Any time I post something pertaining to kink, I tend to get more kink followers. And I read their words and I am reminded that I want that too. Not just the romantic or sensual things but the Dominance and Submissive dance, the pain and pleasure. I want it both. The emotional side and the Switch(master predominant) side. I don’t want to have to choose. I know that I will, if I must. But I would rather both. The reminder is like a building fire with no outlet. It can make me reckless. Maybe this is a TMI situation, but I’ve never been accused of shying away from brutal self discovery.
Month: September 2016
Pounce
Playful is dangerous
without consequences
Consent looms over us
Words can be spoken
play is enough of a invitation
To say
You make me want to crowd you
Push you up against the wall
Pin your wrist against your struggles
Taste your mouth in fierce possession
Take all that your playfulness promises
Burn us both with passion
Which you said you don’t want
Yet you play and play
I am not made of stone
Eventually, something will give
Note: I’ll say something, be blunt. Consent is far too important to me. But she pushes and pushes. I can’t tell if she wants me to use force or if she is waiting to say “aha! Gotcha! You’re just like the rest. It’s tiring and it hurts.
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Rambling thoughts
For all that I have spent time in this world, I feel like I haven’t started yet. Like the only barometer for success I will acknowledge is a life shared. Something I haven’t had in years. I have friends, but I feel like I dip in and out of their lives unable to fully realize that connection that says to talk to them each day even though I desire to. It feels awkward to always be the one to make contact. Like I’m imposing on their lives. With a romantic interest, I feel like I am invited to make contact though I think I take that too far, maybe too fast. I share every little thought even if it’s weird. Is a bunch of little texts throughout the day day weird or one long one that rambles, is that more weird? Am I too concerned that I come off as weird? Anyone that reads my work, has to know I’m weird, right? That I see most things differently. In some ways, I wish that people I am interested in would read my work. On the other hand, I have written extensively about several breakups and their emotional impact and about an unrequited love situation that ended as was inevitable. So they can see just how idiotically romantic/foolish I can be. Or better to know that going in? I may seem a pushover in alot of things, when I’m in a relationship. A soft touch. I’m a big believer in velvet strength. Soft when possible, gentle unless necessary. Then unwavering steel. But if there is no need, you may never see the steel and assume it’s not there. I fight for those I love but I can only do so when I know that there is something to fight. Or to fight for. I want to be chosen I suppose. It’s the only way passion lasts in a relationship. To choose the person you are with, each day. Choose and choose again. Live each day with them in your heart, knowing you are in theirs. That they are choosing you. Maybe that’s too much pressure? To know that I am actively choosing? I don’t know. Or maybe, to their mind, I say I love you too soon? I only say it when I feel it to be true. Not everyone I date hears it, it just happens that those that do tend to hear it ‘early’ in the relationship. I listen to what my heart is telling me. I discern fact from the vapor of nuance. Sometimes, I’m wrong. But I’d rather be wrong about something potentially wonderful and take the chance than be wrong because I failed to take the chance. Though I am, admittedly, a bit wary now. It’s just hard to lose something beautiful for something wonderful, then lose it all. Doesn’t stop me from wanting the everything, despite the pain or the possibility of pain. Though I am a admitted masochist, so perhaps it’s not so unlikely. I could ramble like this forever, one thought bleeding into the next, but I have to go to work.
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Substitution
I am uneasy.
I can feel the blood coursing through my veins.
My muscles twitching in time to the beat.
Ache spreading out.
Circulation not quite cut off.
Dizzy and reckless.
Falling out of the edge of consciousness
Floating but aware as the drumbeat holds me steady
Sensation from outside
Fevered heat
Slowly melding in
Then a suddenness of pain
Almost shocking to wakefulness
But receding into the background
Replaced by eagerness
Anticipations building
Unbearable
Again! Nerve endings crying for more
Again! Pain turning to the muddle of both it and pleasure
Mixing until all is lost to rut and ruin
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Dream
Dreamed I was in some town in Scotland for some reason. I had the looming feeling that I was waiting for someone or someone was coming to see me. Odd.
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Just questions.
How can I be tired of not kissing you, of not being with you when I’m not sure who you are? Yet, that is how I feel. A bone deep weariness that steals over me, when I think about this person in my dreams. She always looks the same, her voice is the same. The thought of her voice fills me with longing. Does she look like she does in the dreaming? Will I recognize her? Or, depressingly, is she a hope unrealized of a heart cast open wide? Does she not exist, except in the heart of who will love me as I love them? Am I asking questions without answers? A chicken or the egg. Does she exist in my dreams because she loves me or because she will love me? Does it matter? I will seek her in my dreams, to hold her in my arms. I will do so until we meet and as often as I can after. Am I just a romantic fool, looking for someone who isn’t?
