Hibiscus balancing his checkbook and asking me deep questions at once. Whoa.
Riding in the car with Hibiscus, talking about music, I sung a few lines from a Limp Bizket song; "It's no good when all that's left is the sex. Dirty sex. Sex has become all I know about you - memories of those filthy things that we do. There's not a single thought that is left . . . after sex . . . with you."
.
The song is called No Sex. It wasn't a song they played on the radio. I had the song because I got the album, one of the ten compact music discs I ever bought in my life.
.
"It's funny that I related to those words even as a virgin," I said to Hibiscus.
.
A few days later I was mulling over my comment and it hit me: It wasn't about me and sex with another person. It was about my relationship with myself. Its about my obsession - the way I get lost in passion, lost in desire, lost in fantasies. I lose myself to it. I sacrifice everything to it.
.
And it wasn't any good when all that was left was sex. I'd stop writing, stop playing video games, stop inventing things, stop exploring other aspects of life. At the age of ten I would let myself be entirely consumed by my fantasies, day after day. I felt enslaved by my desire, masturbating hopelessly, unable to orgasm, unable to free myself from endless need.
.
Sixteen years later I was still easily consumed. It was hard to go a single day without fucking Hibiscus. I loved the way it fed my self-esteem, the way it made me feel beautiful and wanted. I loved the pleasure, the rush of blood flow and oxygen. I loved the warm tingling sensations, the sweat, the sounds, the way it made me feel like my body wasn't just a shell to house my mind. It gave my body meaning when he came in me - or on me.
.
The sex was all the more precious to me after five and half years of marriage to Paladin, a man who was hard pressed to have sex with me an average of once a month.
.
Thank you subconscious. Thank you for the songs you send me and their hidden meanings.
.
.
Wednesday, October 28th 2015
.
Hibiscus's parents left at brunch time. I made myself a cherry milkshake with frozen cherries, raw goat milk, a couple kale leaves and a little Amazing Grass powder. I offered some to Hibiscus's parents, but they declined, just as they had declined my apple-cranberry sauce. They didn't seem very adventurous to me. I hugged his parents goodbye, only barely not feeling awkward.
.
You probably think that Hibiscus didn't tell me about what happened the night before last when you were all drinking together. But yes, I know your feelings and your doubts. Yes, I'm still smiling at you. Nope, I'm not going anywhere.
.
At noon I poked around the kitchen hoping Hibiscus would come up from his basement office for lunch. He didn't. I went next door to Otter's house for a little while. When I returned I helped myself to thawed raspberries with dried persimmons and goat milk. I'm getting my antioxidants, I thought, recalling that in the last three days I'd eaten eight or nine pomegranates.
.
Hibiscus came up from the basement and I smiled broadly at him. He seemed much more relaxed than he had been the entire duration of his parents' visit.
.
"There is food for you in the fridge," I said. I'd peeled him a grapefruit as well as having put aside cranberry-apple sauce for him and about a quarter of a pomegranate's arils with powdered sunflower seeds. He pulled all three out as well as a hot pepper and sat down at the dining room table with a calculator, two pens, a checkbook and a few sheets of paper relating to banking.
.
Opening the three jars he said to me, "I didn't realize you went away because I was drinking."
.
"Oh," I said, startled by the topic and immediately embarrassed. I pushed my raspberries and goat milk aside. "I always feel so embarrassed when you do that. Why is that?"
.
Hibiscus smiled and nibbled his hot pepper.
.
"I guess," I went on, "I feel embarrassed because I write these things instead of saying them in the first place partly because I'm embarrassed."
.
Forking pomegranate airls and sunflower seeds, Hibiscus said, "So tell me why you're willing to drink home-made wine but not even willing to witness me drinking gin with my parents? What, for you, is the difference there?"
.
Then, immediately after asking the question he opened his checkbook and began writing numbers and referencing the sheets of paper. I blinked in astonishment.
.
