Sometimes I just miss you

Texts during work, right after we had lunch together:

“...And you’re sexy.”
“Why?”
“Hahaha, guess where I am in my cycle?”
“Duh. Lol”
“But you really are sexy.”
“I think you just miss me”

Ithinkyoujustmissme.

Oh. It’s impossible, the missing. How I miss you. Even though you are right there, weaving in and out of my life, and I am right there, weaving in and out of yours. It’s unreal, the missing. But there it is, eating up my spine alive.

I want us to talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk and talk. TALK. Oh how we can fucking talk. I want each and every word to evaporate off our skin and then thunder down so hard we scramble under the covers. Then I want your skin and your scent and your taste and your breath. Oh your breath, oscillating into my mine. Oh your breath, building up all the parts of me I cannot see. I want the joy of feeling strange parts of us colliding: my soles on your undulating back, your chin nuzzling into my clavicle, your lips on the precipices of my hips. I want you spilled into me, forgetting yourself inside of me. I want to believe holding those pieces guards against how much I’ll miss you when real life demands work and responsibility.

I want to believe I could exhaust myself here on your body. That the words and the love and the lust and the energy could shut me down, cool me off, leave me not wanting so much. But it never happens. The words rise between us, like steam, again and again and again, no matter how many times it seems like we strained them all out.

The words rise and then, so do you. And I melt under the mechanics we cannot see. A puddle of awe, made from words. Words that came from wanting.

And the wanting that started because I miss you more than I can say.

The Rival Game

“I like feeling inadequate” he whispers from behind as his cock slowly glides in and out my pussy. “I don’t know why, I just do. I like feeling inadequate. Like I can’t please you.”

We’ve played this game before. The imaginary rival game. We steal the names of my past lovers and make them come alive which each of his thrusts. I tell him that their cocks are better and more resilient; that they could fuck me all night long. He asks repeatedly to tell me about all the times other men have been able to fuck my ass. And I don’t give details as much as I give him my lust-struck face, riddled with the memory of all those past orgasms. He struggles in response, cock constricted with jealousy. Then I tell him why he’s not allowed to fuck my ass at all.

And then he comes.

He tells me after that he would never be able to bear it if I was really fucking another man. That the jealousy would eat him alive. And I tell him that there will never be another man.

We’ve played this game the other way around. The real rival game. We borrow the real names of his other loves and let them metaphorically lay down next to me while he fingers my cunt.

“I’m sorry I get in the way so often” I croon, his knuckles digging into my wet flesh.

“You’re sorry you get in the way of what?” he says, eliciting the secrets that build up under my skin.

“I’m sorry I get in the way of your other relationship”.

“Whose?” he’s says, pumping deeper into my pussy.

I say her name with his fingers burrowing deeper, consumed with all my wet arousal. She is a real person and they have present day commitments. This is not ancient history, the way it is when we play this game the other way around. I say her name and tell him that sometimes I just get jealous, that is why I get in the way.

He fingers my cunt and tells me of his other loves. He tells me what they do. If I were to say those things to him about my other loves he would shot his load under the fantasy of his inadequacy.

But that is not how I cum when we play this real game the other way around.

I cum under the reality that my lover is a wanted man.

A quality man, woven from empathy and compassion. He has other lovers because he can build depth and build safety and it’s natural for other women to want to get as close as possible to him. It’s natural to want to touch something so refined. It’s natural to want to maintain a serious relationship with such a man and so it’s natural that each of his lovers is not a casual one-night stand.

When we play the rival game when I’m pitted against the potentials of all his present day lovers, I never orgasm to a feeling of inadequacy. I cum under the delicious reality that my lover is beautiful and that the presence of other women just confirms that reality.

The rivals do not make me feel worthless. Instead, they magnify his worth.

And so I cum like a lunatic, thinking of him with his other lovers, because I intuitively understand he’s a man with a lot of love to give, and even if sometimes I can feel jealousy it doesn’t erode my ability to access how incredible luckily I am to have sex with a man who’s attention is so coveted.

When we play the rival game, I don’t enjoy feeling inadequate the way he does.
I enjoy experiencing who he is and all the intensely explosive emotions that go with it.

Husband socks

The hallway is where straggler clothing loiter before finding their way to the hamper. There’s no sense in overcoming this habit of disorganization; it just feel so natural to surrender pieces onto the hardwood as I strip for the shower. So there is always a smattering of clothing parallel to the bathroom, like tumble weeds made out of poly blends and cotton. Like old snow that turns ashen with each passing day. This time, when I round the corner, a small patch of electric blue screams from the floor and catches my eye. A lone athletic sock, wadded into a ball, leaning against the molding stares up at me. For reasons too slippery for my tongue, when my sight absorbed my domestic negligence my brain labels the carelessness with “my husband’s sock”.

What the hell is that?

Because that is not my husband’s sock. I have no husband. I have a lover who loans me socks when I show up to teach classes in his gym without any of my own. I have a friend who listens to the victories and insecurities engraved on my cells; a priest who offers absolution just by stomaching my self-indulgent confessions. I have a companion who compassionately feeds me dinner and volleys back inquiry about any subject under the sun. I have a soul mate who tongues my mouth and cunt with equally engaged passion; a comrade to fondle flesh with as a means of resurrecting god.

I have a rare thing, an ingenuous thing, a thing so difficult it shreds my soul bare.

But I do not have a husband and I never will. He is not my husband and he will never be.

