I would walk through fire to make sure a friend was ok.
That’s a thought I had the other night. And it’s true.
I’ve endangered long term friendships to make sure they had information that I couldn’t keep silent about. Information that I wasn’t sure was true, but which, if true, could have devastating consequences.
So knowing that I was about to lose everything. I told them anyway. Saying that I was afraid but that I felt that they needed to know.
I don’t have many friends. At most I can count them on two hands. Probably on one. But I would fight a war to the knife on their behalf.
Perhaps because I live by a code. A simple and perhaps harsh one. Perhaps because I value them more than I value myself. The latter thought hurts the most. So it’s probably more true than not.
I don’t have a point here. Just that there are still things about myself that feel painful. That bring tears and silent screams.
So, I need to listen and be honest and keep writing. I may be better, more whole than I’ve ever been. But still, there is more. And I need to remember that.
The truest wish I could ever state is this: I wish I were independently wealthy. Not so I could live it up and party. But so I could take care of the people I love in the manner they should be taken care of while not having to grind away at a job.
Because, honestly, after working for the last 30 years with little beyond continued life and some material possessions as a result, I am just tired of it.
And there is no end to it, without some massive upheaval of circumstance. There is only the maintenance of this or a devolution resulting in worse circumstances.
Arguably, I have a good job. But really, it pays just enough to keep my head and the heads of my loved ones above water. Which I know is amazing, seen from outside. And isn’t that sad? To aspire to just getting by.
What have we become? When the hope of something better is fiction. When the now is an endless slog to an uncertain future.
I’m weary beyond bone. So tired that my body spontaneously creates wounds. Aches, pains. In deep response to a continued existence. What is the answer? I don’t know.
Blood forms perfect droplets on the plastic
Frantic to stop the bleeding
Even more so the pain
A blunt needle burrowing
Can’t feel the crash coming
Eyes press tightly
Mind breaks each morning
Trails of wetness
Feel blood pump through veins
One last trip
Until silence lasts
When given social permissions to be myself I don’t do constraint or what is termed normal. I’m poetry and flowers and that tea you mentioned in passing that one time. I’m kisses and touches and tears. I’m telling friends that I love them and music, and songs made up and sung right there.
I’m either locked down or free and I don’t know how to be else. And I don’t know that I want to be.
So if you see me smiling for no reason or catch me with tears in my eyes or, on extremely rare occasion, complimenting some random stranger then walking away. Be happy. You’ve caught a rare glimpse past my shell. Something few ever see.
In joy and in pain I, like most of us, am hidden. A false front. A city of doors. A maze without end.
And sometimes…often…I feel so lost
I forget the hells I’ve been through working through trauma
I forget them having lived with them daily
Having worn down paths I my soul
Having found bolt holes in those paths which could short-circuit a memory
Or provide a moments respite
I can see the moments of trauma and the pain is distant
What forgiveness of self
What clarity feel like at the end of a long road
But those bastions of safety
Those places and thoughtforms
Which gave solace
Those places of peace I hollowed out
But I’ve begun to revisit them
And realize that they provide safety from the daily trauma of being alive
Refuge for the broken
A realization that healed doesn’t mean mended
That acting as if the trauma was the only reason for pain has inflicted more trauma
If only by tiny increments
Now I sit, in my bastion, not alone
Not alone anymore
Free to feel pain
Even if everything is better
I wake slowly. Knowing that the extra twenty minutes I snooze my alarm to won’t matter. But I still do it. I pet the cat by my side. She rolls over my hand and goes back to sleep. I long to join her. But that extra 20 minutes was a dream. A hope which fades with every passing second. I have to get up.
It’s not a particularly hard job. Nor a harsh work environment. I’m just tired. So fucking tired of too short weekends and work weeks which drag away hours from those weekends.
It’s what fuels discontent. What makes every day a little worse. The accumulation of hours without end. Without purpose. Without hope of change.
As the day wears on, I am reminded of good things. Of love. Of hope. Of kissable lips. Of the dream of the brighter world. The sadness lingers like hot breathe against soft skin.
Quench my thirst on love. On desire. On dreams of far places, where I am becomes we. And what was becomes joy.
Bruised, bloodied, and satiated, we settled into our soft but firm bed. For the first time, I’d allowed myself to be goaded by my wife into losing control. To experience the almost fugue state of the total abandonment of control and just did whatever I desired without construct, form, or limits.
