I hate to have my picture taken, which strikes some people who know me as odd, since I’m actually quite photogenic. When I was working as a prodomme I had to get my professional photos redone every year to keep them current, but otherwise I avoid having my picture taken. I don’t like looking at myself.
The exception are injuries photos. From beatings.
I’ve documented most of my more significant or interesting beatings over the years. I know the photos by heart. If you showed me a random photograph of bruises on my back, I’d be able to tell you where and when it happened: “Surgeon, San Diego 2012. I was wearing my red dress.”
Sometimes I’d take photos of the marks as they worsened and then gradually healed, trying to capture the colors over time, from blood red to hematoma black to gray to green to yellow, and then finally to pale Margo skin.
I’d take photos from as many different angles as I could, usually in front of a mirror, or mirrors. Bathroom mirrors, most often.
Sometimes the Surgeon would take them for me. He was the only person I really talked to about these photos. Well, I didn’t really talk to him about them…but I shared them with him. He was very indulgent in this matter. This was, in fact, one of his rare true moments of grace: he never judged my masochism, my craving for violence. He accepted that part of me completely, and he did what he could to meet my needs.
I’d show him pictures on my computer screen: “See that one you left last time? See, look now! The chain left that!”
He’d smile and nod. That was something else: the marks never revolted or disturbed him. It must have been all the medical training. He wasn’t squeamish at all.
I remember him touching my shoulder one time: “Margo, be careful who you show these to. I know that they make you happy, but people won’t understand. Don’t keep them on your PC in case you have computer problems. Promise me.”
He was right, of course. I’ve seen the way people react to my marks. Even people who ought to know better, like other mistresses in the Studio. I was photographing my ass after a heavy caning session with a visiting Englishman when I saw Maria looking at me. Her expression was fear and revulsion. Sometimes other people can understand how I could do it for money, or do it as a gesture of love for the man who inflicts it. Almost nobody understands my feelings of excitement or fascination, the curiosity. Or, strangest of all: my complete disregard for my own physical integrity. I have fears. Pain is not one of them.
I can get caught up in re-examining these old photos, studying them, reliving the experiences and what happened afterward. Why? It never gets old. I look at them as if there will be something new. An answer, perhaps.
That’s all for tonight. There’s nothing else.