Too sensitive and Brutal by turns
dismissive in arrogance
ego marring the surface
like a bruise on an apple
masked faces and subtle grimaces
fooled into false give and take
a giant dancing and clapping in the garden
an oaf crushing what was cultivated
scaring the wildlife
moment passed
shrunk back down to familiar sadness
wearing the form of the wise hermit
the truest mask I wear
I want it to be the wise hermit, but I fear it is the oaf
He purrs and I preen.
He, looking at me
I am frozen in place
By his flashing green eyes
He hesitates not a moment having drunk me down. His hands slide up my waist. His right hand pressing firmly on the small of my back. Pulling me closer until I’m skin to skin, heat bleeding through the thin veneer of cloth that seperates us. His fingers on his left hand trail up my spine ending in his hand at the back of my neck. Not controlling but the hint of it. Enough to make me shudder with need.
“Can I get by?” Michael says, faint smile playing over his lips.
“What? Oh, sure, sorry. I’m in your way.”
I press back against the cubicle wall, harsh material scratching against me.
Michael slips by, his hand brushing mine. Unintentionally?
Turning back to me, Michael says, “A bunch of us are going out after work. You should come.”
I think, Great, then I can be awkward in front of other people.
“That sounds like fun, send me the info.”
The faint scent of sandalwood and heat, lingers in the air.
We met on the way in sharing a private joke. I felt a pain like a live wire slamming through my chest. Holding hands, we move to part. I bring our clasped hands up. I kiss her hand while looking deep into her. Full of promise, full of longing.
She goes to her errand and I to mine. I enter the room, a small classroom. A single table with chairs around it. There are empty seats but not two together. I sweep my gaze across the people there. A few silently move a space down. One, a rival, mocks about something trivial. I barely hear it. My mind is too full.
She arrives and we are whole again. I ache when she is away, but don’t notice until she’s back and the pain is gone.
The teacher comes in. He runs down some test results. She did better than me. Not that I did poorly, she just cared more. There is an assignment to write on the board of a feeling or circumstance. It is a writing class.
Nervously in crabbed handwriting to small for the blackboard, I write a rhyming couplet about the smell in a small room, in the moments after sex. I’m writing the third line and am stumped. I ask her to read what I wrote.
It’s about her. It’s for her. She reads it, smiling. We are the only people here. She reads it out loud and corrects bits. Changes words and makes it better. She writes in the last line and it blows me away.
With her, I’m better. She collaborates with my art. I with hers. We share the same goal of creating beauty and create it apart and together. I am so fiercely proud of her. I reach out for her.
Then I wake. I’m alone. The room is empty. All I’m left with is this ache. And the hope, that she’s out there somewhere. Just woken, missing me as I miss her. We hope to find each other. We hope…
Warning to anyone who knows me personally. This is going to be, perhaps, a TMI post.
This is about my sexual history. Because I am trying to date now and I’m both insecure and apprehensive about this. Because my views and experience seem to indicate that I should be better, more practiced than is reality.
So, my first. I was youngish. Older than most men like to claim. I was 20, she was 18. I came, she didn’t. The relationship that spawned this coupling did not last much beyond this. I wish I had some great or interesting story but alas…
So not a learning experience and little to show for it. I’m sure it was a bland nothing for her as well. In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, that’s why we didn’t hang out further. “You’re boring” I believe she said. It’s odd what you remember.
Moving on, nothing for awhile. Until I met “Sarah. She was the emotional center of my life. She introduced me to kink. I wasn’t a stranger to it. Even from a young age the idea of whips in a sexual context fascinated. But she was both experienced at it and needed it.
Her kink was pain. There was some branching into other areas but it all circled back to that. Many people like a little pain with their pleasure, in the heat of the moment. This was not that.
She wanted, needed pain. I desire to give my partners what they need. That satisfies me. The orgasm is pleasurable, but that is what I need. So I learned to inflict pain. She orgasmed from pain. She was wired that way. I loved her. Her pleasure is my pleasure equals feedback loop.
