Cutting

Patrick Califia is doing a blood play workshop at Venus Envy next weekend. I've been hemming and hawing about whether I should go or not. Patrick is a great facilitator and highly entertaining to watch.

But needles give me a bit of the willies, and I had assumed that cutting left me cold. So enh, I thought, probably not.

But I cut my hand today, and that made me think twice.

It wasn't a wrought moment or wrapped in ritual. I was doing the dishes and had squeezed my soapy, slippery hand into a mason jar for a good scrub. Twisted my fist around a couple of times, then pulled out. Looked down and there were 6 lines of blood across the back of my hand. And a tiny chip out of the jar in my other.

They were fine, graceful, curved lines. Some blood, enough to make me awkwardly fuss about under the sink with my uncoordinated left hand for the paper towel, then walk around the apartment with a mummy right hand for 20 minutes.

Didn't hurt at all until I swabbed the cuts with alcohol, and then they stung. That sweet high scree of a body note that happens when I pick a scab and press a salty thumb into the opening. But not on purpose and uncontrolled.

May check out this workshop after all.