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A sky quiet and bereft of clouds somehow feels lonely and lost
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Love and stress
Stress
Stress ate me up and spit me out yesterday
Thought I was sad but after the 19th, the 11 year Anniversary of Morgan’s death, I felt OK. I never tell people which day we met, when her birthday was, the day we said I love you. I never tell them about the thousand moments and pleasures and discussions we had. Because those are mine. Those are what tells me that love is still possible. That there is beauty and joy in this world. I only tell people about her death, because fuck them! Fuck them! She was the light of my world. She was judged, I was judged by our lifestyle and when a shitbag motherfucking piece of shit took advantage of the world we shared and took her life, her family shut me out. I don’t even know where she is buried. I don’t know if they cremated her and spread her ashes in the Tradewinds like she wanted. So that a part of her would always be in the sky. Watching over those she loved. I don’t tell stories about us, about her because I can’t get 20 words in before I’m crying and my throat closes up. I can talk about her death because it fills me with a cold rage. A control seeps into me and I can function.
But the stress, the knowledge of her sits somewhere in the background. And yesterday, it caused me to collapse. My brain shut my body down. I slept for 16 plus hours. And I write this now as a reminder. Morgan is gone. My love remains. I need to acknowledge that while seeking the beauty and love I know is out in the world. Someone is sitting there and we’ll meet.
To whoever that is, you aren’t competing with a ghost. I know I can love greater and deeper because of my Morgan. I’ll just be sad sometimes. I’ll be destroyed sometimes. I collapsed because I tried to bury it. To hide my pain, to forget. Because that is what people seem to expect. But what people expect has never really worked out for me. I guess I just needed to see that.
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Love and stress
Stress
Stress ate me up and spit me out yesterday
Thought I was sad but after the 19th, the 11 year Anniversary of Morgan’s death, I felt OK. I never tell people which day we met, when her birthday was, the day we said I love you. I never tell them about the thousand moments and pleasures and discussions we had. Because those are mine. Those are what tells me that love is still possible. That there is beauty and joy in this world. I only tell people about her death, because fuck them! Fuck them! She was the light of my world. She was judged, I was judged by our lifestyle and when a shitbag motherfucking piece of shit took advantage of the world we shared and took her life, her family shut me out. I don’t even know where she is buried. I don’t know if they cremated her and spread her ashes in the Tradewinds like she wanted. So that a part of her would always be in the sky. Watching over those she loved. I don’t tell stories about us, about her because I can’t get 20 words in before I’m crying and my throat closes up. I can talk about her death because it fills me with a cold rage. A control seeps into me and I can function.
But the stress, the knowledge of her sits somewhere in the background. And yesterday, it caused me to collapse. My brain shut my body down. I slept for 16 plus hours. And I write this now as a reminder. Morgan is gone. My love remains. I need to acknowledge that while seeking the beauty and love I know is out in the world. Someone is sitting there and we’ll meet.
To whoever that is, you aren’t competing with a ghost. I know I can love greater and deeper because of my Morgan. I’ll just be sad sometimes. I’ll be destroyed sometimes. I collapsed because I tried to bury it. To hide my pain, to forget. Because that is what people seem to expect. But what people expect has never really worked out for me. I guess I just needed to see that.
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Working
I don’t know how to just be friends with you without caring way more than I should about your happiness and well-being. I would like to be your friend but I don’t see how it’s possible. Not without feeling torn apart all the time. I know you don’t want me. I can’t pretend that I don’t want you. I think that puts us at an impasse . You probably don’t want to hear any of this. I can’t keep quiet. It is not who I am. I feel a profound, constant connection to you. And little by little I fell in love with the woman you are becoming. I think you sometimes use me to make yourself feel better. You know how I feel and maybe it seems to do no harm, but it hurts me. Because, unless your feelings have changed, I know you are just playing with me. I can’t. I won’t play the game. There’s this thought in my head that if I can ride this out we’ll be amazing. But you started this game right when I was at my lowest. Right in the week prior to the Anniversary of Morgan’s death. And when I fell back, like a moth to a flame, when you knew you had me, you stopped talking to me. This game is over. I can’t play it. Not with someone who would use Morgan against me like that.
Pelgris 