Puppet Master
(12-12-2010)
Puppet Master, Puppet Master pulls my strings,
Makes me do almost anything.
Turn me left. Turn me right.
With a tug of the strings,
I can’t recall my name or fight.
But I can do all the things I might not otherwise.
Puppet Master. It’s this rhyme from my childhood that I can only partly remember. It’s the kind of rhyme that seems pointless until it falls into point. The direct one of a knife. Slicing into your skin. Bleeding you. Flooding your mind until there’s nothing left to do but face it. The truth. They tell you that you’re in the hot seat in life, the one where all your choices lead to one thing. There are no go backs. No second chances. You become a product of what you choose to do.
What happens when you’re not the one in charge of making those choices anymore?
I’m not in charge anymore.
In the mouth of madness my words disappear and I’m speaking his language. Telling him things. Things I’ve always wanted to do, yet I don’t. These things that I don’t want anyone to know I tell him openly because he has my mind tied and whipped into submission. Invisible strings make you move in the ways you don’t know you can until it’s too late.
Calm. Cool. Logic. Those three words went out the door alongside the feeling of panic. Like a syringe of poison that I can’t stop plunging into my skin over and over again. It’s killing me but I can‘t stop it from happening. As more happens I’m not prepared to face it, but I have to. Because he tells me that I have to. Look deep into the eyes of it. He keeps pushing me to do things that I say I don’t want to do. But I’m not in control anymore. He is.
Even now as I reach into this strange skin, slowly making every second count, I don’t want to do this.
God, please stop me. Except there’s no God in this room, this place, this hour of night.
And there’s no one to stop me from doing the things I want to do but can’t even admit to myself.
Dancing in the flesh at a strange place for his pleasure is the last thing I want, but I can’t stop. Stop means control. Control isn’t what I have. Anything but that. Living within a stranger. Someone who is me and I no longer recognize. I have her hands and fingers guiding mine through this unbridled motion. She’s a stranger to me, and in love with this part. I can’t shake her free. While he watches and encourages.
He has my mind in a tight lock. Telling me what I want to hear. Encouraging me. Pulling me inward. I’m addicted to this infection. I want to scream but I can’t break free. There’s no chance of escape. My body is a puppet and perhaps on some level my mind doesn’t want to stop. Never quit feeling the inside out of another person. Every touch invited by sheer will. Hands reaching beneath the layers of clothing to reach flesh and pushing until there’s...
No way back is what the sign on the door reads as we make our way past it down to the back of the hall. The music from the front room of the seedy bar pulsates through the walls. There isn’t an exact melody but the bass line is unmistakable. I can feel every part of me screaming to stop and instead I keep moving forward within this stranger. And I push myself into the last room when he holds open the door.
With a tug of the strings I’m dancing. In the middle of this tiny room without a lock while he shuts the door and tells me that it’s time before telling me to continue. In the back of my mind the sound of my fear is screaming when he takes a seat. I don’t think I’m ready for this but I can’t stop it from happening. With the wink of an eye he has me becoming this stranger. The tips of her fingers do all the work.
If there’s no part of me doing this, then why can’t I stop?
Wanting to stop and I can’t get enough at the same time. Stepping out of my boundaries without control. Hands reach inward and reveal the flesh. Touching the skin of my hips he signals me further. A tug of the invisible strings and I’m completely bare before his eyes. The music is in tune with my rocking torso and he pulls a little tighter on the strings. To the left my hands reach down onto his lap. To the right my hands circle around his neck. Down grinds my hips for his approval. Up shifts my chest before letting myself be pulled in further. She loves every minute of this and I’m resisting in the back of my mind. Quietly in the back of my mind the resistance begins to wear down while he insists me further.
Out of control and it keeps happening. He keeps telling me that I want more. I don’t want to hear this. The more it happens. The more it continues. I tell myself it needs to stop. And then it keeps happening because I can’t stop it. No control. He tells me that this is what I want to do and makes me do it. Being dragged into the unknown kicking and screaming like a hostage and he tells me that I’ll do it and like it. And I do. The part of me that’s pulled into the unknown of the situation is terrified and begging for freedom and strangely I can’t give into it. Every moment that I’m convinced this isn’t what I want tells me something different because I don’t stop.
I don’t stop the stranger’s familiar hands that become more comfortable against my own skin that’s being insisted forward by him. And on some level I know that it’s not him that’s really insisting. It’s me. Pulling my own strings. Pushing me to become the person I need to be. The person I’ve always been. In front of him.
Everyone has a choice. Even blaming someone else is a choice. At some point you have to face the direct blade of the truth and die by it. The reality is that I’m always in control. I want to do this. While he continues to watch and encourage I realize that there’s no stranger in the darkness of this room. It’s me that wants this. Wants his pleasure. And I have to face it.