Then why does my mind apply words with a complete disregard for their meaning? Why is that ball of black and blue “my husband sock’s”?

I want to tell you it’s because “husband’s socks” makes it easy. That you would immediately understand the significance of this relationship if I could summarize it with just one word. I want to be like everyone else in the universe and use a language that is succinct and fulfilling; a language capable of highlighting the importance and the need for protection of a relationship that stands singular to all else.

I want to tell you, that like everything else in my life, I wish it was easier. I wish I could make you understand the burdens of that come with mind. I wish I could just say he was my husband even if I’m not built to withstand the monotony of being a wife. Husband and wife aren’t titles can handle the gravity of our relentless honesty; they aren’t labels with enough elasticity for the feelings we inspire in each other. But still, I wish I could say husband and you would know that this is about a meeting of mind; the purpose behind evolution, the fluke of sheer luck that we have made it this far.

This is not about shared property and rigid gender roles. Not about limiting the range of our independent explorations. Not about grand gestures in front of a superficial audience just to prove we’ve lived and made uninspired noise.

But this is about sickness and health. This is until death do us part but understanding that vast time and spaces away from each other is not the same as death. This is about letting love move in the way that love sees most fit.

None of that makes it easy but so much of that makes it magical. I pick up his lone sock and inhale; it still smells so much like him even if I dragged it through 60 minutes of intense sweating. There is so much of him inside my head, woven in the never-ending prattle of my subconscious. This is not my husband’s sock but I wish for some way to explain that this sock defies too many physical laws. How the fuck did this sock get here in the first place?

There are 8,420 days between our birthdays and 5,317 miles between our birthplaces. We were incubated in nonconsecutive generations, seeped in vastly different culture. How did we ever manage to have a conversation, let alone share garments? And yet here is his sock sauntering up against my dirty laundry; weird evidence of love’s lack of concern about logical prerequisites for its unfettered manifestation. And here is more evidence amassed in unpredictable fashion, over weeks and months and tear-soaked years. Here are the bruises from his kisses sometimes violent undertows, turning yellow like overripe fruit, mottling my thighs. Here is the poetry scrapped from our gums after a million small moments of emotion jostled our individual souls bare. Here is a story encrypted into my maneuvering of my veins; an impetus swirling behind my blood’s flow. Here is him crying in my arms over love lost, over his broken vows for a woman who was once the reason he rose out of bed. Here is me coddling the most tender facets of his psyche, spoon-feeding him perspective and chicken soup. Here is he cradling my insecurities and salvaging the sharp edges of my bravery from a depressive monsoon that swears I am a bad mom. Here is us listening to music in the back of an outdoor café at 11 pm on a Wednesday; here is us laughing too loud in downpour while we pluck sushi from square plates.

Here is us when we are beautiful: naked, glowing, open. So much electricity in our salvia and in our syllables. Here is us as immortals, male and female, vulnerable and oscillating, one into the other. The meaning of everything in motion.

But here is us when we are brutal: sterile, insensitive, cold, so full of rage the only color in our universe is red. Here is us as demons, selfish and explosive. Here is me erupting rage when he permits his other lover too close to my force field. Here is him stubbornly resolute about not caring about the outcomes of his actions. Here is us submerged in metallic silence. Here is us creating hell on earth.

We’re capable of forfeiting reality and creating either fantastical extreme: heaven on a Tuesday afternoon, Hell rattling off its slumber at the most unexpected of places. In the upheaval of either universe, emotive thought dilutes my blood, oxygenates me as if for the first time. How did we get here? How does anybody ever get to either of these places when they still have these lumbering mortal feet?

It can be jarring at times, to have a love like that. To be worn down the demands of this love’s honesty and passion. But we persist, throughout all the endless reasons to cease the connection. It is not about the intercourse; it has always been about the discourse. There is something cyclical and essential in how we speak to each other; something divinely inspired that heals wounds that each of us has housed way before we ever met. There is something restorative about heading to heaven only to fall back down to hell. We do not catch each other. We do not make promises about paradise forever upheld between our flesh.

We just tell each other of the journey and wet each other’s skin with our laughing tears.

He is not my husband and I am not his wife. I am just a woman who lets him be himself and he offers me the exact same privilege in return. I have no insurance if this relationship tanks; you would never be able to offer condolences the way one would if there was a divorce. If this ends badly, I suspect the damage would be much more complicated than a divorce. We share part brain and part heart. It seems so much easier to split a bank account.

I guess when my brain slips and says “my husband’s sock”, what it’s really trying to say is: I wish it were simpler. I wish I could make you understand what the risks are and why we take them.

Sometimes, I wish I were simpler, that he was simpler. Maybe then there’d be a better label for his dirty sock.  

How it's evolving

We had dinner outside in the rain, under a maroon awning that offered the perfect amount of coverage. We ate hot dishes of beef and noodles, sipped warm sake and I told him complex stories about travel and old loves. We had the best table in the whole place, so many people cramped on the other side of humid glass, missing out on the electric feel in the air. He insisted the wind was coming from the sea last night; to me it smelt like the earth let out a sigh of relief as it drank up all that rain.

He is becoming softer around me. More and more often he looks at me with deep love and with longing; something that he guarded against showing too readily even a few months ago, even when I looked at him with an urgent desire that made me feel deeply ashamed by its insistence. During dinner, he gave me that look he does when he is totally enamored with our dialogue, when I am adorable and suave and sophisticated but fail to see any of it. He looked at me like this several times and I kept playfully busting his balls about it. He smirked and said “I’ve turned a corner”. And I smirked and said “Yeah but how many damn corners does this fucking shape have?” and we laughed because even if I don’t know what I’m talking about I can still speak about one of its truths.