"You're amazing," I breathed. Paladin can't even have a simple conversation and do the dishes at the same time, and here's Hibiscus balancing his checkbook and asking me deep questions at once. Whoa.
.
"Why? Because of my task switching? Because I gave you an assignment and then went on to my own business? I can stop if it bothers you," he said, still writing down numbers. He's like Oryx - but better. He's like me. My heart seemed to swell in my chest.
.
"I'm just amazed. I'm concerned that talking to me would greatly increase the margin for error."
.
"What I'm doing is fairly trivial. I'm just balancing my checkbook," he said.
.
Swooning, I sucked in a breath and turned my attention back to his initial question. "At some point I realized that emotional efficiency sometimes trumps what seems to be physically or biologically efficient. For example, sometimes resisting a craving may be so stressful than in some situations it is less physically damaging to give into the craving than it is to resist the craving."
.
Chuckling, I continued, "When I first realized this, I actually went off the deep-end and said 'Oh, let's give in to all the cravings!' Then, of course, I got really sick. That pendulum swung back and forth many times before I found a sense of equilibrium."
.
Hibiscus chuckled with me. He was alternating writing numbers in his checkbook with taking bites of his hot pepper, and the pomegranate mixture.
.
"Some people," I continued, "Eat completely raw, or completely vegan, or strictly macrobiotic or something, but then on Christmas day, when with family, they might make an exception for a home-made dessert that is significant to their family, their traditions or upbringing. I understand that, and respect that," I said.
.
As I was speaking I thought back to a particular New Years Eve at Parrot's house. It was probably 2008 going on 2009. My mother had made blueberry pandowdy¹, my favorite dessert from my childhood and even from a couple years ago. I had given up all refined sweeteners and gone gluten-free as well at that point. I was also abstaining from dairy.
.
An important part of my mother's treat was pouring heavy cream over it, and it definitely had white sugar and gluten in it.
.
I thought to myself, I've been doing so well, I can have it this one time. How bad could it be? And so I cut myself a slice about two-inches by two-inches in size. I poured cream over it. I re-joined Parrot and my mom playing Transamerica, the board game. I enjoyed every bite of it. It tasted wonderful. It smelled wonderful. It delighted my senses the way the hot, tart blueberries were complimented by the sweet, warm, comforting cake. It swam in rich, cool, soothing cream.
.
Less than ten minutes after finishing my bowl my stomach began to ache. The ache turned to pain. The pain began to burn, and burn. The burning began to rise up my esophagus. My palms began to sweat. My head began to throb. I became dizzy. I tried to hide my physical reaction. I tried to focus on the game.
.
"What's the matter?" my mother asked.
.
"Stomach ache. Excuse me," I said, and I went to the bathroom. I have to do something, I thought. I can't ruin their evening just because I was foolish enough to eat my mom's dessert. I have to recover and get back out there. Now.
.
I wracked my brain for a moment and then realized I had one way out. I did something I'd never done before, and in the seven or eight years since had not done again: I stuck my fingers into my throat. It was hard to make myself gag. I did it over and over and jiggled my fingers around. I'd been repressing my gag-reflex starting at the age of eleven to make myself able to proficiently suck cock².
.
Finally I began puking into the sink. I made myself puke over and over until nothing more would come up. I felt shaken, disgusted, hurt, and angry. I loathed myself and also felt proud of myself for getting up the guts to do what I had just done. (Pun intended?)
.
I washed my face and rinsed my mouth. I returned to the game table.
.
"Even though I respect it, I can't that," I said to Hibiscus. "Even with a single exception - the result is too disastrous."
.
"Right," Hibiscus said, writing another little number in his neat hand-writing with his red pen.
.
"The wine you made with your own home-made grapes has your positive vibration and intention behind them. It's different than something manufactured by some corporation, imported from goodness-knows-where, processed in ways I'm unfamiliar with. With your wine it has your personal vibration going into it, one which I trust. With some store-bought thing, it feels entirely different." I was neglecting to think of the isolation aspect of it while we spoke. Part of it was the same as I'd felt at the restaurant; like my difference was highlighted and not really okay.
