The Belt on Tuesday

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Penetrations & Artificial Fuckings

X,

I’ve been walking around thinking “I need to get fucked”.

I do.

I have to be pounded. And for the longest time I’ve been mad because you won’t just fuck me.

We’ve already established that sex between me and you is a complicated picture. One of the reasons I find it so frustrating is that “sex play” doesn’t seem to be off the table; in fact the play aspect of sex is really something beautiful between us. But I realize I am actually a little resentful because playing is often a spontaneous thing and my ability to orgasm is usually not calibrated to happen at a moment’s notice.

I want you to make me cum, I realize. The type of “cum” that only happens from penetration.

But that requires planning, orchestration, and time, at the very least, to prepare for the ordeal. And suddenly making me cum becomes “an ordeal”. It’s not play anymore if it can’t be spontaneous. And is it still even play, if I specifically need you cock inside my pussy? Isn’t that just sex?

So….. I decided, fine, I need to be fucked.

And so I fucked myself with my dildo. But actually, I imagined you were there and you were fucking me with my dildo…

….what would that be like, if he fucked me with my toys? That’s really playful! 

Oh, fuck, I came TREMENDOUSLY thinking about that.

I really do believe deeply that vaginas need to be filled, that there is something biologically and psychologically healthy about filling a vagina to the brim. So I think that’s part of the reason why my body screams: get penetrated for the love of god!

Interesting things started to happen as I fucked myself with my dildo (imagining it was you fucking me with said dildo).

Among them:

-my pussy got super saturated nearly immediately upon penetration. So saturated that I think I’d almost be embarrassed by the extent of my wetness if I had an audience. It was copious and slick and downright messy. It was leaking all between my ass cheeks and slicking up my pubes. There was nothing lady like about all that wetness.

-my pussy got super, super relaxed. So relaxed I think I’d actually be embarrassed by how wide open and eager it was. So relaxed and so wet that you very well might have been able to stuff your whole fist into it (fisting, mmmm, fuck, fisting is delicious but trying to pretend that this was the first time you were playing with my pussy, I just kept thinking: “man, “cavernous” as a first impression is really hard to bear”)

-my juices turned pink. Sometimes this happens, because my fibroid is so close to the lining of my uterus. Sometimes mid-month I spot diluted blood. Sometimes that’s happened during sex and I’m like “Fuck my life that is the most unsexy things ever”.

I kept going despite these mishaps. There have been many points in my life that I never saw the necessity to finish masturbating if I am confronted with the less than stellar aspects of my anatomy. I think I’m grossed out by it.

It wasn’t until about five minutes ago I realized: maybe I don’t understand process of getting fucked or why my body seeks to be fucked in the first place.

I kept going despite these mishaps, only because I imagined you fucking me with my dildo, and I didn’t think that you would stop until I had had my true fill. I kept going until I came, playing with the depth of my thrusts, pulling the dildo all the way out before slowly cramming it back in. I rotated it around the walls of my vulva. I feverishly reamed into the tenderness of my cervix.

I kept going until the wetness regulated itself.

I kept going until the walls of my vagina felt tight and revived.

I kept going until I came.

Something happened in the process of “fucking” myself: my vagina threw a tantrum. It was like it needed to be recalibrated by being defined by penetration. Maybe that doesn’t always mean I need flesh and blood cock. Maybe that means when I’m not having physical sex regularly I have to be kind to my body and train my vag (the same way I train my abs or my biceps).

Maybe I’m gonna have to pay more attention to when my body says “we need to get fucked”.

I guess I just realized for the first time: I can do that myself if need be.

But you should know I’m still learning how.  In the meantime, I’m gonna have to borrow your likeness as the imaginary cock that makes me cum.

-C

I want his digits

…Those hands, those hands, those hands…

Those hands build things. Those hands make things, draw things, paint things, do things. Those are the hands of a pursuer, a doer, a shaker and a bustler. Those are the hands that leave wounds on brambles.

Those are the hands of a fighter. 

Those are hands of a guerilla artist, a craftsman, a challenger.

Hands. That. Do.

Hands that are dense with the scars of doing. 

Hands branded with wear, etched with exploitation, hands that are real because they made choices. 

Hands that are nimble from the constant movement, hands that are electric with inspiration.

I want those hands jammed up into my slippery, craving cunt.

I want those hands yoking the nape of my neck, knotting knuckles in my hair.

I want those hands grappling all my flesh, searing urgent red imprints all over my whiteness.

I want those hands probing the open welcome of my mouth, want those hands spreading the cleave of my ass, want those hands slowly rounding the winds of my curves.

I want those hands translating their vigor into my mounds, into my psyche, into the tender roves of my thighs.

                        I want those hands to steel my nerves.

I want those hands to do what they do: unapologetically, willfully, mightily, consuming and absolving.

I want those hands to clutch my body with a definition I’ve never felt before.

I want those hands hungrily digesting my figure; want those hands to chisel carnal hysteria from my motions.

Those hands, those hands that do.

