Desires

The simplest desires are the hardest to feed. I desire touch. To touch and be touched; not sexually, but to be held and told, even if I know it to be false, that everything will be alright. That you have me, that I have you. People turn that into sex or brush off the need but I can’t any longer. I’ve finally, irrevocably, come to terms with just how broken I am. Tears are a regular occurrence. The walls I put in place crumble when the false cloth of this constructed life is peeled back and all I have is silence. And a desperate need for anything but, coupled with a intense desire to hear nothing. Not even the blood rushing through my ears makes a sound. And at the end, I just want to crawl in bed and find that you are snuggled against me. I want your touch, the comfort and joy being around you brings, but I’m not quite delusional enough to believe you, or anyone could love me. But gods, I wish to be proven wrong.

Thoughts on Consent and culture(possible trigger warning)

Any culture that equates sex with success or with intimacy is failing those that comprise it.  It Feeds into youth culture filtering down to the youngest cognizant levels and takes over in those places where straight talk about sex is not present.  e.g.  in most American households. Further, since the origin of the culture originates with men taking and not individuals exhibiting informed consent we receive a nasty side effect of that cultural shift in that it promotes rape culture. In which the criminal who acts and violates the sanctity of another’s body is succored and made out as blameless while the victim is shamed by the larger culture. It is a malignant and horrific manifestation of the cultural shift.  I’m not saying that it is Not a part of the systemic male domination of society, I’m saying that when we allow popular culture the reins to societal value we ultimately give up control over how those values manifest.

I do not advocate abstinence, nor do I advocate free sex.  I advocate informed, enthusiastic,  and continual consent.  That men must be made responsible for not having sex when their partner is not into it,  that coercion of any kind is rape.  If you get into it and it starts hurting or stops being what you want,  then stop. Say no.  And if it continues from there,  it is rape. If you see that your partner is not into it stop and check on them.  Informed means not impaired, meaning not drunk, not high, told up front the actions that will be taken and what is off the table.  It may seem excessive,  but that is the culture talking.  It is what is necessary to keep all parties safe. Enthusiastic means they want to have sex as much as you do.  This is both men and women,  yes sometimes guys are not into it as well,  don’t shame them for it.  That is the culture talking, saying men must be up for it at all times. Culture is a blade that cuts all who hold it. Coercion is not enthusiastic consent, giving in is not enthusiastic consent. Do what you want, is not enthusiastic consent. All of these are rape.

The victim should not be made to feel shame for something that is done to them, against their will. There are no mitigating factors.  If someone was wearing something,  that is not an invitation. Being drunk is not an invitation. Being too tired to say no is not an invitation.  There is always another person involved and that person needs to stop it. Must in fact say no. Otherwise, they are acting as a monster, a criminal that should be ashamed of their actions.  They have violated the body, the mind and the emotions of someone. There is no excuse for that behavior.

I cannot express enough my disgust for anyone that rapes another. Our culture has become sick, we need to change it, otherwise we are risking the growing up of several generations of severely emotionally damaged people. Unfortunately, I think we may already be into the first generation.  We must stop the skid. But how to do that?  Swing back into the more conservative direction?  That culture has a strong record of failure on this issue and that failure reaches back centuries.  The only path forward is to teach informed, enthusiastic consent and to remove those components of congratulatory sexual conquest from male dominated society. I don’t know how to do the latter.  I can only continue to espouse the former and never flinch from the conversation that must occur again and again in order for us to change.

The day begins

This ponderous waiting, I realize that the day doesn’t begin until she is here. It exists in this anticipation but until she is here, it’s not enough. It is real but not worth its reality. I wonder how I will be when she, inevitably, leaves. The mere thought of without her, nearly brings me to tears. It physically hurts my heart. Yet, I feel safer pondering this as an inexorable collapse than to hold onto hope. Hope that we become something more than hanging out, hope that not just love blooms but that the relationship will work. I don’t want to give in to that fantasy. I don’t want to embrace what might be and never become. I also don’t want to to ever leave her side. It’s why I tell friends that I’m proper fucked. I can’t leave her. Don’t want to be without her. For whatever amount of with her that I am, I will accept. But I can’t stop from longing for more. It is that juxtaposition that makes me so lost.

Though maelstrom

I wonder about everything in my life, all the time. It’s not anxiety, it’s the result of developed professional paranoia that has long since become worthless. But it is a habit so deeply ingrained I find it hard to shake. At least I’m no longer jumping at shadows or becoming suspicious if a car follows me through too many turns.

However, the leftover pieces are that I exam every interaction, everything said, the way it is said, the body language, what questions aren’t asked that I think should be, which questions are asked, and what isn’t said.

It’s this constant war of second and third guessing, of being uncertain how my words are received, of not knowing where I stand. It is my Achilles heel in any relationship. People don’t react well to someone who needs reassurance in some respects and in others very confident. They wonder which is the real personality and, for the most part, can’t reconcile that the answer is both.

Even when someone is OK with it, my brain likes to self sabotage. It says that if they accept this thing about me then how into me can they be? As if the only way to accept me is to not care deeply enough to care about it. Which is completely mental. Yet it is a feeling I can’t seem to shake, this thought that the only way to accept my flaws is to, in some way, not love me enough to care.

Even worse is the darkest thought, the one that feels like I’m betraying them. That if you love me, what horrors are you hiding, that you could love someone like me.

Someone so flawed and broken. And I feel like if I bring up these feelings that the ones I love will see the truth, that in some way my exposing my insecurities will convince them that, yeah he is messed up, can’t believe I ever liked him.

