As a child, I was made to go to church. Sunday mornings were spent in a small Catholic church in the Somerset countryside.
I’ve been wondering how much my experiences there have my identity.
High church brings smells and bells. Sensuality, arguably, is stirred by those stimuli which we encounter. The plastic, elastic developing mind absorbs all of those associations and as an adult, I associate the smells, the atmosphere of peace, the darkness of wood and ceremonial garb and the contrasting window light and flowers with some kind enforcement of retreat.
So now, I see black and lace adorned over a body and I’m drawn into a place where I’m forced to be penitent, submissive, to worship and then to wonder what wonders of love and flesh will be visited on my undeserving self.
Is it such a leap to imagine how then, a parent with a rod who punishes pushes a child towards a dominant woman?
In prose I’ll end.
Dressed in black. Rod in hand. She commands. Smells of perfume, hair and make up masking, veiled face, beautiful, withheld, denied…
Ritual, worship, denial and punishment absorbed in his quest for heaven.