This is not the first time he has mentioned turning a corner. It’s been an ongoing theme of the past two years. Turning a corner means something in him has shifted and in the process it gives more room for our relationship; it gives more me more significance in his life. There always feels like there is an imperative underlying our relationship and I’ve felt it for years before him. This is not to suggest that I think we are fated in a fairy tale kind of way. I think we are a call to arms for each other, an imperative to act to the best of our abilities embodied in each other’s flesh. I think there is an imperative specifically because our relationship can be so challenging, that it asks us both be patient and flexible in a way that neither one of us has ever had. In a way, turning a corner is like he’s submitting to his own advancement towards the imperativeness of our relationship. I just smile when he says he’s turned a corner, the way anyone would smile when someone else finally comes around to see reason. I try not to smile with too much “I told you so” but sometimes that impulse is really hard to resist.

After a 3 hour dinner soaked in conversation, we parked outside my apartment and lingered in his car. He cried in a way that rarely happens but when it does, it reveals the underlying reason why I love him so deeply. He produced all the tears that he never shed during a part of history that warranted deep release. And when I touched him, I cried too, moved by experiences that happened decades before we met. When he cries like this and when he cannot find his words, when he is so overcome with his humanity and humility, when he is fraught with feeling because he knows more than a human body could possibly express, that is when I become aware that I’ve searched for a man like this my whole life. A man made of consideration, who does the right thing at the right time, but who is also not in denial of how hard it is to live like that. A man who sometimes cries decades after a hardship because he finally feels everyone he cares about is in a safe enough position so that he can release. When he cries like that I cry in part because it fills me with relief: I cannot believe a man like this exists and that he is such an important part of my life.

When we went upstairs, bleary eyed and red-faced, he put his cock inside my pussy and within three thrushes he said “I love you baby”. He said it with such relief. This is new, or at least the announcement of his love has never come this early in our sex. It has typically come later: a reflection to my own unraveling when I scream how much I love him as he glides in and out of me. He said it into my open mouth, as if I could digest his words and build parts of my flesh from his affection. He pushed his cock in deep and held it there, confessed to masturbating to me all week, wanting my body and its response to his all week, wanting what I can give him that no other woman can. He said “Hold me, hold onto me” and I wrapped all my limbs on him, my hips thrusting up to meet his. My legs are the perfect length to meet around the middle of his gyrating torso and I remembered how when we first started having sex he said something along the line of how constrictive my legs felt like that. He didn’t use those words, per se. But after that first time we had sex, I acknowledged to myself that my legs can never extract their strength, that when I use them to hold onto him, they REALLY hold onto him. When we first started having sex, he wasn’t ready for that, he was almost diametrically opposed to it. I had to let him fuck me as if I had no power to hold him in place.

Yesterday, we were genital on genital, mouth on mouth, and my legs, with their impossible tree-trunk determination, kept his hips firmly locked with mine. “Fuck”, I said into his mouth, “I love you too…”

Then we lost track of time and ourselves in each other’s bodies. Even if so much has changed, that’s the way it’s been since it began…

Baby steps with baby boy

“Oh god! Fuck…. fuck. Wait… wait…!”

All of him is constricted. Every blessed inch. His cum has split, all over his belly. His hips are still locked up, pulsing off the couch, contorted with deep pleasure.
My face is close to his open thighs. My cheek grazes the insides of one and all of his body surges again and bucks.

“Wait! …Wait…” he pants.

And I wait, letting nothing of me touch his body, even though my instincts are to scoop him up and kiss him clean. He breathes unevenly and exhales loudly.
“Fuck… fuck, I don’t even know how to describe what just happened…” he says as his body sinks back into the cushions. “God… I need a glass of water”

I get him a glass of water and bring him a warm towel to clean up the cum. When I come back into the room, he is sitting up right, looking more like his regular self. More composed. He gulps the water, audibly and when he’s has his fill he exhales dramatically, this time with satisfaction.

“Fuck. I feel like a raw nerve” he says through a sheepish smile.

Nothing has ever sounded so beautiful to my ears. I’ve accomplished the impossible: I’ve overwhelmed the man of iron nerves.

“Where you in my asshole? Like your tongue was in my ass?” he says this with a mostly giddy tone.

“Ha, no. I was just on the outside. You were too tight baby. You’re still not relaxed enough. It would have hurt if I pushed in.”

“But what were you doing? It felt like you were inside! Were you around it or on it?”

“I was right over it, licking all around. I could tell you weren’t completely relaxed, so I stayed right on the outside, and applied pressure all around it”

He balls up his index finger and his thumb and makes a mock asshole in his fist. “Wait, show me. pretend this is my asshole. What did you do with your tongue?”

I undulate over his hand, tongue broad and fluttering. As soon as my mouth meets his fist he exclaims “Oh fuck yeah, that’s what that was!”

We laugh and touch, ankles rubbing, knees knotting.

“I guess it’s like when I finger your pussy and you ask me what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Yeah, it’s exactly like that. You’re playing with a part I can’t ever see and I have no idea how you make those sensations happen.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But fuck, wow, I’m exhausted. That just took so much out of me.” He lays down, motioning for me to snuggle by his side.

“You liked it though?” I say, lips brushing against his chest hair.

