Other people count sheep; I suck the Beloved's cock.
I could be posting about all kinds of terrible things that depress me and upset me (don't even get me started on Brexit... or my current medication/benefits chaos)... but I shan't.
Instead, since my entire life is one stubbornly sex-positive, female-positive project, I shall write about something I've been practicing for a while now, and have found marvellous and soothing and good.
Meditation has never been easy for me. I've always found it incredibly hard to sit still and focus; I've managed only some very basic meditations after a hard physical exertion, like an Ashtanga yoga sequence in a fasted state. After years of just beating my head against the wall and trying to be a Good Yogi, all this crap--I just gave up and did what I have done with all other aspects of my life and spiritual practice: I did it in a new way, a way that suited *me,* the way *my* brain and my body and my soul were built. This has been one huge, major part of my healing from a lifelong depression and generally managing my life a bit better: just giving up on trying to do things according to other people's rules and practices, no matter how hallowed and old they were, no matter how much the medical establishment clung to them, no matter what various minorities and subcultures and religious groups thought, and so on.
Many, many years ago I realised that for me, the most fruitful, most successful and all-round best way for me to meditate was through doing something pleasurable, something to do with sex. Therefore, masturbation is my greatest form of meditation: then, I *can* focus, because I am thinking of the characters I have a deep emotional tie with, and I am experiencing the most pleasurable things the human body and mind can experience. And that's where all my fic and all my poetry comes from. This is why the stupid idea most major religions have about sex being a waste and a misdirection of one's life-energy has always made me so angry--it's quite the opposite of a "waste," especially for women. Most of those rules were written by men, who do get tired and do feel drained after orgasm--but that's the male orgasm! When a woman orgasms, she becomes full, glowing, sated, full of energy. A woman gets cuddly and happy and revitalised, a guy falls asleep. The biological aspects of sex are reflected in the psychological experience of the post-coital state. For a man, it's the end. What he meant to do has been done; it's over. For a woman? It's the beginning, it's readiness, it's the body going "here we go!" as it prepares to get pregnant. There's rest, but it's a happy, buzzing rest. It's a springing forth, it's a creation--and that is reflected in the creativity, the yearning for cuddliness, the dreams a woman dreams after orgasm. Giving up one's seed is the end for the plant; it falls down and dies. The soft, moist earth taking in the seed? Stuff starts to happen. When two women have sex with each other, there's very much an element of WHEEE in there, of creativity, of play; no refractory period, but energisation, contentment, happiness.
And yet--think--entire centuries, millennia of religious practices have fixated on the male point of view in this, nearly all female mystics accepting this as well! It's madness, and it's time to change that--the view is so skewed and completely neglects the female experience, when what true spirituality needs is knowledge of all experiences, of all sexes and genders and beyond them.
But I did not come here to preach that--that thing above was a little detour to explain my stance on this, because it's impossible to talk about spirituality and sex without crashing into this huge wall of denial and non-acceptance, even among the hippiest of hippies who might othewise be all kinds of liberal and whatnot. Please don't take the above as gender-essentialist either; I meant to paint it in larger terms, mostly focusing on what biology brings into the experience.
I came here to talk about what I've recently been doing when I've been too tired and ill to masturbate. When I've been lying in bed, more or less miserable, unable to sleep, groggy, fluey, medications messing with my sleep, all kinds of things. And when I've needed a pleasant image to cling to, or when I've needed to do something to pull myself into a restful enough state to facilitate sleep. You know, the way people think of a pleasant meadow with a brook, or count sheep?
I suck cock.
I lie down on my left side, bury my face in a pile of pillows so that they cover my face (so that no light comes in), and just focus on this vision: both of us lying down on our sides, facing each other, his hips in front of me, and I worshipping his cock. I don't need to know his face--often it's Jaffar, just from the feel of him, the loving and holy and tender mood of it. It's a wonderful thing, this meditation, because you can put in as much detail as you want, or you can just leave it at the slow rolling, slow rocking of your head from side to side. Obviously, I don't move much as I do this, but just like with mental meditation, where you visualise moving your limbs, some impulses are transmitted into your limbs nevertheless. So my body is participating in this act of lovemaking, all of me becoming but worship, but focus on the one I love the most. That I can become but adoration, lovemaking itself. I don't have to imagine him doing much, and often I can't/don't because that requires too much active imagination, too much brainpower, so that it becomes harder to fall asleep, or to reach a pleasant trance state.