.
"I see," Hibiscus said. "But there still seems to be a leap somewhere I'm not getting. I'm also not sure if I understand what it means for you to want me to hurt you in order to show you that I love you."
.
I gasped a little, once again taken by surprise by his turn of conversation. Gosh, I gushed, you are exciting.
.
"There is a difference in assumption there. I assume that there is something pleasurable about hurting me during sex and in other particular circumstances. I don't have that assumption about eating something. I assume that you wouldn't derive pleasure out the discomfort I feel when you eat something I disapprove of."
.
"It is true that a part of me gets pleasure from hurting you during sex, but it isn't a part of me I'm familiar with. This is new territory for me," Hibiscus said. He paused and then said, "What if I poured myself a shot of gin, and looking you in the eyes downed it."
.
I found my legs coming up to join the rest of me on the chair, my arms wrapping around my knees. Belly tingling, cheeks burning, cunt throbbing, I found myself too startled to speak. I imagined what he'd said - his startling blue eyes staring into mine, the shot of gin, his sly grin, his arm reaching out to me to grab me, forcing me to stay, grinding against me, taking me in his kitchen. I bit my lip, embarrassed.
.
Hibiscus laughed, looking at me with ardor.
.
How can this be? I asked myself, astonished at my own aroused state. I buried my face in my hands, disbelieving. Then I imagined him eating a conventional, typical, greasy slice of pizza. I cringed. Not cool. Not hot.
.
"Okay. So if you did that with a slice of pizza, that's sleazy. But somehow the shot of gin is sexy. This must be societal programming at work."
.
"Yes," Hibiscus agreed, still chuckling. "Because gin is associated with upper-class British - the very same who came to America and stole the land from the Native Americans. Very sophisticated, and sexy."
.
The same British who enslaved numerous peoples and put them to work growing sugarcane so that they could fatten themselves on the addictive processed version of the plant and, of course, to sell it for profit.
.
I pulled my hat down over my eyes. I was still turned on by the imagery of him intentionally hurting me by drinking in front of me. My nostrils flared with self-directed anger, my cheeks flushed with shame, my belly turned over and over, and still my cunt throbbed and my spine tingled with desire. What a mess I am.
.
Hibiscus continued to laugh. I grinned too; I couldn't help but be amused.
.
"And what about with beer?" he asked.
.
I frowned, my lips quirking up at the corners of my mouth. "No, not hot. That's associated with lame people coming to parties at my house and peeing on my floor." Specifically, that's associated with Porcupine peeing on my floor - twice. Porcupine drinking with his stupid friends, not calling, coming home stupefied and stinking.
.
"Why do you sharpen your tongue on my heart now when you can't do anything about it?" I moaned, taking the turn of phrase from Empress, the book I was reading aloud to him a little each day. We were on chapter twenty-one.
.
"It's true that I have that I have to leave very soon. But later I can sharpen my spear on you while simultaneously sharpening my tongue on your heart." he said. He had a dentist appointment to go to.
.
"So you're going to leave me to stew," I said.
.
"Oh, no. I wouldn't want you to stew. That'd make you lose your nutritive benefits."
.
I laughed, my chakras doing dances inside me. I couldn't intellectually pace what was happening to me emotionally. I heaved for breath and shook my head at his silly statement.
.
He put his jars of food and the remaining bit of his pepper back in the fridge and hugged me goodbye. I kissed him and watched him go. Gods, I love that man, I thought.
.
.
[¹] Years later I learned that I could make blueberry pandowdy raw and vegan by making the cake part with dates blended with sunflower seeds and sea salt, the blueberry part using frozen blueberries, a little bit of raisin (or ideally, unsweetened dried blueberries), and a cashew-based cream. Or, even better, a raw vegetarian version using raw cow's cream in place of cashew cream.
.