“Yeah. Fuck. Loved it. You know it’s all so new to me. I’ve never done this with anyone else.”

“Well yeah, me too.”

He shifts upwards, meets his gaze with mine “Wait, really?”

“Yeah duh. Who the hell's asshole do you think I’ve ever wanted to fuck as bad as yours?”

“Wait… but really, I thought you had so much experience. Wait... can we just forget you said that. I like thinking you have a lot of experience.”

“Ha, fine. Okay” I say through a laugh as I wrap my arms around him.

We float in noiseless lull between his orgasm and mine. And what I am really thinking ferments, unsaid, on the tip of my tongue:

Such a sweet little boy. He doesn’t understand that even if I’ve never owned a man’s asshole before it doesn’t render me inexperienced. I am the master student of bottoming sex—and oh, precious baby boy, now is my time to teach.

One day, that asshole will be mine.

One day, beautiful boy, you will beg for it to be mine.

A Man and A Woman of Their Words

“I keep my promises” he said, our backs leaned up against the front window of the studio. The glass was cool and it chilled our skin. I was probing him about his intentions, about the whimsical ambivalence of our budding romance.

This was months ago, bordering on years. His eyes were crystal and open; all the pigment in his face rallied behind his claim. “I keep my promises” he said again, in a half smirk, gaze lowered to meet mine.

I only half believed him.

I think about that now, as he exfoliates my back, my breasts press up against the sweaty bathroom tile, moist with the steam of the shower. He does keep his promises. It’s only the discrepancy between expectation and reality that throws me for a loop; it’s only the meandering hiccups of life that interfere with our plans.

At the first cold snap in September I asked him to bludgeon all the dead cells from my soul. He said “Of course”. I went out and bought my most favorite exfoliant to strip my skin clean. The days accumulated until they became months. Until it was really, really cold and my dry, sensitive skin nearly wept for relief. 

“He always gives when I really need”  I think, as his hands undulate down my spine into my ass, buffing my backside until it sparkles red. He spins me around into the lava-hot jets, sweeping the lingering bits of sand from my shoulders. He massages more exfoliant into the sinews of my triceps, the division between my quad and hamstring, into the grooves of my clavicles and the underscore of my breasts. Into soft, yielding flesh between my thighs. His face is stitched in concentration; the exact face he makes when he loses himself in his carpentry while distressing wood. He catches me looking at him and gives me a quick but real smile. He goes back into deep focus, swirling his hands on my naked body. 

My lover loves losing himself in actions of care. And when I’m the object of his care it feels like I’ve never been loved before. He keeps meticulously cleansing me, methodically, adoringly. Buffing my skin until I’m pink porcelain, smooth as glass.

He kisses me sweetly when he’s done. The bathtub sloshes with excess water, with the weight of my oldest layer clogging the drain. My skin slightly throbs, all the nerves on the surface recharged and wide awake. We towel off, both flushed with the luxury of a deep clean, our eyebrows perked in satisfaction. 

It’s always casual in my house. We’re casually naked, in our talk and in our bodies, our limbs and language strewn about the couch. I command him to inhale two lotions, letting the best scent win the privilege of being slathered. His fingertips dip into shea and wander into my calves. Those glossed fingertips knead into my thighs, into my hips, into my ass. He spends so much time on my ass you would assume it’s the thirsty part of me.

“Mr. M.” I coo through half-closed eyes and an open smile, “What are you doing?” I’m belly down on the couch, arms cradling my ultra-relaxed head, wet tendrils clinging to my face.

“Senorita S.” he responses, his syllables guttural, charged,

“I’m about to worship your ass.”

He slips to the side of me, his haunches in my periphery. The edges of his teeth graze my right cheek, his tongue trailing in the midst. He bites mouthfuls of flesh, playfully, greedily.  Then he kisses the transitory imprints, as if excusing his impulses. I can see his lower body; can see how the tension and excitement spread through his muscles, all the way down to his earnest, flared toes. But that is not the best part, or the most vivid marker of his desire. I can hear his pleasure in his inhalations as he pulls apart my ass, pressing his face closer; I can hear the surprised delight of his exhalations as his tongue wanders down my crack.

And I am soaked through; pussy completely saturated from all that sensual sound.

“God I love opening you up like this” he says, a rush of cool air circling my asshole, mingling with the wet edges of my pussy. I love it too, when he holds me like that, exposes me like that. I love it when he spreads me apart; when he looks at all the places I cannot see and tells me that they are beautiful.

His tongue is on my perineum, slinking upwards, slowly, menacingly. His fingernails dig into my spread skin and I hold my breath as the warm, wet contact of his tongue meet the tight, unexplored territory of my asshole. “Fuck” I say, under my breath, melting in pleasure. “Fuck.” He probes my asshole with his tongue, savoring the rawest part of me, as if it’s sustenance, as if it’s sacred food. His licks are loving and long, deep and devoted. I think this could make me cum. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as coveted as this.

And it makes me remember: I made a promise. Months ago, bordering on years.

It’s an unofficial one, an implied one. Because he never corrals me into promises, never tries to put parameters up with questions. It’s been years now of me teasing him with my history of anal sex, with the knowledge of my past sexual exploits. And he always gives me the same clear, blue gaze of intrigue, the same open face of yearning when I tell him one day soon it will be his go around.

