That's my toy, in the picture for this post. It's even more beautiful in real life. When J bought it for me, I couldn't put it down. I kept taking it out of my pocket and caressing the handle, tracing the rivets and grooves with the tip of my finger. Pressing it against my arm and seeing how hard I can press the tip before the sensation turned from warmth to a sting to an almost unbearable pinch of skin against the blade.
I've drawn lines and designs on my body, gritting my teeth as I painstakingly trace the same damn pattern over and over to make it stay, to make it more than fleeting, less than permanent. Scarring isn't quite what I'm after. I'm after the challenge of the act itself. The burn that follows a few minutes later. The tenderness to the touch. The sudden jump the next morning when the hot water hits the spot in the shower and wakes me up more effectively than the whiny alarm clock.
I fell in love with that knife the moment I held it in my hand. We were in Cabela's in Lacey, WA, wandering around the store, not looking for anything in particular. I wasn't looking for a knife, not seriously anyway. At the row of display cases, I got lost in dozens and dozens of knives. Paralyzed by the variety of choices, I couldn't settle on any to look at. Eventually, when the salesman came up, I pointed at one, almost at random.
Can I see that one, please?
The first one I picked up was one that I thought I'd like the most - it was a riff on leatherman tools - all tidy curves and air pockets, but it felt insubstantial and flimsy in my hand. Hollow and empty, it was like holding a walnut shell after the nut was eaten. The second had a gorgeous deep blue handle. Ok, I'll admit it, I chose it solely for its looks, but it felt too heavy and clunky and the straight blade reminded me of a kitchen knife. I was on the verge of walking away when the man behind the counter pulled out another knife similar to one I already had out, but slightly smaller.
Try this one, he said... He flipped it open and handed it to me. I didn't know what I was looking for until my fingers closed around the handle. I was in lust.
With the man behind the counter watching, I couldn't do what I really wanted... I couldn't put the edge against my skin, press it in and slowly draw a line along the length of my forearm, watching tiny droplets bloom along the newly carved stem. Instead, my hands trembling, I turned the knife over and over in my palm, caressing the blade where I didn't dare caress the edge. It felt light and solid and I just couldn't put it down.
So, what are you looking to do with the knife?
The salesman was clearly worried about the sale. He needn't have been - there was no way I was leaving without that knife. But what to answer?
It's a toy... I finally told him. He seemed a bit confused, but given what I was thinking, I was not likely to give him any more details. And then, after a brief hunt for a box and a few minutes in line, we were out of the store and the knife was mine.
My toy. My beautiful, shiny, totally inappropriate toy.
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