I want them on me, in me, under me, spellbinding me. I want them obsessed with playing my body like a melody that won’t stop coursing through his fingertips. 

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.

A letter to my lover, on the 1 year anniversary of our sex

My love,

The mysterious has always intrigued me. If there is depth beyond the obvious, I want to keep staring deeply into it, dumbfounded with its complexity. To feel stupid, I think, is the quintessential situation in which I feel most vibrantly alive. It’s an experience that humbles and simultaneously terrifies me.

That’s what happens, I think, when you make me cum the way you do. I become beautifully and frighteningly stupid.

I’ve never cried from orgasm before. But I think that experience is really just a concise example of what happens almost all the time when we have sex: I’ve never before felt what I feel when we have sex. Crying is just one manifestation of your unique effect on me.

You overwhelm me.

Mentally, emotionally, physically when we do the sexual things that we do. It is so much sensation that you overwhelm me spiritually too. I used to play around with this idea of “overwhelmed-ness” in a lot of my past sexual shenanigans. That sense of overwhelmed-ness is probably what compelled me to explore D/s in the first place, although in the initial stages I didn’t have the language or experiences to corroborate that hunch. The idea of a dominant completely trumping my rationality and my body in sexual acts seemed to encapsulate something that every part of my being desires.

But rough sex and power exchange are only small dimensions of this ethereal yearning of “overwhelmed-ness”. Those experiences were both enjoyable and worthwhile but they never seemed to penetrate as deeply as my experiences with you. What’s interesting is that I never even knew I was missing such a critical understanding of sex until we started having it. Kink and BDSM infused so much joy and profundity to my life that I couldn’t imagine there being “more”.

Our sex is “more” and when it’s happening I’m almost always rendered inarticulate while simultaneously being flooded with intense intuitions and sensations. It’s as if all the secrets of the universe course through your body into mine but I literally have no tools to convey any of it.

It’s in this way that our sex brings me to the pinnacles and pains of mortality. To be able to feel the immense pleasure you give me, I have to have a body. I have to accept there are parts of this body that I can’t activate the way that you can (such as hitting my gspot just so), so I have to accept that pleasure is partially dependent on a partner. When you make me cum, it literally feels like energy is surging through all of me, in my cunt and out my mouth, in my ass and through my scalp. It feels like I’m drowning in too much of everything. It feels like your hands and cock and kisses are portals to things I can’t understand—the catalysis that start a trans-dimensional revolution that I didn’t see coming.

But after all that pleasure, you overwhelm me to the fringe of my mortality. And what I mean by that is that I become acutely aware that our sex is a bodily act that represents something “beyond the body”, something spiritual and electric, something bigger than being human. To reach this understanding immediately post-orgasm, just makes me shake with unease: we have fatal conditions called humanity. That’s why I cry: the sheer magnitude of that realization cripples me. There is so much I don’t understand in this universe and even something as mundane and essential as sex has depths that I know nothing about. Post-glow, sometimes, I feel acutely how insignificant I am within the larger picture, probably because while orgasming I am so totally swept up into pleasure that I feel like all of me has merged with the environment. That is not to say I don’t feel necessary in this universe, just so insignificant my smallness becomes terrifying.

These ideas seem so far away from sex. Who thinks of death and the excruciating meaning of life nanoseconds after cumming? I guess I do, even if I don’t do it deliberately. I think this is the primary reason why I cried yesterday. It was this feeling of “it’s over” and the ultimate “it’s over” is death and somehow this sense of hopeless momentum dragged up the awareness of fatality.

You had mentioned something about being vulnerable yesterday and maybe that’s a secondary part. The feeling of vulnerability is most concentrated on the realization that my experience of our sex is not the same as your experience as our sex. Of course, this is a phenomenon that happens in every context and happens to everyone. For me though, the depths of feelings, ideals, ideas, and symbolisms that our sex conjures in me make me feel nearly hysterical: the depth makes me feel achingly alone and desperate to try to explain it afterwards.

You experience the sex differently, of course.  And I know on an intellectual level that this difference in experiences doesn’t mean you don’t highly value our sex in a similar fashion to the way that I do.

It’s just sometimes when I am gripped with tears, riddled with intangible syllables, overpowered by the limited precision of my perceptions, I feel very much like a crazy bat-shit-insane freak for crying when it’s something as simple as friction between your parts and mine.

I realize now that I guess I have always had an inherent desire to digest and symbolize my experiences after they’ve occurred. In a way, it is not enough to just experience them. I want to unpack them, explain them and transcribe them.

Even if it hurts or proves to be impossible.

Explaining what our sex does to me is kind of a vanity venture: it’s a subjective experience that even with the most sophisticated of metaphors will always just be my experience. I have a hard time deciphering if this is a neurotic impulse or a creative one. Perhaps it’s both.