He always keeps his promises, I think as I slip away from his curious tongue. I hop onto the carpet, skip into the hallway, throw open the closet door  with the magic of anticipation fueling my limbs. There is the lube, waiting. There is my hand, oiling up my pucker, before bouncing back into the living room to eagerly tell him the day has finally come.

I lay down on my belly, ass pricked up, spine curved and ready. The lube oozes onto his cock, his cock glides between my cheeks. There’s that initially gravity of tip-on-asshole and the fervor of taboo start to swell my pussy even more. He pushes the head in with the gusto of a teenager, with the bravado of a man who is justly claiming his reward.

And it hurts.

Not enough to stop the theatrics. Not enough to wane my enthusiasm. Just enough to shift the opening ceremonies. I saddle onto his lap, guiding his cock up into my ass, letting him view every inch of emotion registering on my face. His eyes are so blue, so alive, so excited with the novelty of the experience. I rock slow, building a fire in my hips. “Yeah baby, like that” he says, gripping my curves, feeling them dance between his palms. He thrusts his hips up to meet mine, pushing and pulling with my cues. 

And my pussy is melting. It’s spilling onto his pubic hair, labia full and fuchsia with desire. His mouth opens, reaches for mine. My hips slip back and forth faster, like a belly dancer on speed, making his cock hit all those delicious places in my ass that make me feel insane. There is so much adrenaline churning through my pelvic bone, spiraling through my pulse. When I look at his face, I can see it’s happening inside of him too—this overwhelming flood of sensation, an unbearable urgency of pleasure from fucking my ass.

His eyes are growing fire, the same color blue inside of a low flame. I love that color, his color, the rarest color on earth; I fall in love whenever it’s cast in my direction. It makes me remember that I am the first. The first woman to give him her ass without hesitancy, without shame, without unsubstantiated teasing. The first woman to unapologetically joust his intellect into a sweaty truce, the first woman to tell him he is always free to wander after wonder. The first woman hardy enough to tolerate the emotional force of her promises to him. There is so much in life, in our independent, evolving lives, that asks me to be brave, that demands that I be patient and kind. There are so many things to contend with, mundane, imagined and substantial. But I am the first of so many of those things and I can see that register in his eyes as he plunges his cock deep inside me, asking me in pressured speech if he can cum inside my ass.

“Yes, baby, fuck. Cum inside my ass!”

Fuck. This is his first time, I’m his first time. The acknowledgement shoots through my veins like heroin, tussles all my nerves with love. I cum, like a blathering lunatic, grinding shamelessly on his trickling cock, hips feverishly entranced in his hands.

We hop back into the shower when it’s over and laugh under the stream of heat.

We are dried off again, snaked together on the couch, naked and softly breathing. The side of my face is engulfed in his chest hair, like wild grass on a suburban sunbather’s face. It obscures my vision, caresses my lips when I speak.

“How do I smell?” he interprets. He knows I love his scent, his visceral, virile scent. The question makes me burrow deeper into his body, eyes hidden by the curve of his armpit. The scent only gets stronger.

“How do I smell?” he asks again, a laugh waiting behind his smile. I laugh for him and squeeze him, playfully protesting, “I don’t want to talk about it!”

We lay there and I breathe him in. I don’t want to talk about how he smells. I don’t want to tell him that it’s delicious, that his natural scent is the strongest comfort on earth. Don’t want to tell him that his scent makes me want to move mountains, makes me want to be his champion until my dying breath. Don’t want to tell him that something as ethereal as his scent gives me more security than money, education, or experience.

I don’t want to tell him that I wish there could be a promise that his scent will always be there. Because I could battle pink slips, foreclosed mortgages, terminal illness and whatever other meanness life throws at me and I could do it with grace if his scent was there at the end of the day.

I don’t want to back him up into a promise he might not be able to keep. I love that he is a man of his word.

So I don’t tell him how he smells.

It is in withholding that I realize: he is also, despite all the odds, the first.

No man has ever penetrated me, like this.

The tender core of Cordelia Teal.

He lapped up all the spills, falling from my heart, leaking for my mouth like a sponge yielding it saturation. He lapped it up and the connection beamed through him like a sun split blessing for having sentiment sense.

I’m a fighter.

I am more fighter than artist.

More fighter than educator.

More fighter than female.

More fighter than human.

And when he laps up all undulating overflow of my soul, I want to fight to contain myself, want to fight by creating mountains to excuse the mess. I fight nothing but my own demons in his absences and I convince myself that exaggerated space is necessary protection. This is game I’ve played my whole life, a game of perpetual lose; a warrior’s scampering for cover, for freedom.

He walks around with his eyes lensed in beauty. And when he looks at me, swept in the formulas of aesthetics, I do not understand what he sees. When he looks at me and he says I am beautiful it is as if I engender the rules of design quivering with a pulse. I do not understand what he sees, only know that the moments he calls me beautiful, he relishes the acknowledgement; he radiates validation as if the discovery of beauty is the impetus of his existence.

I do not understand what he sees. I just have to trust what he sees.

And it is exactly that place that I am most weak.

And there it is again. The impulse to fight.

I want to fight to prove that I’m strong. 

