Image by urbanphotographer2007. Also — alt image.
I’ll admit that I was on Nerve to gratuitously vote for my friend (and talented writer) Paul Festa in their Vote for the Best Nerve Essays of 2008 contest when I perused the other entries — and read the heart-stopping essay by Angela Conner about erotic face-slapping. For me, that’s a distinct “no” in my erotic repertoire, but for Conner it’s something different entirely. I still voted for Paul because I’m like that, but got totally drawn into “Stinging Fingerprints: When He Slapped Me, I Came Alive”, snip:
It wasn’t really my idea. I don’t think it would’ve occurred to me before it happened that first time. But when he slapped me hard across the face, I knew it was right. I felt the electric shock of it, the sudden awareness spreading from the heat rising on my cheek of being completely present in my skin, and completely in the moment in that hotel room with a man I did not know.
But it wasn’t exactly a surprise, either; I knew it was coming. We met online three years ago. He was in New York and I had just moved to Philadelphia. We exchanged emails for a few weeks and had a couple of brief phone conversations that lightly danced around the notions of rough sex, and I understood what I was getting into. Or so I thought. I had read about BDSM and lurked in some chat rooms. I knew people tied each other up and whipped each other. I eavesdropped on their pride in taking it. And I was more than a little intrigued.
It wasn’t hard, then, to step into the role with a stranger who seemed to know his part. In those virtual exchanges, I readily admitted that I was a willful girl in need of “instruction,” that he knew how to turn pouty women into the good girls they wanted to be. It was all very playful and perhaps a bit scripted. So when he finally took the train to Philly, I thought I was ready. When we met for drinks at Buddakan, and he turned to me and said, “I’d like to slap that pretty face,” I swiveled on my stool to lodge my knee between his, and I gave him my best “I dare you” smile. I asked for it.
Still, I didn’t know it would be so quick. Standing in his hotel room, he kissed me carefully the way new lovers do. He stepped back and looked into my eyes. I was expecting him to say he wanted me, or some version of the half-dozen things people say when they’re about to have sex for the first time. Or I was expecting him to pull out some rope. But instead he simply stared at me, taking measure, then cocked his right arm and swung. I didn’t know how much I’d be caught off guard, taken aback by it, by the commitment of it and the force of his six-foot frame leveraged behind his right hand.
It was an arc of lightning that drove through my jaw. I felt the sting and the burning rise on my left cheek. I felt my eyes tear and the vibration of every muscle, from my forehead beginning to ache to a quiver in my calves.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever noticed my heart in my chest before. I felt my lips trembling, trying to form a smile. And yes, I felt the wetness pooling between my legs. And when I opened my eyes and saw the look on his face, turned on but also concerned and questioning, I felt powerful. I felt in control. This man, twice my size, had just hit me across the face with his full weight, and I took it. I absorbed it. I was fucking strong; I half expected him to fall on his knees in front of me. (…read more, nerve.com)
So I’m not alone…