Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Read online

  I ached at the thought. I grieved that I might only have one chance to experience bliss like that, and that I’d already used it up. How could I spend the rest of my life never knowing that indescribable pleasure again? Once Danny pedaled away, was it gone forever?

  So I pushed him off the bike again.

  To my delight, when he thrust out his hands to break his fall, he misjudged. His elbow smashed into the pavement and he let out a howl that started my groin tingling all over again. When his right arm collapsed and he landed, face first, on the concrete, my penis instantly stiffened. Had I been another year into puberty, I daresay I might have been able to cum a second time.

  Much of my life since then has been shaped by that experience and my quests to recapture it—preferably as often as possible.

  Naturally, while I was a youngster still living at home, my options were limited. Though I was certainly willing to go around pushing other children off of bicycles—opportunities were rare. Instead, I spent quite a lot of time, mostly in the privacy of my bedroom with my dick in my hand, reliving the incident. I needed to recapture that exquisite thrill, but I was smart enough to understand that there could be grave consequences should I involve another of my schoolmates.

  I set out to experiment, reasoning that if it was the pain that turned me on, maybe I could achieve my goal without involving anyone else at all. Could I get the same result if I intentionally hurt myself? There was so much about my condition that I wanted to know!

  I was soon to learn, however, that if there was a Kinsey equivalent for sadomasochism, I was as far away from the M side of the scale as it’s possible to get. Even the thought of experiencing pain myself made me queasy. But the memory of my first orgasm proved impossible to resist, and when, after a dozen false starts, I was finally able to pierce my own thumb with a straight pin, the tiny wound caused an indescribable agony that I could barely endure.

  I also discovered an embarrassing tendency to faint at the sight of my own blood.

  My reaction confused me. Had I been a budding serial killer, things would have been easier for me. I would have had a mold to fit into, something to aspire to. But how many homicidal maniacs pass out at the first sign of gore? Besides, all the books I read said that most serial killers start their careers by practicing on small animals. I’ll admit that I tried, but it was a dismal failure.

  Shortly into the process, the kitten started mewling piteously and my heart broke. I was immediately aghast at myself, and to this day, it is difficult for me to look at certain power tools without shame. Worse, no matter how gentle I tried to be, I couldn’t remove the duct tape without hurting the poor thing even more. My only option was to use the hammer to put the creature out of its misery as quickly and mercifully as possible. When it was over, I collapsed to the ground and vomited.

  I dug a grave for the sad little corpse in the back yard, but I was unable to also bury my guilt. It still haunts me. Every year I make a sizeable donation to the local animal shelter. Nothing will ever truly atone for what I did, but it’s the best I can do. For awhile, I actually considered joining PETA as well, but I thought that might be taking my penance to an extreme.

  Still, I craved pain with the kind of insatiable lust that causes some people to claw their way to the top of the corporate ladder, while others compulsively collect Disneyiana. At an age where there were few other outlets available to me, I became a horror movie fanatic. As long as a film showed attractive young people slowly dispatched in creatively gruesome ways, you could bet that I’d be in the audience, shoving popcorn into my mouth with one hand and stroking my penis through my pants with the other.

  Like most adolescent males, onanism became my main avocation. Unlike other boys, however, my masturbatory fantasies became darker and darker. Not that they were ever particularly jolly to begin with. I managed to get my hands on a few bondage magazines, and though they were good for a couple of orgasms, I quickly grew bored by the staged, artificial quality of the pictures.

  Though Danny starred in a lot of my fantasies, I often replaced him with handsome movie stars or a model I saw on a billboard or in a magazine ad. Eventually, I realized that the subjects of my sexual fantasies had become almost exclusively male. If anything, the discovery that I was homosexual eased my mind. I’d started feeling uncomfortable whenever I jerked off to a movie or photo that showed a young woman being tortured. Focusing on a female seemed gross, even dirty. I wanted a man, a man in the prime of his youth and strength. I loved the idea of watching him struggle against the ropes or chains, cursing me defiantly at first, all too soon to be whimpering and begging.

  Would his charred flesh smell sweet? If so, could I resist a tiny taste? Could I find what I needed at the local hardware store? Or would I have to design my own specialized tools? Would I need to muffle his screams, or was there a way to soundproof the location so that I could enjoy both the sight and the sound of his agony without disturbing the neighbors?

  These were important questions, I felt, and I devoted a lot of time to considering them. But I didn’t allow the uncertainty of the answers to detract from my fantasy. Even as I vowed to one day have the answers, I feared I would never follow through. A catharsis of the imagination might be beneficial, but to carry out these impulses would not be indicative of stable mental health.

  Once I was old enough to be on my own, I searched the Craigslist personals and began haunting the various underground bondage clubs for real life partners. I found a surprising number of takers, other men eager to be tortured and abused by a good-looking, superior young man like myself.

  I discovered a problem with that.

  Ironically, their very willingness to suffer kept me limp. It simply wasn’t a turn on for me if my victim submitted voluntarily. Even when I ventured into more extreme sexual practices, I was disappointed to find out that most men who advertised “no limits” quickly called a halt as soon as the barbecue skewers got hot enough or when I started to slice into something interesting.

