Ring of Fire

Spring, 2007

“You have to tell me to do it.”

Mr. Universe’s eyes were set on mine. We pulled over to the side of the street somewhere in
Newark, and he shifted the car into “park.” In his right hand, glowing between his fingers, was the lit cherry of a Marlboro-Light cigarette, its smoke curling in an upward spiral close to my left arm.

His other hand was now pressing a single dollar bill against the side of my bicep.

The plan was simple enough: Mr. Universe was to press the cigarette to my skin and burn through the dollar bill, and I was supposed to hold still until he was done. The reasoning behind the plan, however, is not something I can explain easily. But I’m going to try.

Mr. Universe was waiting for me to give him permission. Little did he know that he had formed a sacred custom that day, a little ceremony I play out with almost every submissive partner that comes my way. The power of being granted permission to do something can be intoxicating. Even though there were only the two of us in the car, Mr. Universe was not really there. I was there with myself — he merely served as a vessel for my own demons.

“... Do it.”

The heat turned to pain after a split second, and then to a powerful burning pinch which intensified and forced the voice out of my mouth. I wasn’t crying or yelling, I was roaring. I was trying hard not to sound so pathetic, and I don’t remember if it was Mr. Universe who told me to keep quiet and take it like a man, or my own mind who scolded me.

The dollar bill remained whole, showing only little discoloration where it was sandwiched between the burning cigarette and my arm. Mr. Universe suggested we try for a second time. Continuing was not logical. It was dumb, it was stupid, it was idiotic ...

You can do it. You WILL do it.

Mr. Universe pressed the cigarette down at the same spot, burning the already blistering little round wound. I knew it would leave a mark. That was the point. This time I held back a bit longer, perhaps for a split second. I was fighting my own arm that was trying to pull away from the pain and the cigarette. When Mr. Universe stopped again, the dollar bill was smoking a bit. No hole.

“Oh god,” I thought, “he can’t be serious.” I was to take it until the cigarette burned through. I couldn’t. The pain was getting through to me and my brain was yelling at me that I was insane.

I don’t remember asking for a third round, but apparently, I did. The scar I proudly carry on my arm today is made of three dots of pink skin connected together roughly in the upside-down shape of the UK. After the third failed attempt, Mr. Universe explained that the cigarette will never burn through the dollar bill. Something about physics mixed up with fraternity lore Mr. Universe had picked up. He was testing me. Was I testing myself?

My first self-inflicted punishment was severe, but necessary. It was time to let him out for the first time.