M, not so fleeting... but still not within reach
Deceptive flesh, it taunts and teases. When the heart disconnects, at the behest of the tyrannical mind, to make flesh yield to cold and calculated passion. What do I seek, in these moments spirited away into the body of another, connected only in the basest manner, by the pieces of a body meant to meet and lock together. I know that what I want, I will not find here. And yet here I am. Still seeking what I won’t find.
We use each other, don’t we? Through the disembodied coupling, I let myself go free, to imagine that possibility still exists, and that the enticing unknown is still harbored in your gaze and the smell of you that lingers in my hair. That smell. This clean scent, it holds more pleasure for me than the actual feeling of you inside me.
There is this island in my mind, to which I can flee. From there I can hide and watch all that I do and say, in a place where these things do not affect me. I detach from the physical, unlatch the strings that tether my heart, and let myself go free.
However this is not without repercussion. When my wires reconnect, there is always pain. This phantom limb feeling, like it knows that something important was there once, and the ache of it’s departure is keenly mourned.
I split into two beings. One of these is still infatuated with the boy in the hotel room, wearing that silly white robe, chatting secretly with me in a spell of comradery, and feeding me luscious grapes. I think that boy exists now only in my mind. If in life he dwells somewhere, he is farther and farther away from me now, that door is closing with every decision I make.
The other of these beings says “I care not, let me take my pleasure where I may, life is short, and I should not waste sweet moments by allowing harsh thoughts to ferment them into bitter drink”. Why gather so many blocks to build, build and build, when every structure eventually falls? Instead I can just shelter where I find shelter, and where I find none, for that time I am out of luck. Sleep in this bed or that, it matters not.
This is not the me I wish to be. It is the being forged of circumstance, jaded and melancholy. She is fun however, and certainly charming.
I cannot achieve orgasm. How frustrating. This fantastic explosion, of millions of nerves dancing across every inch of skin, lights that play across closed eye lids, tremors fizzing deliciously, will only come to me where I feel loved. The heart I undress to climb into his bed, she has her way even as she lets me have mine. She lets me go free, so that my body may be touched and kissed in the manner I want, teased and set on fire, as my mind revels in the beauty of the person that touches me. But her hold on me remains. I cannot completely let go. The pleasure I receive from his pleasure is always my satisfaction. Moments lived with no regret and no inhibitions, those are valuable treasures. The ability to drain a man of his vitality, to force relaxation upon all his muscles and tissue, while providing momentary seconds of ecstasy, that is a thing I take great pleasure in. But that moment of complete delivery, whereupon I release my hold on myself and my core shakes and trembles, that complete loss of coherency, it dances beyond my reach.
His heart does not need to be untethered, separated. He is whole, and he does not give to me a single piece. Therefore I cannot give myself release.
I lay by his side, face so close to the exposed skin of his shoulder that I feel the heat dance between us. The smell of his skin is fascinating and refreshing, and the glow of the television screen plays across everything in a peculiar bath of light. In it, we soak and marinate. Do I Imagine the glance he steals in my direction, when he thinks I am not looking? My face is flushed, and his physical closeness is intoxicating. Is it silly that, though only moments ago we were entangled together with not a stich of clothing between us, right now I sit with only my cheek resting lightly on his shoulder, and butterflies beat thin wings inside my throat? This moment brought me more pleasure than all the fucking ever did. Watching his face contort in concentration as we fought imaginary enemies, and the triumph that lit his features when together we succeeded. And the closeness of my cheeks to his shoulder.
I am a very silly girl.
We use each other, don’t we? Through the disembodied coupling, I let myself go free, to imagine that possibility still exists, and that the enticing unknown is still harbored in your gaze and the smell of you that lingers in my hair. That smell. This clean scent, it holds more pleasure for me than the actual feeling of you inside me.
There is this island in my mind, to which I can flee. From there I can hide and watch all that I do and say, in a place where these things do not affect me. I detach from the physical, unlatch the strings that tether my heart, and let myself go free.
However this is not without repercussion. When my wires reconnect, there is always pain. This phantom limb feeling, like it knows that something important was there once, and the ache of it’s departure is keenly mourned.
I split into two beings. One of these is still infatuated with the boy in the hotel room, wearing that silly white robe, chatting secretly with me in a spell of comradery, and feeding me luscious grapes. I think that boy exists now only in my mind. If in life he dwells somewhere, he is farther and farther away from me now, that door is closing with every decision I make.
The other of these beings says “I care not, let me take my pleasure where I may, life is short, and I should not waste sweet moments by allowing harsh thoughts to ferment them into bitter drink”. Why gather so many blocks to build, build and build, when every structure eventually falls? Instead I can just shelter where I find shelter, and where I find none, for that time I am out of luck. Sleep in this bed or that, it matters not.
This is not the me I wish to be. It is the being forged of circumstance, jaded and melancholy. She is fun however, and certainly charming.
I cannot achieve orgasm. How frustrating. This fantastic explosion, of millions of nerves dancing across every inch of skin, lights that play across closed eye lids, tremors fizzing deliciously, will only come to me where I feel loved. The heart I undress to climb into his bed, she has her way even as she lets me have mine. She lets me go free, so that my body may be touched and kissed in the manner I want, teased and set on fire, as my mind revels in the beauty of the person that touches me. But her hold on me remains. I cannot completely let go. The pleasure I receive from his pleasure is always my satisfaction. Moments lived with no regret and no inhibitions, those are valuable treasures. The ability to drain a man of his vitality, to force relaxation upon all his muscles and tissue, while providing momentary seconds of ecstasy, that is a thing I take great pleasure in. But that moment of complete delivery, whereupon I release my hold on myself and my core shakes and trembles, that complete loss of coherency, it dances beyond my reach.
His heart does not need to be untethered, separated. He is whole, and he does not give to me a single piece. Therefore I cannot give myself release.
I lay by his side, face so close to the exposed skin of his shoulder that I feel the heat dance between us. The smell of his skin is fascinating and refreshing, and the glow of the television screen plays across everything in a peculiar bath of light. In it, we soak and marinate. Do I Imagine the glance he steals in my direction, when he thinks I am not looking? My face is flushed, and his physical closeness is intoxicating. Is it silly that, though only moments ago we were entangled together with not a stich of clothing between us, right now I sit with only my cheek resting lightly on his shoulder, and butterflies beat thin wings inside my throat? This moment brought me more pleasure than all the fucking ever did. Watching his face contort in concentration as we fought imaginary enemies, and the triumph that lit his features when together we succeeded. And the closeness of my cheeks to his shoulder.
I am a very silly girl.