  A few times, I’ll admit, I was tempted to ignore their silly little safe words. But during all those adolescent years I spent dreaming up the most creative and exquisite tortures to inflict on helpless flesh, I also considered the practical ramifications–just in case I ever had the gumption to take the plunge. Were I truly insane, I doubt that I would have thought things through so thoroughly and reached the conclusions I did. No, if I were crazy, I simply would have taken the risk and I would have been caught in a heartbeat.

  Hiding the evidence after an actual torture session had to be a terribly involved job. Not only would it cost a small fortune for all those cleaners and disinfectants, even if only half of what they show on TV is accurate, the marvels of modern forensics made getting away with it nearly impossible. I couldn’t chance it.

  Judges do not grant probation to people who did the things I wanted to do. They throw away the key. And prison would definitely cramp my style. You see, even though I was still afraid to take action, the idea that one day I might find the courage was omnipresent. Behind bars, there was no chance at all.

  I bided my time and prepared anyway. When I bought my house, the real estate agent was baffled by my obsession with basements. He was exceedingly handsome, and when he casually mentioned that he’d both been captain of his college swim team and had rowed on the crew, I was barely able to retrain myself from knocking him unconscious and nailing him to his own For Sale sign in an impromptu crucifixion. He had no idea that while he was touting the benefits of gas cooking and the place’s curbside appeal, my fertile imagination was picturing his blood-streaked torso as I flayed him with twisted lengths of barbed wire.

  Once I owned the place, I installed sound proofing in the basement – just in case. I even managed to wangle some chloroform from an acquaintance who had medical contacts. The small brown bottle stayed in my freezer, unused. As best I could, I sketched out some wicked torture implements, and came up with a concept for my own rack—complete with an extra wi
nch for the victim’s genitalia—and I enrolled in a Home Improvement course at the local community college so I could learn something about how I might build it. But as time dragged on and my fevered dark desire remained unsatisfied, I was left frustrated, like my balls were soaking in a perpetual ice bath.

  Depression took hold of me. I still went to the leather bars and kept up my memberships in the online bondage sites so I could look at the pictures, but nothing I did was truly fulfilling. In the midst of my black mood, I became conscious of certain gossip flying back and forth between the more serious players at the S&M clubs. I suspect that’s where I first heard about the magician and his performances, but I don’t remember specifically; my hopes had been aroused and dashed too many times for me to get excited about mere rumors. In my experience, there was always some leather-clad peacock strutting boasting about his new “dungeon” which, more often than not, turned out to be nothing more than handcuffs affixed to his bedposts or a few chains dangling from his garage ceiling.

  So, I foolishly discounted the early murmurings about the unusual and forbidden pleasures offered by the man who styled himself as the Magician, and the exclusive show he put on for select audience members.

  It may have been the name that eventually penetrated my depression and caught my interest. Magic acts have always intrigued me. There’s something about sawing a helpless captive in half that I find appealing. I saw an act once, where a volunteer from the audience was already confined to a box before the magician told him he would be skewered with swords. The look of fear on the man’s face made my testicles throb. Go figure.

  The magician’s act was rumored to be all that... and much more. My interest quickened and I was able to pick up bits of information in dribs and drabs, most of it titillating and none of it confirmed. I learned that his performances took place in what was supposedly a real dungeon. Getting onto the guest list was a rare and exclusive privilege. Though I was wary of being disappointed once again by some poseur, the more I heard, the more I was inclined to believe that Julian offered something that might appeal to a man of my peculiar and rarefied tastes.

  Six months passed. During that time, I stayed on the lookout for opportunities to make contact with anyone who might pass the message back to the oh-so-mysterious Magician. I took special care to make my interest known subtly, as I sensed that Julian would not approve of someone who appeared overly eager, or who was too brash, or even worse, a boor. Most of my inquiries met brick walls. But one, at least, seemed to have pierced Julian’s veil of secrecy.

  I have no idea how the Magician got my home address. The card inside the envelope was simple and unassuming. Embossed in black ink were the words The Magician Requests Your Presence in an easily readable cursive. Below it, in graceful calligraphic handwriting, someone had written an address, a date and a time on the blank line. The cardstock felt strange, a trifle stiffer than a normal business card, and yet still flexible, with an odd texture. It seemed to be a wafer-thin piece of hide, yet when I held it to my nostrils, I couldn’t detect any traces of the distinct scent often left behind by the chemicals normally used in tanning.

  Curious, I examined it more closely. The grain was finer than anything I’d ever seen. And though the card had evidently been sized in order not to warp its shape, it was still softer and smoother than even the highest quality kid. I don’t know why I found something as mundane as a business card so fascinating, even if it was made of an unusual material—but I did. I spent some time fondling it and rubbing it between my fingers. I rubbed it against my cheek like a silk handkerchief; there was something almost erotic about how soft it was. For no earthly reason, I even touched it to the tip of my tongue, as if to taste it.

