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Sometimes, there is a momentary loss of humanity. It’s the sadistic mindset of Dommespace, and it both repels and fascinates me. I briefly become the sociopath, and the sociopath is commonly thought to be devoid of empathy. Yet it’s the empathy I get off on. In those moments when she is bent over the banister – folded in half, bound, trussed, face contorted, rump held high, relishing the cool smack of my palm across her buttocks – my humanity is lost, yet does not cease to exist. It merely travels. Consciousness turns to thick, sticky liquid, seeps out, moves. The body I inhabit becomes empty. It thrashes mindlessly, laughing, relishing her pain. And my spirit is elsewhere. For a moment, just a moment, it lives within her. I wear her skin. I see through her eyes. Her cries are mine. When the first tear is squeezed out from between her tightly-closed eyelids, I can only equate the sensation to that feeling during the crescendo of a favourite song, the tingle and rush at its familiar melody, the transcendent beauty that makes one’s knees quiver involuntarily. When I give her pain, I inhabit her entirely. I feel it all, and I love it. That, to me, is Dommespace.
There are times I become Sekhmet.
She is the flipside of Bast, the Ancient Egyptian cat Goddess, and is the less docile of the feline deities. Where Bast is the nurturing Goddess of love, motherhood, nurturing and fertility, Sekhmet is not. She is the bloodthirsty lioness. Where Bast is the creatrix, Sekhmet is the destructress. Where Bast is the gentle sunlight, Sekhmet is the blazing heat that scorches the land and burns away the skin and bones of the unbelievers. They are the same, and they are opposite. Bast and Sekhmet are facets of every single one of us, and archetypal corners of the infinite.
So anyway, there are times I’m Sekhmet. This is one of those times. By remarkable coincidence, I am also premenstrual. My hormones have conspired to make me very, very, very angry about nothing I can quite put my finger on. The most innocuous misdemeanor by an oblivious bystander will offer full justification for sending me into a murderous rage. I am currently quelling the urge to set fire to everyone and everything in my path with a makeshift blowtorch, and all for no discernable reason. Oh, the joys of womanhood.
Sekhmet, as legend has it, was thwarted by alcohol. During her rampage along the Nile, burning mortals and guzzling blood, she was only stopped when the river was replaced by booze. After drinking a bit, she curled up and fell asleep, and all was right with the world.
Take heed, gentlemen. It is for this reason that I am currently pouring wine down my throat, and that if you see me this week, you should buy me a bottle for your own safety.