Actually, that's the thing--this is different from a masturbatory fantasy or writing, because the aim is not to come up with little stories, or the sorts of visuals that'll push me over into orgasm. It's not *that* active as far as imagining goes, most of the time; even if I can elaborate (like when I know I won't be able to sleep), it's more to do with the feel of it all, visually and in the body, and of course, emotionally, spiritually. The point isn't reaching the orgasm, for once--even if sometimes, I do wake up enough for the fantasy to become more elaborate, and end up becoming so aroused that I have to masturbate. But for most of the time, it's just about swimming in that beauty, that love. In a more elaborate fantasy, I can add detail: I can imagine him being soft as I start; perhaps he is asleep. Sometimes he has a face--Jaffar, happily bleary, looking down at me tenderly, in love. This, I take to mean that I am the Princess--that I can take on the form of the one he loves the most makes me so happy; it's an experience holy, the same way a couple practicing sacred ritual intercourse becomes Shiva/Shakti or Wisdom/Compassion, Yin/Yang themselves. In that moment, I am the Goddess, I am the essence of that power of his Lover. And he--like he always is, anyway--is the principle of the Beloved, the beautiful ravisher, the master, the protector, the teacher, the Animus, my male half. It is making love to the Divine; it is making love to your Self, to the essence of the Universe.
And I can imagine him caressing my hair; I can imagine looking up at him, smiling at him, my hair a mess across my face, blowing it from my eyes. Or then he smiles a little and caresses my hair away from my eyes--oh, his crooked-toothed smile as I hold his cock in my hand: I can feel that wonderful, wonderful pulse against my palm as he hardens in my hand. I can adore the softness of the cock when it's still little, lax and tender, not a weapon; soft, reminiscent of the innocence of childhood, when these things have no sexual meaning yet. Innocence, beginnings--and then, the yearning to know more, the raising, lengthening, hardening, lifting of youth. The teaching, the discovery--the joy of the newlywed couple on their wedding night as they explore each other, two virgins. All these absolutely wonderful things go through my mind. There's the trembling of his belly as I caress him, the little indrawn breath as I squeeze him a little as I roll my hand; there's a sweet moan as I stroke him, nuzzle his balls. I won't neglect them, either: kissing them, mouthing them, perhaps sucking them. They, and his arse, sometimes, if I am really not that deeply asleep, are a part of it all.
But mostly, it's the caress, the suck, the turn and roll of the head back and forth, both hands, then one hand--perhaps one hand playing between his legs, fingertip against that wonderful dark wet heat of his anus as I mouth his cock--variation. Kisses along the shaft. Butterfly kisses, wicked licks. Feeling how tender he is around the glans; closing my teeth very very gently around it and giving it the tiniest of tugs, a steady pull. Again, my hands: I want to see what pressure of the thumbs does to his frenulum. And then there's the joy of his sap! Spurting out when I lace, cross my fingers around the shaft of his prick, clasp him as if in prayer, thumbs rubbing that sweet spot. The sap, and then later, sperm, that erratic white splash. Different tastes. Sweet--he is always, *always* as sweet as a woman when he drips, dripping pure pussy juice because he's *Jaffar* and that's what he does. Then the more familiar, more human male tastes: tastes salty, alkaline (and if I dare dip deeper, lower, the metallic must of the arse that drives a shiver of deep pleasure into the root of my cunt). Perhaps, just at the start, as I first start tasting and licking his glans, there's the faintest touch of urine, not unpleasant--nothing more: as this is Jaffar, he is circumcised. No true unpleasant scents or tastes are present here, because he's always completely shaven, completely smooth. How the scent of a person changes when they shave--that, I adore, too; nuzzling the bare skin, knowing exactly how electric, how tender and open it is to a lover's each touch. The scent, the taste of clean genitals, of when you can experience all the pheromones, all the secretions of the glands, all the sexual fluids without that dank stink of the pubic hair ruining it--oh, heaven. Such a rare, rare heaven, to experience that *purity.*
But of course he offers this, of course, like he offers me all other perfections: he is all the best things about the Erotic, and everything he does and is is perfection--this is not about making love to a real person with a real person's flaws; such a thing would shame it. The real-person flaws are only there to inform me of what he is *not*--like the knowledge of stinking pubic hair, like the knowledge of foul-tasting sperm: he tastes like the few diabetic men I have slept with, their sperm sweet and delicious with the sugar that's leaked into it--another taste rare, miraculous.
