PERFORMANCE - THE WAX ALTAR

October 31, 2005 - Halloween. Marco, owner of the Arena club, asked me a Bdsm performance for the Night of the Witches. Following logic, I dusted off the Wax Altar, to represent the pyre upon sorceresses ended up in less tolerant times. And while I refitted it with Shakner's help my mind began rolling.

First of all about the irony of this contraption becoming a sort of distinctive brand for me, even if I actually used it very sparsely. Sure, when I first had the idea of building it the goal was exactly to create something spectacular, capable of distinguish itself from the quite standardized aesthetics of Bdsm - but I never imagined it would gain such a success.
(The pictures from the performance are removed according to the model's request, now pursuing a very different career. Best wishes to her, wherever she is.)

Then I reminisced the tribulations to build it: uncountable trips to the bigger do-it-yourself stores, looking for the most suitable materials or for some minuscule item I had forgotten to include. Then days spent measuring, drilling, glueing and chafing my fingers to assemble those thirty damned candleholders, which are way more complex than they look.


And the candles! Go on and try yourself finding those of the right length, with a fusion point low enough not to give burns (hence not coloured, nor scented) but solid enough not to bend down when held horizontally among all the heat generated. And fatten their bases to make sure they'll remain well fast in their holders, line up them all, and fix them into place. For a solid week I felt just like Wile E. Coyote when he stubbornly builds his deadly Roadrunner-catching machines, knowing all too well he's going to be their real victim.

Somewhere I still have a scrap of paper with my caclulations, done using a stopwatch: once in position, each candle takes 28 minutes to drip off completely, with an average dripping rate of a drop each four seconds. Multiply by thirty candles, and you get a grand total of 12.600 hot drops - an implacable and accurate rain of suffering, which ends up covering the slave's body completely. It was obvious I needed something to hold her still.

So down with a structure of metal tubes and straps to bind ankles and wrists... even if on first testing we understood that the sub's involuntary jerks would still be too intense, and we were better off with two persons holding her shoulders and feet down - mostly to avoid her crashing into the toy, risking dangerous accidents.
Oh, what we wouldn't do for safety... including studying an interlock panic-proof system, and remembering to call the clubs in advance to get them to cut off the fire sensors - or the sum of the flames might get the extinguishers off and drench us all.

However, in the end the thingamajig was ready, christened with an evocative "Wax Altar". And here comes the last thought: was it really worth it?

Bdsm is, in the end, learning to appreciate the smallest details. Feeling a pleasant shiver when recognizing a certain look from your partner; tasting together subtle and unusual sensations. Whips and fetish clothings are just superfluous appearence, we know it. But once in a while overdoing it is great, there's no denying it - so the answer is a definite "yes!".

Being under the Altar gives my partner feelings which are simply impossible to feel any other way. Not just the stimulations of the drops on her nude skin, but also the sense of inescapability of the torture, the show of the flames vibrating after her breaths, the same mystic scent of the votive candles in the cathedrals, the touch of my hands suddenly becoming a fresh oasis and a brief, most precious truce.

For those watching from the outside there is the Great Show instead, the displaying of suffering in its most unusual and sensuous form. The eye are captivated, almost hypnotized by the fire on the darkened stage: a few seconds of setting, and just by rotating a tube thirty fires suddenly close over a vulnerable body, lighting its shivers and the sweat droplets.
For a brief moment nothing seems to happen, then the first drops unleash small movements, moans that with time become a frenzy as sensuous as sex, sobs that might well be also the longest orgasm. And the continuous exchange of looks between slave and Master.

To me the Wax Altar is most of all those looks, the touch of my hands over her never-as-alive skin, the droplets occasionally hitting me as well and reminding me how much she is suffering for my enjoyment. And hers, ça va sans dire.
When I'm controlling that rain of light and pain, the most nervous of the two is probably me: if it wasn't for the unconditional trust in her eyes, I'd get swept away from the tension and the nervousness projected by the public. Maybe this is how trapeze artists feel when they swing, knowing that the people sitting below is secretly hoping to see it fall.

Every time I used this instrument I never happened to let the candles burn to their end. Not for gentleness on my part: not at all.
It's just I have more fun alternating the hot torment with moments of rest (it's just a little rotation...), maybe caressing the trembling body under me with an ice cube - and starting once again, with the was feeling even hotter and terrible.
Also, I like to interrupt the show before it gets boring, if ever. A sweep of a fan, and dakness fall. In a moment the only thing remaining is the music, and the bated breaths of those who were watching us open-mouthed.

 

 

Someone - there always is someone - can't hold an applause. But the biggest emotions will come later, and they are strictly private.

Sorry to keep them from you. But after all, they say I'm a sadist.

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