Rituals are the celebration of life and acknowledgement of what lies beyond.
Ritual Work is the healing art of BDSM, it is the celebration of the body, the reclamation of one's home of flesh.
-It can be a ritual of destruction, an eruption of rage and fear that must violently surface to be allowed release. Floggers pummel the ferocity to the surface, the whip sears the skin to allow tears of blood to flow.
-It can be a quiet meditation of comfort in ropes. A ritual of tea, quiet bondage, stillness, and inner voyage of serenity.
-Ritual work can be delving into the leather hood, feeling the animal warrior and primal id lace over one's identity, to struggle against the straps and darkness, to feel the fight of one's body against one's will. -It can be the a connective ceremony between two lovers, friends, soul partners-- a needle and tie of energy, stitching two bodies together.
Ritual work is intricately personalized. It does not negate the erotic, but it also does not focus on the sexual.
From the pain, one gathers strength. From the bondage, one finds freedom. From the ritual, one contends with chaos.
She bows to me. I am her guide, not domina, nor master, but she still honors me, the way I honor my mentor. Eve has brought her journal, not her current writing, but the collection of her thoughts from the dark years, the years that puddle about her ankles like dirty water. The years she felt more insect than animal, with exoskeleton and beady eyes, consuming apple cores and loosened skin flakes. Those years kept in this journal, bound, she places them on the altar and lights the candle. Today, she whispers to the scrawled words, the unending hours, today, I set you free. Eve peels away her gauzy shirt and places her palms against the white wall. “I’m ready.” I dance the leather flogger against her back. The strands slap away conceit and preconceptions. We breathe air infused of oiled leather and soft armpits. I hit her hard and with an open mouthed “Oooo,” Eve lets go of the yesteryears. Her body heats and red wings appear along each side of her spine. The flogger is part of her wings; I perpetuate the wind beneath. I throw the leather harder, calling blood to pool darkly along ridge of her shoulder blades, held at bay by the thin, pale skein of skin. She cries a warrior cry as I push needles in, stitching in valor, creating new openings, letting out old wounds. The blood trails down; the past escapes. “I’m free,” she says, “thank you.”
Rituals and magic. In this modern world, we crave ancient rituals. Transformation, reclamation, grieving, unifying, coming of age, letting go. I offer a safe and sacred practice. I am honored to be a conduit.
If you are interested in discussing a personal ritual work with me, please contact me at: Yin (period) Quan (at) gmail (dot)com Subject title: "Ritual Work"