I can go on doing this for an hour or more, and the most astonishing thing is that truly, most of the time, nine times out of ten, this erotic meditation does not bring with itself enough arousal/frustration to necessitate masturbation. I usually have a bedtime wank anyway, so this is several hours after it, when that aching, bursting, twisting need in my cunny's been sated. Therefore, I don't need that part of the equation any longer--but I do need the spiritual fulfillment, need to be constantly with him, consuming him, devouring him; herself being devoured in turn. The devotee's yearning to be with her God; to be always bathing in his love. It's healing, it's medicating. It patches up wounds, it smooths things out. It's clarity and steadiness, a rest, a pleasant hum, a cat's purr after a day full of terrible, loud noises.
There were more details, I'm sure, but now I'm--ironically--getting too groggy and ill to sit up at the computer, so I have to finish typing this post (apologies for any remaining typos), put the laptop down and go and lie down. I am actually feeling so sick that I don't know if I can even do the whole cock-worship meditation now, even if it is my go-to meditation when I want to think of something pleasant. And what you saw above turned into a description of a really elaborate version as well, whoops! It's not as detailed as that, most of the time, but anyway.
So, anyway. There you have it. A chronicle I needed to write down for myself, as well as a curiosity, perhaps even a tip and trick for others--if you are of this sort of inclination, I can recommend it. I haven't done it with lady parts all that much (although he *has* turned his genitals into lady bits at times just to fuck with me, because he's Connie), but I'm sure it'd work for pussies as well. Who knows, now that I've typed this, he will show up as a lady, just to expand the experience.
And I will not be protesting at all--as long as he arrives. <3
Instead, since my entire life is one stubbornly sex-positive, female-positive project, I shall write about something I've been practicing for a while now, and have found marvellous and soothing and good.
Meditation has never been easy for me. I've always found it incredibly hard to sit still and focus; I've managed only some very basic meditations after a hard physical exertion, like an Ashtanga yoga sequence in a fasted state. After years of just beating my head against the wall and trying to be a Good Yogi, all this crap--I just gave up and did what I have done with all other aspects of my life and spiritual practice: I did it in a new way, a way that suited *me,* the way *my* brain and my body and my soul were built. This has been one huge, major part of my healing from a lifelong depression and generally managing my life a bit better: just giving up on trying to do things according to other people's rules and practices, no matter how hallowed and old they were, no matter how much the medical establishment clung to them, no matter what various minorities and subcultures and religious groups thought, and so on.
Many, many years ago I realised that for me, the most fruitful, most successful and all-round best way for me to meditate was through doing something pleasurable, something to do with sex. Therefore, masturbation is my greatest form of meditation: then, I *can* focus, because I am thinking of the characters I have a deep emotional tie with, and I am experiencing the most pleasurable things the human body and mind can experience. And that's where all my fic and all my poetry comes from. This is why the stupid idea most major religions have about sex being a waste and a misdirection of one's life-energy has always made me so angry--it's quite the opposite of a "waste," especially for women. Most of those rules were written by men, who do get tired and do feel drained after orgasm--but that's the male orgasm! When a woman orgasms, she becomes full, glowing, sated, full of energy. A woman gets cuddly and happy and revitalised, a guy falls asleep. The biological aspects of sex are reflected in the psychological experience of the post-coital state. For a man, it's the end. What he meant to do has been done; it's over. For a woman? It's the beginning, it's readiness, it's the body going "here we go!" as it prepares to get pregnant. There's rest, but it's a happy, buzzing rest. It's a springing forth, it's a creation--and that is reflected in the creativity, the yearning for cuddliness, the dreams a woman dreams after orgasm. Giving up one's seed is the end for the plant; it falls down and dies. The soft, moist earth taking in the seed? Stuff starts to happen. When two women have sex with each other, there's very much an element of WHEEE in there, of creativity, of play; no refractory period, but energisation, contentment, happiness.
