Sketch: Bruises

Bruises. I like them. I like what they mean, and I like how they make me feel. I like the tenderness that they leave behind, the slight ache jolting memories of the acts that created them to the forefront of my mind. Bruises made by hungry mouths, by strong hands, by being forced up against a wall.

I bruise easily.

A bruise, dark and angry, reminds me of the person who gave it to me. It's a reminder I can carry around with me, that I can stare at hungrily in the mirror, that serves as a mark of ownership which simply can't be matched. It's a private, personal badge of intensity and hunger that only the two of us know about - except when it isn't: when it's on display to the world in acknowledgment of the power that that person holds over me. A bruise reminds me of how little control I have.

I was once given a necklace of bruises, working all around my neck, sweeping under my collarbone, straying onto my breasts, snaking down my back; a scattering of purple-red on lightly toasted skin. I was never prouder to wear them than in the moment when I heard the shocked gasps of my roommates as I undressed that night.

As bruises take away power, so do they confer it.

That mark on my hip, my thigh, my arm where I was gripped so hard it hurt - not by intent but by instinct - that mark makes me smile because it tells me that I have the power to make another lose control enough that all they can do is grab recklessly at me. It is an exquisite embodiment of the throes of passion.

Mark me. Suck on my neck and take it just a little too far - hard enough for it to burn a bit, hard enough to make stars dance behind my eyes, hard enough to leave a mark. Throw me down onto the bed, cut short my scramble to escape, hold me down and then slowly, deliberately mark my inner thighs with your mouth, so that I can remember only you when I touch myself. Mark me with the flat of your hand, set my ass aflame with your blows. Then bite it. Break the skin just a little, just enough to justify the sobriquet, 'love bite'.

Find the softest, most tender flesh on my body, and leave it bruised.

I treasure these souvenirs, these reminders of our time together.