belly, over his belt. Blak throusers, Black T; that's the way it goes. I am dressed in a thin white bodystocking, white jeanse. Espcially wore those for the filming, catching that red, dark juice of mine, staining my snow white-ness.
He is bold. My hair is gray, long and braided.
Ok, I thought. He still does not understands the need for blood; the need for drawing my own blood; the need for recording, filming, my first session.
Let's put on the heavy, always winning card on the table.
"I am Jewish, and I am Israeli. Although my family did not suffer during the war, I am troumatised; we are all traumatised. Israeli's, Jews, Germans, Dutch,, Europeans, all Man Kind. I grew up with unstoable stream of images of corpses; piled upon each other, standing naked next to each other, hands covering their genitals; eyes bulking in panic; eyes lost in void.
My first pornography were the romans by Katsetnic; as a young adolcent of 13, 14 years, I read them one after the other; guzzling in sexual hunger and disgust form myself. Goig with my father to the beach in the summer we showered in those open showers of the '60, where everybody showered together. I saw only walking, talking, shouting laughing corpses. This is what I do; this is who I am.
Look at this dying beautiful bodies, and resurect with them. Resurect them.
Then I saw his eyes change. Red became the cold blue. The gaze clouded and turned inside, into his own skull.
He told me his father was an NSB-er, a member of the Dutch National Burgerparty, who colaboreted with the Germans during the war.
סיפור נוסף
[URL]https://ruthbachrach.weebly.com/blog[/URL]
I will start this story halfways. The beginning and the end will be added later on, if ever, if necessary. I f I am able to.
There are parties going on this weekend. I stayed at home. Pain, black and poisenouse like mold rotting its way thrhough my lungs, heart, inner vacumes.
Light was pouring into this boat-house. His small, bright, cold blue eyes, filled with water; I could notice the little red veins exploding in them. Sharp, obsevring blue eyes, got cloudy and turned inside.
I moved from my sit on the couch next to Young Os, my camera man; we were sitting next to each other like one of the couples he advices and holds therapeutic session with.
I moved from my place on the couch, about 1,75m away from him, and came to sit on the edge of the seat near him. I held my breath. Attemptig with all my will power not to touch his hand and hug it, like a preciuouse baby, between both mine. His hand was amazingly small, thin, delicate, fingers. It surprised me, knowing, only from hear-say, their power and their agility and skill. I did not touch his hand.
I was sitting there crying, tears streaming silently over my chiks, dripping over my white T and white trousers.
Thank you, I whispered. Thank you for sharing this with me.; for sharing this now. Thank you for your tears.
Upon leaving, he tried to bless me; to give me a fare well gift. May you make as much art as you want. May you bring into the touchable reality whatever is you want to.
He tried to be the strong man he usualy plays; to assume this role here as well.
I thanked him politely, paid and was gone.
I came to him and asked him to teach me how to draw my own blood. Eagerness and thoughtlessness, and lack of organisational skills are more often then I am willing to admit my good fairies.
Forgot to ask him if he was agreeing with me filming this session, and did so only just before Os, my lovely camera man, whom I learned to know that day, and I had to leave to meet him in his boat-house.
We started a, what seemed to be, a difficult and tiresom, useless discussion about weather, when, if and how me drawing my own blood under his guiding will be filmed. What would such a recording be used for; how; will he apear on it? His voice, guiding me? His hands?
He was not happy about it at all. This was not something he was willig to be recorded; teaching drawing blood is dangerouse, and he does not want it being published, that he does that, this is not something he is going to show the world and be prowd of.
I tried to explain him my position; the way I look at things. I don't think he got it, not at first he did not.
It is not about showing anything to anybody, I said. It is not about being proud, I said. It is just about those visions I have and I need to bring them down into this real, material world. I speak and my hands move in the air; I make gestures, try to make him feel what I do.
There is no recognition in those small, cold blue eyes, under the silver small reading spectacles resting halfway his small nose.
He is the local BDSM-guru; couching ppl / couples in the technichal and emotional aspects of the BDSM.
He told me he and some other Doms hadden a coffee - club, and once the question came up: what would you have done if you happened to live during WW II, how would you act?
He said he was happy not to be put in a situation to have to make a choise. I said: "Well, this is the only question there is, isn't it ? Who are You? What would you have done?"
Look into your own soul's eyes and ask yourself the only question that matters.
I complimented him with his search for honesty and integrtity.
He told us lot's of Doms want to brake the Sub; and build them back again.
yes, he said. We can brake a person, everybody is brakeable; but we don't know how to build, rebuild, a person.
Yes, he said, you can brake everybody.
and me? who am I in here ?
He is about 55, my age. Quiet a long man, with a more that a starting belly, over his belt. Blak throusers, Black T; that's the way it goes. I am dressed in a thin white bodystocking, white jeanse. Espcially wore those for the filming, catching that red, dark juice of mine, staining my snow white-ness.
He is bold. My hair is gray, long and braided.
Ok, I thought. He still does not understands the need for blood; the need for drawing my own blood; the need for recording, filming, my first session.
Let's put on the heavy, always winning card on the table.
"I am Jewish, and I am Israeli. Although my family did not suffer during the war, I am troumatised; we are all traumatised. Israeli's, Jews, Germans, Dutch,, Europeans, all Man Kind. I grew up with unstoable stream of images of corpses; piled upon each other, standing naked next to each other, hands covering their genitals; eyes bulking in panic; eyes lost in void.
My first pornography were the romans by Katsetnic; as a young adolcent of 13, 14 years, I read them one after the other; guzzling in sexual hunger and disgust form myself. Goig with my father to the beach in the summer we showered in those open showers of the '60, where everybody showered together. I saw only walking, talking, shouting laughing corpses. This is what I do; this is who I am.
Look at this dying beautiful bodies, and resurect with them. Resurect them.
Then I saw his eyes change. Red became the cold blue. The gaze clouded and turned inside, into his own skull.
He told me his father was an NSB-er, a member of the Dutch National Burgerparty, who colaboreted with the Germans during the war.