And yet--think--entire centuries, millennia of religious practices have fixated on the male point of view in this, nearly all female mystics accepting this as well! It's madness, and it's time to change that--the view is so skewed and completely neglects the female experience, when what true spirituality needs is knowledge of all experiences, of all sexes and genders and beyond them.
But I did not come here to preach that--that thing above was a little detour to explain my stance on this, because it's impossible to talk about spirituality and sex without crashing into this huge wall of denial and non-acceptance, even among the hippiest of hippies who might othewise be all kinds of liberal and whatnot. Please don't take the above as gender-essentialist either; I meant to paint it in larger terms, mostly focusing on what biology brings into the experience.
I came here to talk about what I've recently been doing when I've been too tired and ill to masturbate. When I've been lying in bed, more or less miserable, unable to sleep, groggy, fluey, medications messing with my sleep, all kinds of things. And when I've needed a pleasant image to cling to, or when I've needed to do something to pull myself into a restful enough state to facilitate sleep. You know, the way people think of a pleasant meadow with a brook, or count sheep?
I suck cock.
I lie down on my left side, bury my face in a pile of pillows so that they cover my face (so that no light comes in), and just focus on this vision: both of us lying down on our sides, facing each other, his hips in front of me, and I worshipping his cock. I don't need to know his face--often it's Jaffar, just from the feel of him, the loving and holy and tender mood of it. It's a wonderful thing, this meditation, because you can put in as much detail as you want, or you can just leave it at the slow rolling, slow rocking of your head from side to side. Obviously, I don't move much as I do this, but just like with mental meditation, where you visualise moving your limbs, some impulses are transmitted into your limbs nevertheless. So my body is participating in this act of lovemaking, all of me becoming but worship, but focus on the one I love the most. That I can become but adoration, lovemaking itself. I don't have to imagine him doing much, and often I can't/don't because that requires too much active imagination, too much brainpower, so that it becomes harder to fall asleep, or to reach a pleasant trance state.
Actually, that's the thing--this is different from a masturbatory fantasy or writing, because the aim is not to come up with little stories, or the sorts of visuals that'll push me over into orgasm. It's not *that* active as far as imagining goes, most of the time; even if I can elaborate (like when I know I won't be able to sleep), it's more to do with the feel of it all, visually and in the body, and of course, emotionally, spiritually. The point isn't reaching the orgasm, for once--even if sometimes, I do wake up enough for the fantasy to become more elaborate, and end up becoming so aroused that I have to masturbate. But for most of the time, it's just about swimming in that beauty, that love. In a more elaborate fantasy, I can add detail: I can imagine him being soft as I start; perhaps he is asleep. Sometimes he has a face--Jaffar, happily bleary, looking down at me tenderly, in love. This, I take to mean that I am the Princess--that I can take on the form of the one he loves the most makes me so happy; it's an experience holy, the same way a couple practicing sacred ritual intercourse becomes Shiva/Shakti or Wisdom/Compassion, Yin/Yang themselves. In that moment, I am the Goddess, I am the essence of that power of his Lover. And he--like he always is, anyway--is the principle of the Beloved, the beautiful ravisher, the master, the protector, the teacher, the Animus, my male half. It is making love to the Divine; it is making love to your Self, to the essence of the Universe.
And I can imagine him caressing my hair; I can imagine looking up at him, smiling at him, my hair a mess across my face, blowing it from my eyes. Or then he smiles a little and caresses my hair away from my eyes--oh, his crooked-toothed smile as I hold his cock in my hand: I can feel that wonderful, wonderful pulse against my palm as he hardens in my hand. I can adore the softness of the cock when it's still little, lax and tender, not a weapon; soft, reminiscent of the innocence of childhood, when these things have no sexual meaning yet. Innocence, beginnings--and then, the yearning to know more, the raising, lengthening, hardening, lifting of youth. The teaching, the discovery--the joy of the newlywed couple on their wedding night as they explore each other, two virgins. All these absolutely wonderful things go through my mind. There's the trembling of his belly as I caress him, the little indrawn breath as I squeeze him a little as I roll my hand; there's a sweet moan as I stroke him, nuzzle his balls. I won't neglect them, either: kissing them, mouthing them, perhaps sucking them. They, and his arse, sometimes, if I am really not that deeply asleep, are a part of it all.