[²] The first time I sucked cock was on Ferret's older brother, when I was eleven, which was before I lost my vaginal virginity at the age of twelve. He'd commented that I was "a natural" which had made me feel inordinately good about myself.
.
The song is called No Sex. It wasn't a song they played on the radio. I had the song because I got the album, one of the ten compact music discs I ever bought in my life.
.
"It's funny that I related to those words even as a virgin," I said to Hibiscus.
.
A few days later I was mulling over my comment and it hit me: It wasn't about me and sex with another person. It was about my relationship with myself. Its about my obsession - the way I get lost in passion, lost in desire, lost in fantasies. I lose myself to it. I sacrifice everything to it.
.
And it wasn't any good when all that was left was sex. I'd stop writing, stop playing video games, stop inventing things, stop exploring other aspects of life. At the age of ten I would let myself be entirely consumed by my fantasies, day after day. I felt enslaved by my desire, masturbating hopelessly, unable to orgasm, unable to free myself from endless need.
.
Sixteen years later I was still easily consumed. It was hard to go a single day without fucking Hibiscus. I loved the way it fed my self-esteem, the way it made me feel beautiful and wanted. I loved the pleasure, the rush of blood flow and oxygen. I loved the warm tingling sensations, the sweat, the sounds, the way it made me feel like my body wasn't just a shell to house my mind. It gave my body meaning when he came in me - or on me.
.
The sex was all the more precious to me after five and half years of marriage to Paladin, a man who was hard pressed to have sex with me an average of once a month.
.
Thank you subconscious. Thank you for the songs you send me and their hidden meanings.
.
.
Wednesday, October 28th 2015
.
Hibiscus's parents left at brunch time. I made myself a cherry milkshake with frozen cherries, raw goat milk, a couple kale leaves and a little Amazing Grass powder. I offered some to Hibiscus's parents, but they declined, just as they had declined my apple-cranberry sauce. They didn't seem very adventurous to me. I hugged his parents goodbye, only barely not feeling awkward.
.
You probably think that Hibiscus didn't tell me about what happened the night before last when you were all drinking together. But yes, I know your feelings and your doubts. Yes, I'm still smiling at you. Nope, I'm not going anywhere.
.
At noon I poked around the kitchen hoping Hibiscus would come up from his basement office for lunch. He didn't. I went next door to Otter's house for a little while. When I returned I helped myself to thawed raspberries with dried persimmons and goat milk. I'm getting my antioxidants, I thought, recalling that in the last three days I'd eaten eight or nine pomegranates.
.
Hibiscus came up from the basement and I smiled broadly at him. He seemed much more relaxed than he had been the entire duration of his parents' visit.
.
"There is food for you in the fridge," I said. I'd peeled him a grapefruit as well as having put aside cranberry-apple sauce for him and about a quarter of a pomegranate's arils with powdered sunflower seeds. He pulled all three out as well as a hot pepper and sat down at the dining room table with a calculator, two pens, a checkbook and a few sheets of paper relating to banking.
.
Opening the three jars he said to me, "I didn't realize you went away because I was drinking."
.
"Oh," I said, startled by the topic and immediately embarrassed. I pushed my raspberries and goat milk aside. "I always feel so embarrassed when you do that. Why is that?"
.
Hibiscus smiled and nibbled his hot pepper.
.
"I guess," I went on, "I feel embarrassed because I write these things instead of saying them in the first place partly because I'm embarrassed."
.
Forking pomegranate airls and sunflower seeds, Hibiscus said, "So tell me why you're willing to drink home-made wine but not even willing to witness me drinking gin with my parents? What, for you, is the difference there?"
.
Then, immediately after asking the question he opened his checkbook and began writing numbers and referencing the sheets of paper. I blinked in astonishment.
.
"You're amazing," I breathed. Paladin can't even have a simple conversation and do the dishes at the same time, and here's Hibiscus balancing his checkbook and asking me deep questions at once. Whoa.
.