So bottom line here, we had a lot of sex but pain was the focus. I didn’t learn the ways of pleasure as it were. I have a lot of skin to skin experience but that practiced love making was not in it.
While I was with “Sarah” we attended a few baccanals. Orgies. I just like the term baccanal better, its got style. Indiscriminate fucking there, which drives my number of sexual partners up. Again giving the illusion of experience without the substance.
After “Sarah” I was with Eric. I met him through our (Sarah and I’s) extended friends. He mixed pain and pleasure. He was my Top. This is the first time I have ever given his real name. Before I came out, I always referred to him as Erica. I usually use aliases for people on this blog but I know he would not care.
Probably get a kick out of it. I learned submission from him. I also learned I prefer pain to humiliation. No, stronger. I have no desire to be humiliated; It does nothing for me and can turn me off very quickly.
Eric and I were on again off again partners for awhile(4 years span, but only together for about 6 months altogether) but nothing major.
I’ve dated here and there but no real sexual relationships beyond those.
So I have had sex many times. But unless pain is your need, I’m unlikely to be good. Not that I can’t learn. Just that my experience belies my skill.
That makes dating awkward. In every area but this I am confident. But when it comes down to brass tacks, this one place I am uncertain.
She dances through the silences
A ghost on the periphery
A sadness deep enough to hold
Her words tap, tap against me
Like a bird cracking open a seed
With a sharp intake of air
Courage making overbold
I read false witness
But cannot bare it
I can only shout out loud
And hope she hears
“A whisper is forbidden” I whisper.
My heart knows who it wants.
I bit my lip, not quite sure how to do this. I paced in the empty break room, the faint smell of burnt popcorn that seeps into the cheap plastic, all around.
“I’ll walk up to him. I’ll walk up and tell him how I feel. I’ll walk in and just say… What will I say? You can’t even get it out to yourself let alone in front of him. What is so hard? It’s the 21st century, just walk up and ask.”
I’ve done this before. When I was in high school I remember pacing in the parking lot across the street from a girls house. I paced there for an hour.
“I’m not that scared boy anymore right? He’s sitting there just down the hall. He seemed interested… He’s interested, right?”
Steeling my heart, I turned the corner of the break room and out into the hallway.
“I’ve been looking for you,” voice purring from Michaels throat.
My vision narrowed in making me feel like I was trapped. Fight or flight, but I froze, like a doe scenting a predator.
“Well, you found me, ” I said lamely.
In case I have not made this explicitly clear. Or a friend that reads this blog thinks that is just a writer’s technique.
Let me make this explicitly clear.
I am Pansexual.
What this means differs from person to person. There is a textbook definition but I am not a textbook person. Textbook definitions lack a humanity that I find unsettling. If you need it, fuck, you’re on the internet. Find one.
To me this means that:
I am physically and emotionally attracted to both men and women.
I am physically and emotionally attracted to men who are(identify as) women.
I am physically and emotionally attracted to women who are(identify as) men.
I am physically male and I identify as male.
I am physically and emotionally attracted to men who don’t identify as women but who do dress as women except for those guys that dress as women but don’t shave their facial hair. Come on guys, at least try.
I am physically and emotionally attracted to women who don’t identify as men but dress as men except for those that don’t shave their facial hair. I might just not like facial hair. I’ll need to exam that.
So to conclude, if you are walking around, and you are human(because I haven’t met any aliens, but who knows maybe?), I’m probably into who you are.
I am in my mid thirties, I am overweight but working on it, I am way too into posting to this blog. And I tell people I love them way to soon and easily. (there are levels of love people, at least for me. This sends people running before I can explain that.)
So that’s it, I am a poet, a writer, a book nerd(scifi/fantasy mostly), I’m on my computer alone at 4:23 in the morning and I’m pansexual. I should probably stop watching Dan Savage and go to bed.
Pelgris 