But mostly, it's the caress, the suck, the turn and roll of the head back and forth, both hands, then one hand--perhaps one hand playing between his legs, fingertip against that wonderful dark wet heat of his anus as I mouth his cock--variation. Kisses along the shaft. Butterfly kisses, wicked licks. Feeling how tender he is around the glans; closing my teeth very very gently around it and giving it the tiniest of tugs, a steady pull. Again, my hands: I want to see what pressure of the thumbs does to his frenulum. And then there's the joy of his sap! Spurting out when I lace, cross my fingers around the shaft of his prick, clasp him as if in prayer, thumbs rubbing that sweet spot. The sap, and then later, sperm, that erratic white splash. Different tastes. Sweet--he is always, *always* as sweet as a woman when he drips, dripping pure pussy juice because he's *Jaffar* and that's what he does. Then the more familiar, more human male tastes: tastes salty, alkaline (and if I dare dip deeper, lower, the metallic must of the arse that drives a shiver of deep pleasure into the root of my cunt). Perhaps, just at the start, as I first start tasting and licking his glans, there's the faintest touch of urine, not unpleasant--nothing more: as this is Jaffar, he is circumcised. No true unpleasant scents or tastes are present here, because he's always completely shaven, completely smooth. How the scent of a person changes when they shave--that, I adore, too; nuzzling the bare skin, knowing exactly how electric, how tender and open it is to a lover's each touch. The scent, the taste of clean genitals, of when you can experience all the pheromones, all the secretions of the glands, all the sexual fluids without that dank stink of the pubic hair ruining it--oh, heaven. Such a rare, rare heaven, to experience that *purity.*
But of course he offers this, of course, like he offers me all other perfections: he is all the best things about the Erotic, and everything he does and is is perfection--this is not about making love to a real person with a real person's flaws; such a thing would shame it. The real-person flaws are only there to inform me of what he is *not*--like the knowledge of stinking pubic hair, like the knowledge of foul-tasting sperm: he tastes like the few diabetic men I have slept with, their sperm sweet and delicious with the sugar that's leaked into it--another taste rare, miraculous.
I can go on doing this for an hour or more, and the most astonishing thing is that truly, most of the time, nine times out of ten, this erotic meditation does not bring with itself enough arousal/frustration to necessitate masturbation. I usually have a bedtime wank anyway, so this is several hours after it, when that aching, bursting, twisting need in my cunny's been sated. Therefore, I don't need that part of the equation any longer--but I do need the spiritual fulfillment, need to be constantly with him, consuming him, devouring him; herself being devoured in turn. The devotee's yearning to be with her God; to be always bathing in his love. It's healing, it's medicating. It patches up wounds, it smooths things out. It's clarity and steadiness, a rest, a pleasant hum, a cat's purr after a day full of terrible, loud noises.
There were more details, I'm sure, but now I'm--ironically--getting too groggy and ill to sit up at the computer, so I have to finish typing this post (apologies for any remaining typos), put the laptop down and go and lie down. I am actually feeling so sick that I don't know if I can even do the whole cock-worship meditation now, even if it is my go-to meditation when I want to think of something pleasant. And what you saw above turned into a description of a really elaborate version as well, whoops! It's not as detailed as that, most of the time, but anyway.
So, anyway. There you have it. A chronicle I needed to write down for myself, as well as a curiosity, perhaps even a tip and trick for others--if you are of this sort of inclination, I can recommend it. I haven't done it with lady parts all that much (although he *has* turned his genitals into lady bits at times just to fuck with me, because he's Connie), but I'm sure it'd work for pussies as well. Who knows, now that I've typed this, he will show up as a lady, just to expand the experience.
And I will not be protesting at all--as long as he arrives. <3