Pleasure Spot

spot balloon

My name is Kirsty Roarty and I am a serial spot squeezer


After each dirty, shameful encounter leaves me sore and exhausted I tell myself that’ll be the last time. But I know I’ll be back for more. I’ll squeeze my spots and pick my face until it’s red, bleeding. Lots of us do it, I know, but like adulterers engaged in an illicit, sadomasochistic affair, we can’t stop.


I wasn’t always this way. I was very lucky when I was a teenager and rarely had breakouts, while my sister suffered terribly. Truth be told, I was rather smug about it until I woke up one morning spattered for the first – but alas not the last – time with adult acne. Now I just can’t help myself. If a pus-filled spot raises its ugly head: it’s irresistible, I have to burst it. I can feel it there all day, tingling and teasing me, just waiting for me to go back home and get my hands on it. Pustules are the BEST. I’ll make do quite happily with blackheads and whiteheads if it’s a slow sebum day, but nothing really satisfies like a big, bulbous pluck. One that hurts and makes a slight ‘pop’ between my dirty fingers when the lurid pus spurts out and sprays the mirror – that really hits the spot…


Of course I know that I shouldn’t. I know from every women’s magazine I’ve ever read that it is the most heinous of beauty crimes. And I know my skin will look an almighty mess afterwards. But despite all this, my willpower breaks down before my breakouts every time. Sure, I’ll curse myself as I stare remorsefully into the mirror, desperately wondering if I’ll still be able to make myself presentable this time. But part of the pleasure almost is in seeing how far I can push it, how much I can get away with by harnessing the transformative power of make-up. So far, I haven’t been caught. No one has ever discovered the true extent of the craters, blotches and blemishes hidden underneath. There’s nothing I can’t conceal from others, or even myself, as long as I don’t glimpse my skin at the wrong angle in bright sunlight and see the slight shadows cast by a multitude of dints and bumps. I get a twisted kick out of that.


But like all affairs, it soon gets very messy. The morning after the fun-filled night before, I’m left to face the true extent of my ruination; red and puffy skin, more spots and worst of all, scars, scabs and pockmarks. Constant, unsightly reminders of my shameful weakness, my inability to resist my delicious, damnable urges that will take weeks to heal if they heal at all.


Concealer, understandably, is my desert island beauty product. I couldn’t live without Laura Mercier’s Secret Camouflage in SC-1, which I call my eraser. Nothing else will suffice after a rough session with my pliant and submissive skin. But it’s almost too good, in a way. It only encourages me to test my and its boundaries.


But gradually, I’m learning to curb my filthy desires. The adult acne has receded in recent years and I usually manage to ignore the temptation to empty every blocked pore. Now I’m only seriously tempted by the occasional volcanic spot whose pus-filled contours seem to throb to the rhythm of “Squeeze me, squeeze me”. I try to think back to all the times I’ve been disgusted with myself for giving in, spreading the sepsis and spawning more spots. I tell myself that clear skin’s far more seductive – to others at least, if never (quite) to me.


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