The implements are familiar. I held them often (years ago) in an air-conditioned studio that smelled of something faintly clinical.
But this feeling is foreign — I never loved the flesh that was my target nor the blood that I evoked. The air is anything but clinical — it’s hot, heavy, and dense with equal parts anxiety, arousal, and isopropyl. I love the flesh, I want the blood, but I’m uneasy about it all.
I ask him if he’s ready because I am not so sure. He is stoic and nearly still, save for the subtle throb that accompanies his pulse.
The forceps are cold and clumsy in my hands, but his flesh is warm and familiar. I forgo the clamp in favor of my fingers — they know him better, love him more, and hold him best.
I shine light through him and he glows around haphazard capillary lace. That’s my spot — mine. I love the flesh, I want the blood, but I’m anxious and unsure. I examine him from a dozen different angles when there are only really two. I’m stalling and he knows it — his visage breaks, revealing his unease.
His uncertainty and willingness to trust me all the same — that was all I needed.
Muscle memory kicks in. With the needle in hand, my cunt clenches and my heart seizes with the feeling — it’s overwhelming, but familiar — it’s love of flesh so strong I might break it with desire.
I press the point against his skin at an angle, not to penetrate, but to elicit a reaction. He sucks breath sharply. I hold mine and hesitate for want to make the moment last, to prolong suspended tension, to enjoy the complement and contrast of he and I together.
I adjust the angle and with the slightest pressure, there’s a nearly imperceptible dull pop — a sensation of breaking through — so slight I’m not sure if it’s real or it’s imagined.
The tension breaks too soon — I wish it required more, lasted longer, or meant as much as what it represents. It’s symbolic action, imperfect imitation, performance of emotion for which there is no ideal expression.
It’s love of flesh and want for blood. His.