Wanting ( you )
a not so subtle feeling
2023.06.19
Morning
Nothing feels as good as being with you. What am I to do with this information? As many cookies, flavors of ice cream, bars of chocolate, spoonfuls of honey, licks of my own dripping desire as I consume, still my longing longs for you.
I wake and feel a rumbling. Any fear that I would cease to feel this dissipates as my breath caresses my belly awake.
I lie on the floor and glimpse the splinter in my palm from when we were climbing trees more than a week ago now. I refuse to remove it. I turn my head and see the pile of clothes I am resisting washing because you’ve touched them. I feel the crazy beautiful monster digging her teeth into me once again; we are shedding another skin. She asks me to invite you in, as though I would deny you this delicious mess. The revealing of Desire’s dance is my calling, if ever there was one I could call mine.
Before you, I did not know that I could want so much and feel satisfied in experiencing the pursuit of it. The journey takes on new meaning yet again. Am I a little lamb lying in wait? No. And yes. Waiting only for you to devour this plate so I can offer the next.
“Do you want more?” I wonder. The question, an albatross whose answer is, perennially, “yes.” Is the questioning purely a drama to bring me deeper into connection with the longing that, layer by layer, brings me closer to feeling you, even through all this distance? Is space a salve just as is it a temporary torture chamber?
Yes. And yes again.
Ask the right question and the answer always is YES. Invite the paradox and I am becoming it more each day.
+++++++++
Later that day
There are splinters in my palms
from the trees we climbed
They remind me of you
I leave them inside
You make a mess of me
I welcome it
I want to feel
everything and everything and everything again
Give me more
Can’t contain this needing
“Fuck. I’m still not perfect,” I realize again.
Whenever I stop publishing it’s not because I’ve stopped writing - to the contrary I never stop writing - but often I stop publishing because I start fixating on the perfect arrangement. I want to make it make sense.
But then I remember the order in which it played out only “makes sense” now; that is, my mind will have arranged it according to the storylines I allow (which may not include the whole truth but only the connections that have been illuminated), and the truth remains: the “nonsensical” happened and is happening. It only ever makes sense in retrospect.
What does perfect even mean? Nothing. Just a collection of rules glorifying something. Different through each lens. We can only ever live up to our own definition, and we are the ones who decide what that is. So, incidentally, all the power lies in your (and my) hands.
Would you fancy that? A chance at anything Desire calls you to. How much will you allow yourself access to?
The troubling part for me has always been that when I allow myself greater access I am overwhelmed by the way it all doesn’t make sense, yet it is absolutely perfect.
Lately I’ve been breathing more and listening to different music and somehow the combinations of rhythm and melody syncing with the ripples of my body has helped me integrate the great nuance thrust into me by Love.
Just over a week ago, I got back from California. Eight days with you. Long enough that it felt like forever, yet never long enough.
Balancing my intensity is a challenge you wield greatly. The more I bring, the more that is coming and I keep asking, “do you want more?” in so many different iterations. And the answer is always yes.
So I’m learning to trust that there is no cage. No limitation I need to place. I’m seeing again there is always a layer deeper. However it plays out, I fear not. I mustn’t. How else will I see all that I am? And isn’t that everything I’ve wanted? To be seen in all this mess? To know it’s safe, and welcome, and unbearably hot and dangerous, to be all of this, openly?
Have I not always wanted to dance this bliss? This passion? This ecstatic nothingness.
I walk down the street and I’m almost coming. I dance in the mirror just to see desire oozing. To help me believe it. I show you to help me believe it, too - that my pleasure is yours and yours is mine. The greatest renewable resource we have access to. I witness in near-disbelief as I scratch myself to orgasm. So much emotion I am gushing every moment. It’s hot and wet and I’m crying and I don’t know where any of this came from but fuck, it’s realer than anything. No performance. Just constantly surprising myself with what’s coming through me. Endless energy.
Yesterday I laid on the ground and imagined you going down on me. Oh, to know what it feels like for my pussy to flower open, like the flowers she is so often portrayed as.
When the metaphor becomes a lived experience, I am - you are - an artist as much as you are art, living. The creator and the creation. Alive. In connection. Inspired by breathing. This is the ecstasy of the mystics. Not a magic quick fix.
You once said to me, “once god’s cock, you never go stock.” True. Not by choice, but by the necessity of Destiny. There is no unknowing this.
