In Master, We Trust

We were sitting on the couch, watching tv. (American Idol, ftw!) Master had been snacking on bits of cheese that he was slicing off of a block of mozzarella with a steak knife. When he was done, he just handed the whole mess to me. Knife, garbage, leftover cheese.

I was watching American Idol so, you know, it says somewhere in the rule book that I don’t have to get up and clean his mess until the show is over.

It’s in the fine print, I’m sure of it.

I started fiddling with the knife, making mock stabbing motions at him and saying “Obey me, Bitch!”

Srsly. It was funny. I thought.

He doesn’t even do or say anything. Perfect deadpan. So I take the knife and I very slowly, and very carefully, and very steadily, put the point of it up his nostril.

Oh come ON. Like you wouldn’t??

He doesn’t even blink.

Just cuts his eyes at me and… waits.

So I stop. Because, I’m not completely STOOPID. Just… marginally stupid, perhaps.

A few more segments of the show go by (in other words, he waited until my guard was down. Fucker.) and then he plucks the knife outta my limp hand and quips, “My turn!”

And I?

Freaked. The. Fuck. Out.

Like, I suddenly became a herculean octupus. I wasn’t about to hold still for him to stick a steak knife up my nose. No way, no how. Nuh-uh. Wadn’t happenin’.

He’s half-heartedly trying to pin me down, I’m laughing and screaming and doing Exorcist-type moves with my head. All I could see was the very sharp and very shiny point of that steak knife out of the corner of my eye and it scared me fucking silly.

He demanded that I sit still and I tried, I really really tried, but it was instinct, I tell you! He’d get close, I see it, and, fucking fight or flight? I was doing both!

This went on for hours. Well, okay not hours. But long enough that I’d started to sweat and my throat hurt from screaming for my life.

He, of course, was nothing but amused.

Finally he stands up and in mock indignation, with his hands on his hips, exclaims, “I can’t BELIEVE that you don’t trust me! You untrusting bitch. I’m hurt.”

I’m trying to tell him how it is but he was having none of it. He was all “talk to the hand cuz the face ain’t listening!” butt-hurt about it! He wouldn’t let me touch him, he wouldn’t let me kiss him…

He wouldn’t even let me stick my poor cold feet under his ass when we went to bed. He said if he can’t stick a knife in my face, I can’t stick my feet in his ass.

Is he a sore loser or what??

Well! He can’t shut me up HERE so as I was trying to explain to him last night-

I DO trust him. In the following ways:

I trust him to be a sadist.

I trust him to make it hurt.

I trust him to always push it just a little past fun.

I trust him to make me bleed.

I trust him to always do exactly what he wants to do.

I trust him to make me cry at every possible opportunity.

Now, there’s going to come a time, probably in my very near future, when I will be tied down somewhere and he’s going to get a knife and he’s going to poke it up my nose. And it’s going to hurt.

How do I know this?

Because.

Because I trust him like that.

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