"Why? Because of my task switching? Because I gave you an assignment and then went on to my own business? I can stop if it bothers you," he said, still writing down numbers. He's like Oryx - but better. He's like me. My heart seemed to swell in my chest.
.
"I'm just amazed. I'm concerned that talking to me would greatly increase the margin for error."
.
"What I'm doing is fairly trivial. I'm just balancing my checkbook," he said.
.
Swooning, I sucked in a breath and turned my attention back to his initial question. "At some point I realized that emotional efficiency sometimes trumps what seems to be physically or biologically efficient. For example, sometimes resisting a craving may be so stressful than in some situations it is less physically damaging to give into the craving than it is to resist the craving."
.
Chuckling, I continued, "When I first realized this, I actually went off the deep-end and said 'Oh, let's give in to all the cravings!' Then, of course, I got really sick. That pendulum swung back and forth many times before I found a sense of equilibrium."
.
Hibiscus chuckled with me. He was alternating writing numbers in his checkbook with taking bites of his hot pepper, and the pomegranate mixture.
.
"Some people," I continued, "Eat completely raw, or completely vegan, or strictly macrobiotic or something, but then on Christmas day, when with family, they might make an exception for a home-made dessert that is significant to their family, their traditions or upbringing. I understand that, and respect that," I said.
.
As I was speaking I thought back to a particular New Years Eve at Parrot's house. It was probably 2008 going on 2009. My mother had made blueberry pandowdy¹, my favorite dessert from my childhood and even from a couple years ago. I had given up all refined sweeteners and gone gluten-free as well at that point. I was also abstaining from dairy.
.
An important part of my mother's treat was pouring heavy cream over it, and it definitely had white sugar and gluten in it.
.
I thought to myself, I've been doing so well, I can have it this one time. How bad could it be? And so I cut myself a slice about two-inches by two-inches in size. I poured cream over it. I re-joined Parrot and my mom playing Transamerica, the board game. I enjoyed every bite of it. It tasted wonderful. It smelled wonderful. It delighted my senses the way the hot, tart blueberries were complimented by the sweet, warm, comforting cake. It swam in rich, cool, soothing cream.
.
Less than ten minutes after finishing my bowl my stomach began to ache. The ache turned to pain. The pain began to burn, and burn. The burning began to rise up my esophagus. My palms began to sweat. My head began to throb. I became dizzy. I tried to hide my physical reaction. I tried to focus on the game.
.
"What's the matter?" my mother asked.
.
"Stomach ache. Excuse me," I said, and I went to the bathroom. I have to do something, I thought. I can't ruin their evening just because I was foolish enough to eat my mom's dessert. I have to recover and get back out there. Now.
.
I wracked my brain for a moment and then realized I had one way out. I did something I'd never done before, and in the seven or eight years since had not done again: I stuck my fingers into my throat. It was hard to make myself gag. I did it over and over and jiggled my fingers around. I'd been repressing my gag-reflex starting at the age of eleven to make myself able to proficiently suck cock².
.
Finally I began puking into the sink. I made myself puke over and over until nothing more would come up. I felt shaken, disgusted, hurt, and angry. I loathed myself and also felt proud of myself for getting up the guts to do what I had just done. (Pun intended?)
.
I washed my face and rinsed my mouth. I returned to the game table.
.
"Even though I respect it, I can't that," I said to Hibiscus. "Even with a single exception - the result is too disastrous."
.
"Right," Hibiscus said, writing another little number in his neat hand-writing with his red pen.
.
"The wine you made with your own home-made grapes has your positive vibration and intention behind them. It's different than something manufactured by some corporation, imported from goodness-knows-where, processed in ways I'm unfamiliar with. With your wine it has your personal vibration going into it, one which I trust. With some store-bought thing, it feels entirely different." I was neglecting to think of the isolation aspect of it while we spoke. Part of it was the same as I'd felt at the restaurant; like my difference was highlighted and not really okay.
.