Insufferable yearning

I want things that maybe you can't give me. I want your skin on mine, the heat of your pulse mingled with mine. I want to savor your body with slow, intuitive kisses, smoke out all the divots of design on your flesh. I want to linger in communicative touch, caress all my secrets into your sinews. I want your exhalations filling up my lung; want the length of our bodies to merge in precision, hips and knuckles perfectly aligned and tangled. I want the cool, alert taste from your mouth, want the warm, silvered electricity trickling from your cock. I want the deep utterances of your concentration permeating the room, penetrating my ears. I want the coils of your pubic hair careening my tongue, brushing against my eyelashes. I want the delirium of your hips pumping into mine, the delirium of internal mechanisms rotating under your key. I want the sharpness of your clavicles against the taut of your traps, above the virile bulk of your chest. I want the earthy hues of your body hair flecked with prismatic sweat, radiating pheromones. I want your juice, all your juice, all the effort and love and history it took to make that juice, to flood every piece of me until I drown. I want to be forever open to your advances, open forever for you and only you, malleable and pliable just for you, begging forever to fill me, overwhelm me, with the expansive illumination of you. 

Cum Slut; a biologically screaming for impregnation

I’m fertility on fire.

I’ve been having daydream after daydream about his cum.

His cum: crawling through the pores of my cervix, trickling the tapestry of my womb, the excess slowly seeping out the pink curled edges of my labias. A trillion daydreams about his cum, oceans of it, graffiti’ing my uterus, filling me up, ballooning belly and breasts.

A trillion daydreams of his cum for a trillion babies, as if my only use was to reproduce, with my tits swollen to 3x their usual size, oozing gallons of milk for months on end. Somehow his cum is only intoxicating if it retains its ability to hijack my biological function. Overthrow the ruckus of my cycle.

Engrave your name in my womb.

Lately, I’ve been masturbating thinking of him cumming at the top of my pussy’s slit, on the fuzz of remnant pubic hair. He’ll scoop a thick finger-ful of his seed between his index and middle finger. I’ll pin back the layers of my cunt with my hands, creating an unobstructed pathway dripping with impatience. He’ll turn the juice upwards, coaxing his fingers into my spread lips, massaging his cum into the far end of my pussy with deep, methodically thrusts. He’ll suck my clit as my pussy muscles forcefully pulse, extracting all that cum off his fingers, internally sucking them clean.

I cum so hard thinking of that, thinking of his burrowing cum ceremoniously cemented into my cunt. I cum so hard thinking about blooming with his baby. And that’s fucking wild. That’s fucking insane. Because I don’t want another kid. Lord fucking no, not another kid. I know what kind of sleep-starved care goes into a little kid. I know how unglamorously unsexy it is to birth new life.


But my feral fucking fertility doesn't care. He can jerk me around by the hands of my jangling clock, gladly, menacingly. Make me a slave to my dumb biological imperative. My body wants gallons and gallons of his cum, want 60,000 of his offspring as proof of purchase.



I am fertility on fucking fire.


It’d be the end of life itself if I really got pregnant but my body does not give a fucking damn. I cum so hard, the hardest that I’ve cum in a long time, envisioning him getting me pregnant.

The Perfunctory Idealism of the Orally Regressed

This is getting hard—explaining the wild, gut wrenching intimacy swelling between us.  There’s so much nuance to our dialogues and dalliances, so much gradation in the courtship of two highbrow hedonists. The explanatory words are the most tedious part; the immediate experiences are always visceral and fluid.

But, ever the sucker for punishment, here goes my masochistic mining:

While I’m driving I notice there are renegade trees, over here and way over there. Traitorous trees. Those impatient upstarts are coppering with biochemical fire even though it’s mid-August in NY. When I see them, my heart fucking ruptures the steeliest sorrow. Sunshine is not forever is what that color says to me. Winter is on its way and my heart goes into spastic shivers. It doesn’t matter if the temperature cleared 80 today; doesn’t matter if we’ll get the muted bloom of harvest and brisk cleanse of October wind. I’ve already witnessed the decay inside of life.

The last russet tree I pass lacerates my heart but then, in a flood, an image dresses the wound. He and I, fist in fist, shoes muddled with soft earth, the smell of crisp vegetation. He and I. Acres of farm land, miles of rusted mountains, unabashed nature.  Laughter in exaggerated scarves. Slow, wet kisses during the 4 pm golden hour. His scent chilled into my pores for days.

Fall.

Him and I.

In fall.

And then suddenly fall becomes a festival and not a fucking funeral. Suddenly I can stomach the tarnishing of impulsive summer leaves.

It hurts admitting this. It’s been my whole life, bunkering down with my own reclusive mind, every single winter. Mostly by choice but not always. He hits nerves that are nestled deep into my core, makes all my limbs soupy and awake. Even if he’ll be here come fall, the whole sentiment of his presence combating the 31 year streak of hating fall… makes me… nervous. Because what does that fucking mean?

Trust me on this kids: he is not “The One”. Or at least not “the one” like Hollywood instructs.

But he might be the most dynamic muse I’ve ever met, extracting so much of my thinking and writing, it all reassembles into something more refined. This might be the single scariest thing that’s ever happened to me (but why? Because the inspiration is so torturously vulnerable or because I don’t ever want it to stop?...)

I don’t have an answer. Just feelings brimming over, drenching me with a new identity that sometimes catapults a crisis. So much of the inspiration comes fuming in luxurious sweeps from our conversations. And then all of that communication triply concentrates and suffuses throughout our sex.

We play fun games.

Sometimes, he tempts me up the stairs by hoisting my pants just a little bit down; a pulse-pinching pause in the middle of my ass. I’m lured by going up first (my favorite position).  And because he leads from the vantage with the best view, observing my exposed whiteness swelled over the top of denim, jiggling with each ascending step. He gnaws a chunk of flesh on step 3, mars the other cheek that inflames like braille on step 5, claws both wads skin  by step 9. By the top of the landing, I am muted with perceptive dichotomy. He’s drags me by a fist full of hair, knees and palms clomping awkwardly on the hardwood, into the swaddled gold light of the bedroom.