I can remember it all but it’s at a remove. Except for brief instances where I felt myself tipping into monstrosity. Knife poised to cut off her nipple as I rode her. The fear in her eyes flooding me with desire and making me painfully hard. I know I stopped after pressing the dull side of the blade in, as if to beginning sawing. I can see the relief flood her body and I remember slapping her tit so hard it left a red hand shaped print against her bone white skin.
I remember the feel of holding onto the dangling ceiling spreader bar while Seth impaled me on his throbbing cock. Filling me up with the war of pain and pleasure. Legs hugging him to push deeper into me. Kissing his mouth like I was searching for a way to feel more. Biting his lip and tasting blood and that flash of regret that I had sent the others away. Wanting more inside me. Seeing Sara approach wearing a small strapon. Her reading that burning desire to lose myself. The thrusting pulse of a slick and thrumming dildo, joining Seth. The feeling of hot wet splashing inside me. The vibration too much for him to endure. The brief moment of respite before some monstrous cock, easily triple what I’d just taken started thrusting in. Turning, I see one of the men I’d dismissed, Jake, and the triumphant smirk of Sara. Jake opened me up. His cock slamming into me while he held me up from behind.
My last coherent memory is Seth sucking my cock slowly into his mouth. Like my dick was water and he was savoring every touch of it.
I remember whipping Sara with her favorite single tail. Each lash showing an angry red line across her ghostly skin. Pulling her off the Saint Andrews cross and giving her to Seth and Jake. I watched her body racked in pain be whipsawed into pleasure at the hands of those men. Her eyes staring into me, mouth open. Deep into subspace. They took her. She laying sideways on the padded bar. Front and back, thrusting her between them. I recall pushing my cock into her open mouth. The feel of her mouth sealing around me and the slow sucking as she pulled one last hard cum from my aching over used cock. Tensing each time she spasmed in orgasm. One hand holding her head in place and the other cupping her bruised breast. Pushing and kneading on the bruises.
I know we took a shower but can’t remember it. I pull Sara’s battered body closer to me. These recollections making me hard. But I’m too tired to do anything. Nevertheless, I push into the pleasant familiar warm of her pussy. Just leaving myself inside of her. With Tara pressing herself against me. Tits pushing into my back. Awkwardly, I reach back and cup her mons in my hand. She murmurs in a half asleep haze, “Thank you, Master.”
Some tension in me breaks at her words, and I drop deep into sleep. The most content person on the face of the Earth.
Break the surface
Tension squeezing down
Just these days passing
Signaling future possible
Love is an emergence
Not a fall
A discovery of heart and connection
A wiping away of the scales
The pretense of separation to see the whole
Love is a tapestry woven complete
Not touching all souls but touching many
The faint echos and plucked chord melodies
Love emerges from silence
Demands to be known
And though pain may follow close on its heals
The truth is
All revelation has a price
And just as a cost is paid
May a lesson be learned
This is the 13th anniversary of Morgan’s death.
I’m reliving those minutes. Those mistakes. In full acceptance. I failed her in a way that I won’t fail again. So I seem like I’m cautious. Making sure we are on the same page. Reiterating thoughts to garner agreement and clarification. A friend of mine said that’s just what a Sir does. Perhaps she’s right. But I think that I must admit that this more than anything is what shaped me. Not just her death. Her murder. But also her life. Her love.
Because of her, I have bedrock proof that love is real. I know that relationships are hard. That letting things go causes damage. That failing to fight for your desires is a mistake. I know that losing someone never goes away. That you don’t heal. Instead you grow around the pain. Grow beyond it. And so appear sound. But the wound is always there.
I thought when I came out of the depression. The bleakness. When I could again feel. I thought that I was healthy. But those were first steps. And really, I won’t ever be whole. No one is. Being whole is being stagnant. Unchanging.
It’s not that I’m hopeful. It’s that I don’t want to fail to live in the love that she showed me was real. How could I dishonor her by failing to see the people around me, See their beauty, Foster their light and darkness?
I take this time. This day. To remember her.
To lament all that was lost.
To realize all that I’ve become.
From this frozen moment, I’d erase if I could.
This bloody seed crystal of the man I am.
Of the person I become tomorrow