"I see," Hibiscus said. "But there still seems to be a leap somewhere I'm not getting. I'm also not sure if I understand what it means for you to want me to hurt you in order to show you that I love you."
.
I gasped a little, once again taken by surprise by his turn of conversation. Gosh, I gushed, you are exciting.
.
"There is a difference in assumption there. I assume that there is something pleasurable about hurting me during sex and in other particular circumstances. I don't have that assumption about eating something. I assume that you wouldn't derive pleasure out the discomfort I feel when you eat something I disapprove of."
.
"It is true that a part of me gets pleasure from hurting you during sex, but it isn't a part of me I'm familiar with. This is new territory for me," Hibiscus said. He paused and then said, "What if I poured myself a shot of gin, and looking you in the eyes downed it."
.
I found my legs coming up to join the rest of me on the chair, my arms wrapping around my knees. Belly tingling, cheeks burning, cunt throbbing, I found myself too startled to speak. I imagined what he'd said - his startling blue eyes staring into mine, the shot of gin, his sly grin, his arm reaching out to me to grab me, forcing me to stay, grinding against me, taking me in his kitchen. I bit my lip, embarrassed.
.
Hibiscus laughed, looking at me with ardor.
.
How can this be? I asked myself, astonished at my own aroused state. I buried my face in my hands, disbelieving. Then I imagined him eating a conventional, typical, greasy slice of pizza. I cringed. Not cool. Not hot.
.
"Okay. So if you did that with a slice of pizza, that's sleazy. But somehow the shot of gin is sexy. This must be societal programming at work."
.
"Yes," Hibiscus agreed, still chuckling. "Because gin is associated with upper-class British - the very same who came to America and stole the land from the Native Americans. Very sophisticated, and sexy."
.
The same British who enslaved numerous peoples and put them to work growing sugarcane so that they could fatten themselves on the addictive processed version of the plant and, of course, to sell it for profit.
.
I pulled my hat down over my eyes. I was still turned on by the imagery of him intentionally hurting me by drinking in front of me. My nostrils flared with self-directed anger, my cheeks flushed with shame, my belly turned over and over, and still my cunt throbbed and my spine tingled with desire. What a mess I am.
.
Hibiscus continued to laugh. I grinned too; I couldn't help but be amused.
.
"And what about with beer?" he asked.
.
I frowned, my lips quirking up at the corners of my mouth. "No, not hot. That's associated with lame people coming to parties at my house and peeing on my floor." Specifically, that's associated with Porcupine peeing on my floor - twice. Porcupine drinking with his stupid friends, not calling, coming home stupefied and stinking.
.
"Why do you sharpen your tongue on my heart now when you can't do anything about it?" I moaned, taking the turn of phrase from Empress, the book I was reading aloud to him a little each day. We were on chapter twenty-one.
.
"It's true that I have that I have to leave very soon. But later I can sharpen my spear on you while simultaneously sharpening my tongue on your heart." he said. He had a dentist appointment to go to.
.
"So you're going to leave me to stew," I said.
.
"Oh, no. I wouldn't want you to stew. That'd make you lose your nutritive benefits."
.
I laughed, my chakras doing dances inside me. I couldn't intellectually pace what was happening to me emotionally. I heaved for breath and shook my head at his silly statement.
.
He put his jars of food and the remaining bit of his pepper back in the fridge and hugged me goodbye. I kissed him and watched him go. Gods, I love that man, I thought.
.
.
[¹] Years later I learned that I could make blueberry pandowdy raw and vegan by making the cake part with dates blended with sunflower seeds and sea salt, the blueberry part using frozen blueberries, a little bit of raisin (or ideally, unsweetened dried blueberries), and a cashew-based cream. Or, even better, a raw vegetarian version using raw cow's cream in place of cashew cream.
.
[²] The first time I sucked cock was on Ferret's older brother, when I was eleven, which was before I lost my vaginal virginity at the age of twelve. He'd commented that I was "a natural" which had made me feel inordinately good about myself.