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?

Mommy knows best...

Pearl earrings on date night? 

Yeah, it's about to get incestual. 

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.