(no subject)
Last night he lay beside me, behind me, his warm limbs wrapping me. His body is always warm all over, but now it was almost feverish. His feet were warm; the space around his calves was hot. I could feel his belly against my back, sweating slightly.
The sweet togetherness that is usually between us when we are falling asleep was disturbed somehow. I was too tired to do much about it, but I snuggled closer to him, and at the edge of my sleep, like a droplet of water you know is about to go over the side of a table as you watch it, your head down, your eyes level with the surface, I worried. At last he turned on his back. I kept thinking I heard the soft fleshy rustle of male masturbation, and finally turned to see whether I was hearing correctly. No; he was soft and placid; I think his hand had just been rubbing the sheets or slowly sweeping over his body. He said, "I'm miserable. I'm closed off, I feel disconnected, there are all of this bad emotions and I feel insomnia coming on. Help me."
I felt his chest, put my left hand at the center of him. Nothing. The image that came to mind was of closed double doors, white and strangely toothed. I rocked my hand on his chest, shaking him back and forth slightly, then in a circle, trying to loosen and open his heart. He was cold, and needed more blankets. I put my thumb between his eyebrows, at the third eye chakra where he is always so active and open. Out into my thumb flowed black muck, like a thick cloud of gnats. He shuddered a little; I felt sick and got a headache. I drew my hand away and flicked it into the air, hard, shaking off all of that. He was closed all right, closed and filling with bile. Finally he turned his front to me to be held, said, "Sometimes I just feel like a waste of space."
Now this is extremely uncommon. This is a strong, capable, charming, elegant man, full of confidence - the real kind, the true self-loving kind. But some funk had come over him, and in our world, we are allowed to say such things to each other, to be weak before each other, to allow the other to heal us.
I took him, held the back of his head to me, rocked him like a child. My little boy, I call him when he's like this, my little baby, like he calls me sometimes. L'ovachka moj, little lion. He curled into me, close to sobs. I rolled him onto his back again, placed my hand on his throat. Yes, he said, yes, again. At once I was overtaken by horniness. In a moment I understood the dominant side of adult baby fantasies and incest fantasies: the desire of the man to be completely weak and helpless I always understood; but the desire of the woman to be powerful, nurturing, to soothe and heal even as she scolds - I was feeling it for the first time. I held him, stroked him, let him be a child. He said he could only be strong with me, only because of me. I knew it was a game, but a high-stakes one, where the need was real. He pushed me gently down to suck him; I said I wasn't sure, but then gave him a few gentle kisses there, tender licks to let him know that I was still in control, no insistent thrusting into my mouth. Finally, "put it wherever you want, wherever you want," he said, his voice a whisper, a whimper.
I wanted him, but I was so tired, and not ready. I didn't want him forcing himself into me, and anyway, I wanted to be worshipped for a while. Put your mouth on me now, I said, and he reverently went down, kissed and sucked me to a shockingly fast orgasm. I was turned on so much by then, and I hadn't even realized it. It was once of those heaven-opening orgasms, the kind where the top of it is all white light in the shape of a dagger piercing a silver sun.
Then he was inside me, softly. He always goes a little limp while he's down on me; his attention is entirely there. He came back, slowly, slid into me, and stiffened, holding me, his body sinking down to mine as I said yes, yes, let it go, let all of that shit out, all of the black emotion, let it go...and he came in a long moan, not the usual sharp intakes of breath, the usual jerks and shudders, but a long stream of release.
He lay beside me then for a long time, relaxed, but still unable to sleep. But by the morning he was happy again.
The sweet togetherness that is usually between us when we are falling asleep was disturbed somehow. I was too tired to do much about it, but I snuggled closer to him, and at the edge of my sleep, like a droplet of water you know is about to go over the side of a table as you watch it, your head down, your eyes level with the surface, I worried. At last he turned on his back. I kept thinking I heard the soft fleshy rustle of male masturbation, and finally turned to see whether I was hearing correctly. No; he was soft and placid; I think his hand had just been rubbing the sheets or slowly sweeping over his body. He said, "I'm miserable. I'm closed off, I feel disconnected, there are all of this bad emotions and I feel insomnia coming on. Help me."
I felt his chest, put my left hand at the center of him. Nothing. The image that came to mind was of closed double doors, white and strangely toothed. I rocked my hand on his chest, shaking him back and forth slightly, then in a circle, trying to loosen and open his heart. He was cold, and needed more blankets. I put my thumb between his eyebrows, at the third eye chakra where he is always so active and open. Out into my thumb flowed black muck, like a thick cloud of gnats. He shuddered a little; I felt sick and got a headache. I drew my hand away and flicked it into the air, hard, shaking off all of that. He was closed all right, closed and filling with bile. Finally he turned his front to me to be held, said, "Sometimes I just feel like a waste of space."
Now this is extremely uncommon. This is a strong, capable, charming, elegant man, full of confidence - the real kind, the true self-loving kind. But some funk had come over him, and in our world, we are allowed to say such things to each other, to be weak before each other, to allow the other to heal us.
I took him, held the back of his head to me, rocked him like a child. My little boy, I call him when he's like this, my little baby, like he calls me sometimes. L'ovachka moj, little lion. He curled into me, close to sobs. I rolled him onto his back again, placed my hand on his throat. Yes, he said, yes, again. At once I was overtaken by horniness. In a moment I understood the dominant side of adult baby fantasies and incest fantasies: the desire of the man to be completely weak and helpless I always understood; but the desire of the woman to be powerful, nurturing, to soothe and heal even as she scolds - I was feeling it for the first time. I held him, stroked him, let him be a child. He said he could only be strong with me, only because of me. I knew it was a game, but a high-stakes one, where the need was real. He pushed me gently down to suck him; I said I wasn't sure, but then gave him a few gentle kisses there, tender licks to let him know that I was still in control, no insistent thrusting into my mouth. Finally, "put it wherever you want, wherever you want," he said, his voice a whisper, a whimper.
I wanted him, but I was so tired, and not ready. I didn't want him forcing himself into me, and anyway, I wanted to be worshipped for a while. Put your mouth on me now, I said, and he reverently went down, kissed and sucked me to a shockingly fast orgasm. I was turned on so much by then, and I hadn't even realized it. It was once of those heaven-opening orgasms, the kind where the top of it is all white light in the shape of a dagger piercing a silver sun.
Then he was inside me, softly. He always goes a little limp while he's down on me; his attention is entirely there. He came back, slowly, slid into me, and stiffened, holding me, his body sinking down to mine as I said yes, yes, let it go, let all of that shit out, all of the black emotion, let it go...and he came in a long moan, not the usual sharp intakes of breath, the usual jerks and shudders, but a long stream of release.
He lay beside me then for a long time, relaxed, but still unable to sleep. But by the morning he was happy again.