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| The
Via Crucis of Camille - Crux 2 - Page 1 |
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I had prepared the room a few hours before,
while Camille was out. I covered the distracting
elements of my bedroom, the video cases, mostly,
which were too distracting in our previous
session. I got my trusted video camera, a
VHS, which had the advantage of having a nice
lens and a color view finder, rare in those
times. I was ready to shoot.
Camille's costume was going to be a rag around
her hips, a loincloth I improvised with an
old white t-shirt. Her top another old garment
of mine that I fashioned into a raggedy tank
top of some kind. I presented Camille with
her garments and she quickly changed into
them, she wasn't surprised, she didn't question,
she didn't have to.
She walked into the room, so sexy in those
rags, that I instantly felt the happiness
of the moment and the deep sorrow that came
from the deep conviction that I was losing
her.
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"What's
the story this time?" She asked with
that sweet voice that didn't betray her true
feelings, feelings that I wanted to know about
but couldn't.
"A very sad story of a young runaway
slave.", I responded while leading
her to the post where she was going to suffer
the whip for the Nth time.
I set Camille up on the post, her hands tied
above her head, her feet on the edge of a piece
of wood I placed against the tall post. It was
uncomfortable, I could tell, but she didn't
complain. She tried to find a good resting place
in the two inches of space she had for both
feet. She could only rest her toes on the hard,
rough piece of wood.
"Which character am I now?"
Camille asked. "Am I Maricelli? or
her fantasy?". I didn't really expect
her to ask that. I wasn't even thinking of that
at this point in the session. I was thinking
of her, looking at the body, wondering how she
felt perched up there in such an uncomfortable
position. I hesitated. "Both.",
I answered. "Who am I now?"
she insisted. I was the culprit, I taught her
that. I had explained to her many times the
basis of my script and what I intended with
these acting/role playing sessions. The protagonist
of my script was a young woman who was fascinated
by martyrs and imagined herself going through
their torments. Easy enough. In the film I wanted
to make, the actress playing that character
would be both, the protagonist and the personna
she was fantasizing about. "Who am
I now?" She seemed annoyed for some
reason. I didn't want her to quit on me now,
so I tried to placate her. "You are
the fantasy character now". "Thank
you", she said as she faced the post
and prepared herself to receive the first lash.
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The
first lash came crashing on her back as expected.
She reacted as she would. Her eyes fixed on
the floor below, her lips tight as if she
was trying to direct the pain somewhere outside
of her body.
I couldn't help but wonder how she felt.
Did she feel pressured to do this? Over and
over? Perhaps I was going through some conflictive,
contradictory, confusing feelings.
Was I pressuring her into this? She could
walk away and out of my life at any moment
and yet she held on. Why? And why was I thinking
of that now, when I should be enjoying a moment
that could be the last?
Before we went to Europe and she stayed in
France for so many months, I believed that
she would always be mine. Nothing could persuade
me of the contrary. I waited impatiently for
months for the date of our reunion. I went
to NY on my way to France to pick her up,
but she didn't want me to go all the way to
France, she asked that we meet in NY.
That's when the red lights in my brain began
to flash, slowly at first, frantically after
a few phone conversations. Seeing her now,
dressed like that, it was like seeing water
running through my fingers on a hot day.
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I
sent the lash again to the middle of her back.
Camille let out a faint cry as the whip kissed
her back. The whip was a caress, a way of expressing
love, a way of confirming that she was mine.
Margot had suffered the whip before and at that
time she too was the focus of almost the same
intense feelings I now had for Camille. Long
before, my ex wife had also being subjected
to my brand of love and I mean 'brand'.
For a long time I felt I was condemned. And
when I finally found my freedom I found, too,
that nothing lasts forever. I was preserving
this moment in this new technology available
to me... the VHS. I would be able to see this
way into the years and perhaps I would understand
all this. Will I reject it? Will I embrace it
like I'm doing now?.
I don't know, there's no way I can know the
future, so I can only live this present and
this present is one of pain.
Camille reacted to her pain, the all too real
pain of the whip on her back.
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