NEWSLETTER

Vice: So, Mary. You have an interesting hobby. Would you mind telling people what it is?

Mary: Well, I don’t even tell my closest friends about how I like to spend my free time but basically I like to meet strangers on the internet for abuse. They beat me, hit me, spit on me and punch me. I like them to use me as a rubbish bin.

But doesn’t that make you feel bad?

No. When I walk away I sort of feel like a prisoner of war released. The bruises and the bleeding are badges I wear. They reassure me. The only person I told this theory to started to cry, so I’m assuming that this isn’t the way everyone thinks.

Err, probably not. Are you into leather masks and stuff?

I don’t pursue S&M guys or the scene there, it’s not at all what I’m looking for. I’m just sort of pursuing normal, average guys who are fucked up, maybe secretly, and have no problem using me and throwing me away, and just forgetting about me. It’s a guarantee that I’ll never get my feelings hurt. You’d be surprised just how easy it is to do.

Wow. So can you give us some examples of when it’s happened?

Okay.


THE BUSINESSMAN

The first time I did it, I found an ad online in some anonymous sex adverts in the Norwegian newspaper Dagbladet. There was a guy looking for “rough sex” so I decided to contact him through the site. Then he gave me his MSN name and we got to talking and arranged to meet at a city centre café.

From the moment I met him I didn't really like him that much. He was a tall businessman, wearing an old suit. He was cocky and irritating, but I was desperate, and also hyper about the idea of a sexual encounter with a stranger.

But I won’t lie, I had kind of considered chickening out.

Even though his clothes looked old or out of fashion or something, he was really clean and I imagine his skin would have squeaked. He smelled like cheap hotel room soap. It was fitting because five minutes after sitting down in the café I’d gone back with him to the cheap hotel he’d booked for the weekend.

The bed in the room was made with white linens. It was very small and kind of dark. I noticed the Dry Clean bag hanging by the bathroom in the closet. None of his belongings were out on display, whether by accident or coincidence. There was one weird sofa-like chair propped up in front of the television and I remember that he left the TV on for the duration of what went down.

The next day I couldn’t move. The pinches he’d given me had grown into hard, swollen clumps of skin that were unbearable to touch, and my nipples were completely black and blue. I spent most of the day laying in bed because moving hurt too much.

But I felt good too, it seemed perfectly logical and right playing with danger and risk-taking. It filled a void, briefly, but the pain was both a reminder and a reassurance. By submitting, I gained control, weirdly enough.


THE HELL’S ANGELS

Some months later, it happened again in the city.

It was some kind of motorcycle convention for North Norway Hell’s Angels and it was swarming with big leather dudes. I remember drinking loads of vodka and Cokes, one after the other, when three of them put their arms around me and sort of hoisted me up and clawed at me, pulling my shirt down, grabbing my chest and asking if I’ve ever been with two guys at once. Shortly thereafter they dragged me into the bathroom where they more or less took turns, slicing my skin with their rings. The utter disgust of the situation was a turn on and I let them carry me down the road.

Suddenly I felt weird and remember needing to sit down in the middle of a road, laying down on a divider and passing out in my vomit. The police picked me up. I found out I had been drugged. I wasn’t charged with anything. But I was sick for almost five days. Shaking uncontrollably, vomiting.

MARY MUSTAPHA as told to VICE STAFF


CONTINUED:
HUNGRY FOR PAIN | 1 | 2 | Next>

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