  I reveled in the strange sensuality of the little card, until a bizarre thought occurred to me. I gasped and shook my head. Yet, suddenly, I somehow knew what it was about the Magician’s invitation that captivated me so.

  It was made from human skin.

  I placed it in my mouth—not just the tip this time. I closed my lips over one corner of the invitation and moistened it with my saliva. As I moved my tongue across the surface, the sensitive organ could feel the tiny, uneven pebbling of pores that had been too small for my eyes to easily see. A little drool dripped from one corner of my mouth and I slurped it back in, not wanting to waste any of the card’s essence that might have mixed with my spit. Though it had no true flavor, I found it delicious.

  Even the thought of what I held in my mouth was sublime. After years of denying myself, I dared to hope that I might find someone who might understand the figurative demons that possessed me and help me to either exorcize, or even better, to embrace them.

  Of course, there was never any question of my not going!

  My entire body tingled with anticipation as I approached the building where the Magician’s performance was to take place. The area was heavily industrial, not at all the kind of place where I’d normally feel safe walking at night. But euphoria had me in its jolly little grip; I had my invitation clutched in my sweaty hand and very soon I would discover whether the whispers I’d heard about Julian’s particular—and peculiar—kind of magic were true.

  My pace quickened when I spied the weathered steel door with the address numbers painted above it. They seemed to shimmer, as if I glimpsed them through a haze of heated air, until I realized that I was hyperventilating and had made myself dizzy. About twenty feet before I reached the door, all my excitement drained away and I stopped dead, suddenly consumed with doubt.

  What if everything I’d heard was urban legend? What if tonight was nothing more than a garden variety orgy with some leather and a whip or two thrown into the mix? Or, I thought as my insecurities got the better of me, what if I was indeed on the cusp of a sadism far beyond what I’d ever dared to dream, and what if, in the eleventh hour, I discovered that I didn’t have the stomach for it?

  I panicked, and for the briefest instant, I wanted to flee. But I didn’t.

  Instead, I saw that there was no bell nor buzzer, nor any intercom. When I forced myself to knock, the door felt more solid than it looked. It soon became obvious that there was no way to make myself heard unless I pounded on it and risked injuring my fists. I gave up, and annoyed, waited for another guest to show up—but no one did. Ironically, it was the thought that I might be denied entrance that annoyed me enough to banish my remaining doubts.

  I fumed. I would have yelled and cursed, but even though I saw no one around, it wasn’t the kind of area where it was wise to start a fuss and possibly attract the wrong kind of attention. My frustration grew, and just when it was about to spill over into that horrid, let-down feeling, I spied a small vertical slot in the door, effectively masked by the heavy door handle just above it.

  It seemed perfectly natural for me to drop the invitation into the slot. I did it without thinking, and with only the briefest pang that I might lose my precious piece of tanned hide. It turned out to be the right move. With a click, the door automatically swung open onto a long corridor lit with low-wattage bulbs, which ended in a flight of stairs. In turn, they led down to a round gallery, much like the operating theaters in films set in Victorian England.

  All but one of the chairs was already occupied. I counted twelve spectators in the room already, which made me the unlucky thirteenth, but for two attendants. With the sole exception of one incredibly unattractive young lady seated almost directly across from me, I don’t think any of the men or women were younger than sixty. None of them bothered to glance my way. Either they were supremely confident of the Magician’s ability to keep out anyone who didn’t belong, or they just didn’t care. All of their eyes were fixed on the stage below us; several of them leaned forward impatiently, but by and large, the atmosphere in the room was expectant, but with a certain arrogance as if the audience was demanding to be impressed.

  Someone behind me cleared his throat, almost demurely, and I turned to find one of the ushers was standing next to my chair.
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  “There is the matter of the fee, sir. “ He said it as if reluctant to broach such a tacky subject. “Might I see your invitation?”

  “No one said anything about money,” I complained, as I handed it over.

  His face brightened when he saw it and he cut me off.

  “My apologies, sir. This is a personal invitation from Master Julian. No payment is due at this time.” With that, he returned the card to me and resumed his former position.

  I’d no sooner returned my attention to the performing area when the lights dimmed in the gallery. Next came a sustained hiss, and the little arena below us filled with smoke. It wafted upward and I discovered it had been oddly perfumed. I inhaled, trying to zero in on the elusive scent, but the nearest I could come to defining it was as an odd, sultry combination of musk and a smell somewhat like sweat, only cleaner. Then, the mist parted to reveal the Magician himself in the center of the stage.

  The muscles of my chest tightened until it was painful; only then did I remember to breathe. I have, as I’ve already mentioned, a fairly extensive fantasy life. Yet never in my most creative imaginings could I have created a man as perfect as Julian.

  He stood with his feet slightly apart, his legs firmly planted to display thighs as sturdy as California redwoods, and he held out his arms, palms up, as if inviting us into his embrace. He was bare-chested, lean but exquisitely muscled; even a competition between Michelangelo and Praxilites might not have done him justice. Every movement was broad and sweeping—theatrical, yet elegant. And when he welcomed us to his show, a rounded baritone seemed to fill both the stage and the gallery, no matter that he had not raised his voice.