This is also where I feel vulnerable: my impulse to share and pick apart all the layers of moods that happen in our sex is something that makes me worry that you’ll get annoyed with it. Sex is sensation and a lot of it is immediate. I wonder what it’s like for you to fuck ever inquisitive, listless me: "why does it feel so good? How is this happening? I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand!"[1]

Those are statements that float in and out of our rhythms and they are exactly the kinds of ideas that I try to tease apart when we’re away from each other. I don’t understand how our sex does what it does. I don’t understand how the sexual acts I’ve employed my whole adult life never manifested the kind of spiritual portal your body and my body create together. I’m so deeply affected by the caliber of our time together that it always extends for days and hours after the climax. I honestly have never experienced anything as profoundly awe-inspiring as this.

And part of my vulnerability and hence worry is that my pre-occupation with HOW THE FUCK DOES THIS FEEL SO GOOD is going to be spoil the pleasure for you, that my constant inquiries have left the realm of quaint for pestering.
I don’t think that’s the case, but sometimes, because I often feel capitulated into so many directions at once during our sex, I worry that you’ve peeved I can’t just accept being within the just the immediacy of the moment.

I’ve never experienced physical intimacy like our sex, K. I’ve always thought of intimacy as “closeness”. And I still think closeness is the foundation of that word. But something so unexpected has happened. In the closeness of our sex, there is such a colossal expansiveness. Our sex constellates every aspect of my self—mind, body, spirit—and it’s in this constellation that I realize that intimacy is not just about the duality of you and I. Intimacy is also an submerging into things that extend beyond sense perception and it’s in that immersion that everything is connected to everything. Everything melds in vibrations of pleasure, everything breathes.

It’s not just me and you. And it’s not just one moment on my couch. Our sex transcends so much of what I understand to be existence. It connects me to something higher. And sometimes I am so overwhelmed by it, so overwhelmed by you, that all I can manage to do is embrace how I feel and cry.

I love you, so, so, so, so, much. I don’t understand how you do what you do to me but I don’t ever want you to stop.

-C

[1] I just realized: I love it when you answer/respond to these statements while we’re fucking. I LOVE it when you say things like “Because you love me”, “Because I’m fucking your brain”, etc. One time you whispered in my ear “Because this is the meaning of life” and every nerve on my body washed over with your words. Seriously one of the sexiest moments ever. Can we play around with this idea more? When I start crooning that I don’t understand how it feels so good, tell me something like “It’s because I’m the sexiest man you’ve ever seen” and I swear to god, I might instantly cum!

An afternoon confession

I want to rummage through his flesh, ripping out kisses and cravings in disastrous sweeps of carnality. 

I want to get lost inside the molecules of his taste as it smears all around my lips and tongue. 

I want to seal him in my solace, let him unravel in my greedy hands, drink him whole and devour his name. 

I want the pressure of his strength careened hard against my ribs, pelvis, womb. 

I want the stare of hunger to be yanked from his eyes when he looks at me. 

I want to make the man second guess himself, to forget that I am dangerous, a fox in chick clothing. 

Power & sex; I want these laced with him, make him weep with desirous starvation. 

I want to seal him into a cocoon of my affection, roll him sweetly in my daydreams and fondlings. 

I want his body to be a post to scratch, an alter to bless, a bruise to kiss, a wound to dress. 

I want him on me, in me, under my undulating hips,

Lips twisted with lips

Fists upon wrists

Aggression and bliss

...exactly this

I want nothing to do with what's necessary. 

I want everything to be loud and impossible. 

Implode-able, explode-able

Volatile me chasing magnetic you

Drunk for days on a name

That I will never get to moan out loud. 

A wish said to the wind

A whisper with no ears to prey on.   

Jealousy; exercise of social familiarity

(written 4/10/2012)

It floods me. It wipes my compassion clean like a day old baguette mercilessly sopping up gravy. All the tender crevices of poorly protected sore spots are smothered to near irreparable disarray as it course through my bloodstream.  The lot of my triggers is tripped. And when it’s coated all my insides, thick and sloppy, I am stunned into my impressionable, vulnerable mortality.

Nothing ever permeates to such an emotional pitch as coagulated jealousy.  And nothing has ever glittered quiet as magnificently as the pinnacle beacon of my stylized loving. Where there is love, there is jealousy, trumping on toes of adoring resolve. Elemental but compelling, my emotional terrain blossoms like a 2 year old psyche.

From here, tucked under the linens of familiar blankets while nestled on reliability of my couch, it should be safe. A million miles of virtual space fortified by hundreds of actualized mileage stretched between you and me. From here, you cannot see or hear me; you cannot smell if I am recently showered or if I’ve eaten too much garlic. From the fortress of my cocoon couch, safety from your influence seems steadfast. Oh, couch, my enclosure of anonymity.

Despite the padding of distance, it’s the silence that’s the loudest scream, penetrating so deep, nerve fibers repeatedly loop negative feedback for weeks after week. You cannot see or hear me nor know if I’ve refused to shower. But it’s vibrant with all the virtual mileage and three dimensional space sledge-hammered between me: a screaming, sustained silence of disconnect. Disinterest. Dislike. I can hear you the most clearly when you say nothing at all. Your message dissolves my protections. What space, what couch, what blanket.