Its a hard place to live, especially when I spend so much time there.

You

I’d like to think that the person I dreamed about knows that this is about her. I’d like to think that, but I don’t believe it. Not until she says something, and I fear I’m in for a long wait. But she makes me smile. When I’m around her I’m not nervous or anxious, I’m just happy. Not knowing how she feels, or If she feels the same way, that makes me nervous. But right now, in this moment, this time where all life takes place, I’m happy, nervous, scared and happy. All I know, is she is worth waiting for, worth the uncertainty, worth it all. If you are reading this, then don’t worry. You are not responsible for my emotional states. That’s on me. If you are reading, then I hope I can bring out as much joy as you do in me. Anyway, on to the dream:

In my dream, I am sitting on a bed.
You are close to me. So close.
My hands hold your hands.
Our foreheads touch and we are looking into each other.

We are so close, I can feel the heat of your breathe. Our breathing mingles in the air. This frozen moment. Then we both lean in and our lips touch.

We aren’t kissing but we touch lip to lip and our breathe comes a bit faster. Your tongue licks across my bottom lip. I shudder.
I tilt my head to the left and kiss you. Slow pressure, lips capture your tongue. My tongue presses against yours. Tasting you, tasting me. Feeling your cheeks, your teeth. Exploring your mouth.

Just this. Your hands in mine. Your heat, the feel of you. The taste of you. You. Wanting more, needing more but waiting until you are ready. Delight in your touch. In our now. This for a shapeless eternity.

Kind words

There are those who say to me, “Thank you for the kind words.”

I don’t speak kind words. I give voice to the words my heart requires I speak. Kind words are, “I’m sorry for your loss.” When the speaker has no emotional connection to the person. They are pretty and socially appropriate and are never something I would say. If I wish you to have a good day, then that is my hope for you. If I call you beautiful then I mean that my heart cries out to acknowledge your beauty. My words are not something so small as kind. My written words are my heart and my touch, my love and my kiss. I do not write to be nice, I write because I must. Because to do otherwise is to lie with my heart. Maybe my words are kind. But, it is the least thing they are. I want you to know that.

To feel something, anything

When you are feeling particularly shitty and you just can’t stand feeling that way anymore, it feels natural to turn to sex/pleasure or pain. For me it was depression and numbness. I got to the point where feeling something, anything, was better than the numbness I was mired in.

I sunk myself deep in the ministrations of friends of Sara’s. Pain and pleasure became the only thing I wanted. If it hadn’t been for Eric, I would never have come out. I’d still be mired there. He loved me. And while the scene was a part of our relationship, it was the other parts that woke me up. That is something I will always be grateful for.

My family asks at Thanksgiving to write
down what you are thankful for then they share it at Christmas. Well, they don’t know my life. They are SO normal. I just can’t seem to tell them the truth. I’m thankful for Eric. I’m sad that he’s now passed. I have known love, real love, twice in my life. Both times, they saved me. I hope that I did something for them. For Sara, I will always believe I failed her. For Eric, I hope that he was happy in the last years of his life. I know he found love. I hope M knows that he was loved.

I hope that anyone in my life that needs to immerse themselves in pleasure/pain will come to me. I can help. And if, ultimately, talking doesn’t work then I can provide the service Eric did for me. It’s the least I can do for his memory. It’s the least I can do for those I love.

This isn’t even close to over

How do I keep myself from saying I want you? From saying, watch silly shows with me and grow warm and safe. From saying, hold my hand and take my breathe away. How do I not say this and still call myself honest? How to say, I miss your voice? Am I obsessed or just in love? Does it count if you don’t love me? Does it matter that I said to tell me to stop if I ever cross the line and you haven’t? I worry that I reveal too much.  Or sometimes not enough, am I safeguarding what may be or merely ducking behind excuse and cowardice? How can how I feel a step away from salvation and damnation, both in equal measure?

Solstice

The darkness begins to fade and with it the fury of winter begins. In sorrow, as it’s lover grows more and more distant until spent and broken spring slinks it’s smarmy way onto the stage. Small moment it basks in flourish then flits away as a child before the full scorn of summer’s matron. This scowling form berate it’s winsome child while in the wings dear autumn waits to step and change the world from unrepentant same to multicolor, this chill of winter’s Herald. Sung voice and winds awakening. Heralds storms destructive desire and winter gains love and strength as Night again swings about in the heart of Winter’s embrace.

No peace

Not quite a brush with death, but a reminder of this bodies expiration date.  This makes me wonder if I have the time to wait for you.  The time to demonstrate my steadfast strength. Whither to watch, to wait or begin the search anew. Or stop looking and thereby stop the cycle of failure and disappointment. Or look anew in different pools. My problem is I actually believe all this romantic nonsense that I write.  I actually act like this prize fool.  I can’t even point to inexperience to explain it.  If anything, what I have is too much experience. I have absolutely no hope. I have a better chance of getting struck by lightning. But I put myself through the thresher again and again hoping for a different outcome and knowing it’s not coming. How can you love a monster and if you fail to see the monster, how can you love the man? How did anyone? I saw myself through their eyes and for a time I was happy.  For a time, I was better.

I miss you.  But I’m no longer depressed every day, no longer afraid to look at my past. I don’t know how to BE without that pain.  I don’t know what I am without you.  You chose me and I never asked why. Now I’m the one trying to choose and I keep failing, keep getting it wrong. You always saw clearer than me.  I don’t compare them to you.  Maybe I’m too broken now to be loved as I remember it.  Maybe…