“Daddy wants to hurt you, baby. Is that okay, baby, if Daddy hurts you?” He glides off his belt, sneering. I’m kneeling in splayed disregard of the constriction of my pants, a feat not at all possible without the momentum of hyper-arousal. I’m open everywhere: eyes, ears, noses, pores, mouth, cunt, ass, brain. Open everywhere. It's obvious it's okay; I'm fattened for this kill. But he forces me to contribute at all the moments I'm flushed with indulgent idiocy.  

It takes everything, everything, EVERYTHING to verbalize what each singular cell of my body is screaming in unison: “Yes, Daddy. Please?”

“Please, what baby?”

“Please can you hurt me daddy?”

Fuck.

*Crack*

One lash. Two. Three.

By four or five, I scramble, moronically animated. Towards him as much as away from him.

Sometimes he braids the belt around my neck, just enough to make my face tinge into a life-asserting pink. Sometimes he rivets my hands back at the base of my spine, the belt dangling, waiting, in his right hand. Almost all the time it goes like this:

“Where can I hit you baby? Show me where?”

His kindness comes out in rollicking quirks: he sweet-talks my participation in my own degradation. Here daddy. There daddy. Everywhere daddy. And please, my pussy, daddy. Please hit my pussy. Especially my pussy.

Fuck. Especially my pussy.

Especially that look in his eyes when he witnesses my reaction to that searing sting radiating through my cunt, jostling my pelvic bone, resurrecting a feral gutturalness that must have been held over from 3 lifetimes ago. He looks at me like this is the most blessed moment of his whole damn life, the whole sacred impetus behind both of our lives. Especially my pussy daddy.

Sometimes, after he’s satiated the disturbance in his heart instigated by my provocative ass, he lays me down onto his bed, in diluted version of a cradle. He scoops me close and leafs through the lips of my pussy, gently, sweetly. “You’re so wet, baby, what a good girl. Why are you so wet, baby?”

Because it is goddamn psychotic how well you’ve materialize this whole aggression and nurturance bit and the sharp contrast is making my cunt turn to devotional jello! Because I’ve never met a man with this kind of linguistic speed during role play. Because I’ve never been convinced of anyone’s erotic daddy until you…  

But no. I don’t say any of that shit. I barely say anything at all. I croon. I collapse. I meekly squeak out:

“Because you’re touching me, daddy” or

“Because I love you, daddy” or just

 “Fuck, daddy, fuck, daddy, fuck!”

And he responds with open kisses on my shimmying lips. Whispers what a beautiful little girl I am into my mouth, as if directly speaking to my soul. Sweetly tells me how much he loves me. Calls me baby, calls me angel, calls me my special nickname. He gives slow, unhurried swirls on my ultra-alert clit. The tenderest caresses all over my saturated pussy. Micro-spins of delicacy. All that softness, all that deliberately languid torture, churns the whole universe upside down. The most delicate parts of my psyche waft to the surface in dewy response. I am the most exposed, the most visible I’ve ever been in my whole goddamn life. Fuck, fuck, daddy, I’m drowning in your sight.

Sometimes he muscles between my legs as if to worship at the holiest of alters. He kisses the fleshy crux of my inner thighs, the fuzz of my meandering pubic hair, the inferno of bliss between my ass and cunt. He slips his fingers in and upwards. My eyes whip, rotate compulsorily, mouth agape in disbelief no matter how many times he touches right there.

“There’s your little spot baby. Oh, fuck. There’s baby’s spot. Mmmm. What a good girl letting daddy touch right there.”

There are no words now, not even if my life depended on it. I cannot fucking speak when he tenderizes my gspot, when he excavates my cunt in the name of exploration. I cannot fucking speak. Baby’s little spot might very well be the cerebral off-button, the intellectual defense diffusion. All that happens is my mouth, spontaneously, opens even wider, duplicates the cavernous of my cunt.

I scream in complete silence.

Sometimes he comes around to the side of my face, fingers still trickling all those crenulations I can’t see.

“You’re coming to cum, baby? Do you want to suck daddy’s cock while you cum?”

Thank god I no longer need words. Thank god my swelled cunt, rigid nipples, sweating, fevered skin can speak on my behalf. He rubs the underside of his shaft between my lips, lingering crosswise on my teeth, digging his fingers further into my pulsating pussy.

Then he says it. Lines I never in my life would imagine to hear:

“Good girl. Suckle it baby. Take your cock bottle.”

Cock bottle. Of all the words to mercilessly chain down the exact caliber of my sucking, of this moment between two adults, it is that. Cock bottle. Gorging on it with the shameless fervor of a newborn babe. His hand seizes the meatiest part of my hips, the hallmarks of my womanhood, all that estrogenic fat like putty in his palm. Then he tears at both breasts, hard enough to coax out remnant breast milk, hard enough to make me moan through my suckles. Cock bottle. The moment where my mouth regresses to the most elemental drives, becomes intoxicated with life solely through scent and taste. The moment where he grapples the most grown up, curvaceous pieces of me in celebration that I am a woman with her girlhood still intact.  

“Fuck… baby… suckle… just like… that!”

