It was after L left and I looked in the mirror that I realized I might have a problem. My breasts and neck were covered in bruises and bite marks. One was even bleeding; that would leave a scar. I was heading to my parents’ house in two days for Christmas, and although I knew I could cover the mess that had been made of my boobs, my neck was going to be a different story. If I had a stockpile of turtlenecks, it would have been one thing, but I’m just not a turtleneck type of girl.
When I first started dating, I knew that I liked to be bitten. There was something both sensual and animalistic about it that I couldn’t help but be enticed by. When I masturbated it was always something I thought about: that aggressive devouring that would leave battle scars. However, high school, and even college guys, were hesitant to rock the boat in their sexual performances. So, when I’d whisper, “Bite my neck,” I would either end up with sad little hickeys or their efforts would be so weak that I would never bother to ask again. There’s nothing worse than a weak bite.
By the time I reached my mid-20s I was finally sure about what I wanted sexually and comfortable asking for it. I knew I wanted to be spanked, I wanted to be tied down, and I craved being controlled. But again, just as it was in college and high school before it, it was hard to find someone who was on the same page. Some men do not like to spank, others were hardly chomping at the bit to bite me. Even when I prompted them with a little nibble first, or pleaded for something not on the menu, it was like pulling teeth. I even had one guy tell me that I should double up on my therapy if I wanted to be treated “that way.” I didn’t double up on my therapy; I went to Paris instead.
So when I was lying in bed with L and he said he liked to bite, I wanted to push the limit and see for myself. Could this person finally fulfill the aching I had for such a thing? Could he actually leave me marked up with bruises from his perfect teeth, even to the point that it would take weeks for me to heal? The thought of it made me wet with anticipation.
And so he bit me. He bit me over and over again between kissing and reaching at other parts of my body. I let out gasps and even at one point a yell, because there was such a release that came with each sinking of his teeth into my flesh. I wanted to be scarred; I wanted to walk away with the reminder of the moment emblazoned on my skin. I needed it.
After L left, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I knew I had to see him again not just because I thought he was darling, sarcastic and brilliant, but also because I needed him to bite me again. I knew my bruises would fade, but the memory of how good it felt to get them wouldn’t. I didn’t care what my parents or friends would think when they saw my neck; if they wanted to judge me, think I needed to double up on my therapy, then so be it.. I have known for the majority of my life that I’m a masochist. I, for whatever reason, love torturing myself in one way or another with some level of pain. I’m not sure where it comes from or why it feels so good to me, but it does. For me, being bitten offers a liberating release I haven’t found anywhere else.
I saw L again after the holiday. We were sitting on my couch, and his body was against mine and I could not just hear, but feel his heart beating. I watched the way his mouth moved when he spoke, the way his lips sat perfectly in a smirk between each word, and had to have his mouth on my body. I straddled his lap, immediately removed my sweater and let him have me. We weren’t even having sex — I was overcome with completeness with just his mouth doing its work on me. I never wanted it to end. But he had to go, I had to leave the country, and a month later sitting in this flat on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, I’m just about completely healed from that night. There are light scars and small bruising that remains, but it’s not enough for me. Now that I’ve had a taste, I’m hungry for more.