Sometimes he cums, just from watching me take his cock bottle. And when he cums it’s like he is pouring everything he is into me—his orgasm, his triumphs, his failures, his memory, his affection, his courage, his love. Pouring it all into my spastic, speechless mouth. And with his orgasm speeding through my veins, I cum too, like the other half of a circuit, blazing the most delicious light.

All the times, all the time, all the time: we laugh. We laugh, coated in perspiration, dumbfounded from the intensity. And then I make a quip, a wise-crack, to laugh some more but to also prove that I haven’t totally forfeited my voice.

—

Today I saw the unexpected beginnings of a seasonal shift.

And it illuminated this message:

this summer has been fortuitous, full.

It’s only natural to want to preserve those blessings all winter long. 

To the boy who used to come to my window

I felt like ripping out my heart

by listening to the albums

I know braid and pipe your soul.

The ones that dilute my blood with invented nostalgia;

the ones that replenish your bones while you think of someone else.

It’s been years since I’ve seen the whites of your eyes

glean against the flushed blue prism of your irises

As they sparkled in the sporadic spill of headlights,

in the darkest corner of my summer yard.

It’s been years since the fluorescence of your smile

creep over the silent pluck of your laugh

when I laid down the vulgarities of my tongue and soul.

It’s been years since I tried mining the youngest form of you from your oldest habits,

been years since we reclaimed something ageless in the repetition of our sorrows.

You have the woman you were always meant to have in your life

and I wonder often if you’re swept with abandon,

if it feels exactly how you imagined,

if your life unfurled in a spectral orchestration that leaves you breathless.

I wonder often:
does she give you enough mystery,

enough permission to periodically wade through misery,

enough electricity to make you rumble and run with your curiosities?

You always had a craving heart, a loyal heart but a restless heart,

a heart that belonged to the navy moon desert and the deepest trees.

You had a heart that needed shelter but needed freedom just a pinch more.

And I wonder, while I listen to the music my senses forbid me to enjoy as my own,
I wonder, does your woman give you all the things you never labeled,
all the things I’ve known all along?

The Belt on Tuesday

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Adoration; an idea.

He had infiltrated, dissolved into her pores. The heat between their bodies lingered like a residue of memory, haloing her silhouette with the desire of what she couldn’t have.

He had lines of a Grecian statue and eyes made of the painful blue truths of the universe. His fingertips were youth incarnate. His torso, the athletic hinge from which all his strength surged.

He was a figure of design so sophisticated that time could not tarnish it.

She considered Fate a merciful planner. They had met in the twilight of his prime and the crescendo of hers. To meet him any earlier would have meant a quicker death, as the fragile tapestry of the shore cannot withstand the thrashing of the tide. The blatant vitality of his younger years consumed everything it touched and in early development her perceptions lacked their current precision. Between these two facts of time past—the force of his intellectual and physical charms and the naiveté of her intuition and romanticism—he would have flooded all her resolve, like the sun blotting out the retinas of the fool who stares at it directly. Fate had been kind by orchestrating their meeting after experience had granted her steelier wits and had tempered his attractiveness into something less intimidating.

Hours, decades, infinity.  

She wanted to savor the soft fur of his belly, careening her lips and nostrils over him, satiating taste and smell in one long, winding gesture. His body made her vividly aware of an ideal she harbored at the core of her identity: adoration. She craved to smolder feelings through her caresses, transcribe longing in laps of her tongue, probe the poles of his body until she had understood and blessed all the subtleties of its landscape. She sought this for adoration—the ideal of loving so completely the self becomes secondary, drowned in the celebration of an external. To adore him like no one else could, she awoke the heroine inside herself.

It was in this waking that she saw more clearly, the world was a flux of ideas, the most unblemished of such were ideals worth fighting and dying for.

Entombed inside the ideal of adoration, lay the ideal of perpetual defense. The adage that one is “a lover and not a fighter” is not true: to love something is to fight for something.  To adore something so purely one must be willing to combat for its significance and survival; to adore an idea so thoroughly, belief in its existences means being incapable of ever turning away from it. The catholic martyrs throughout the ages, dying in adoration of their Christ, intimately knew this dichotomy of adoration and defense.  In the core of such dedication is the spirit of a fighter unwilling to relent on her belief in an idea; an adoration so steady and focused that dying in the name of this dedication is the only option. To do anything else would mean having to release this adoration into the atmosphere, let it diffuse and lose it power. Adoring is equally an act of aggression as much as an act of romance; it forcefully creates meaning in an otherwise lax and meaningless world. To harbor adoration for anything or anyone creates the deepest groove of significance, a depth so profound one is willing to defend the adored to one’s death.

That was how she felt when she thought of him. She adored the expansive quality of their relationship, the sprawling freedom they allowed each other in their movements and commitments. He injected his stylized capriciousness into their connection and the intoxicating swirls of its uncertainty demanded independence and receptivity. She adored what he was to her—stripped of gender, status, age, cultural conventions—he was a human and a god, a precocious boy and a seasoned man, an unrepentant warrior and a compassionate forgiver. In his skin, lay the entire spectrum of human possibility; in his heart, the culmination of emotions for epic tragedies and comedies alike.

She could see this in him from the initial moments of their introductions. This foresight sent her down the path of adoration, and with each successive step the impetus to defend him swelled. The adoration that latched onto him upheaved her heroine in all its irrational grandeur. He was a kaleidoscope of wonder and idealism, a prism of never-ending potential, and she could not being fatally inspired and vowing to safeguard him eternally.