The fuck of a lifetime is noticing the pleasure always coursing through my body. Beneath the surface I am alive and rich. Joy is the key to access. Your attention is requested. Love’s gift is presence. Touch me with everything. I’ll hold back nothing. The floodgates are open. You’ve been let in.
I am dancing in the mirror again.
I am deliriously happy.
I notice myself smiling so big it’s uncomfortable and I don’t stop myself. I break into a cackle. It feels dangerous to feel like this. I get it. Why I cut myself off. If I can feel this happy I can also feel… the opposite of that. But it’s not a reason not to feel it all, as intensely as it presents. I won’t settle for less.
+++++++++
2023.06.20
I wake up and already I am dripping wet. Literally. I am pouring out of me. Were we fucking on the astral plane? Must’ve been. Here’s the thing: I have quite an active imagination, which keeps me engaged, excited, different, interested, always changing. I like to be in this place. I like to stay there. I need my inner man to kick my ass a little sometimes. I need him to help me get out of my ideas of what I want and into the play of action. Desire is my wheelhouse, so to speak. At least, it is the starting place that never ends.
Dear Lover,
Since I am writing this as a letter now (it seems to work better this way) I must say, you draw the Desire straight from my marrow. Something about placing these multitudes into words lately. I feel fear around it. I wonder about silly things like, how am I going to say it all in one book, one letter, one essay, one class? How am I going to pour everything into this one moment? That thought gets me stuck. Unlike fucking you, which Is necessarily sticky, yet gets me unstuck marvelously. Writing unsticks the stickiness, too. When I let it. When I release myself from the fear of beginning - from the knowing that it’s all about to come out. It’s wet and delicious, this stickiness. I want more of it. The demands are beginning to reveal themselves. Is this foreshadowing?
Sometimes, I dread the editing process. Yet I know it is where much of the magic happens, so I must. I remind myself again, right now as I write this: stories don’t appear to me in a linear fashion; everything is so utterly interwoven. If I don’t explore one thing - the most important thing, in my estimation: the fullness of your hand inside my body - I can’t see anything clearly.
It feels to be, for me, the holy grail of kinesthetic learning and I need to open the Pandora’s Box of it. It is the mother of my experience, and the child, too.
I want more of you. I remember when we talked about a want trying to become a need, and about your superhero vigilante moment - bodies flying everywhere as you “plow your way through the public to plow me in less public.” Fuck. I want. I want. I want to say I need. I need to continue learning you and learning me through you and… fuck. Discernment… What is the difference in my body between wanting and needing? Only the way I name it. Only what I tell myself about what it means. If you are the object of my devotion - if I am taking Ram Dass to the grave, if I am embodying anything I’ve been learning in this lifetime, if I am committed to the yoga of relationship as seeing, feeling, breathing my lover as God, then I do need you. I’ll die otherwise. I’ll die anyway but I’d rather it be from the way we fuck me more and more alive.
This is a very specific torture. A longing so cavernous, so frightening, so inviting.
I wonder how many others are having spiritual experiences of fucking. How much of the available connection they allow themselves to tap into. I wonder how open the apertures are.
I wonder, how open is mine?
For me, it’s never been about sex just for the pleasure on the surface. I’m always wanting depth, union, merging spirits. I am wanting to be able to share that understanding; that is the link I was always searching for, before you. Though, I hid the quest from myself behind a veil of fear that, “they wouldn’t understand.” But that was just another illusion. What I really wanted was to avoid the potential embarrassment and pain of rejection for Being Who I Am. But it’s worse to be rejected for who I am not, so I’ve learned. It’s worse to be afraid of the expression of my Love and recognition and to stifle it. It’s worse to wonder if I’m “too much,” than to be the too much that I am. I’d rather die in a pile of the ashes of my own embarrassing death than keep myself hidden.
To be open - to feel everything - is where I like to be. I am becoming more discerning with my energy. I remember as I write this what you shared about discernment. A muscle that is always evolving. Along with it is, perhaps necessarily, a sense of direction. Desire is not confined to the realm of lovership, now is it? Of course not. I want to give it all to you, and I want to give it all to everything. The trouble is there isn’t enough time in the days. Discernment is necessary not because I am afraid of what will happen if I let it all out (though if I'm being honest, fear is necessarily part of desire’s dance), but also something more pragmatic. Something annoying like, how can I make money or get anything done, ever, if I’m constantly in the throes of my longing and directing it to you? I must, painful as it is, direct myself also into containers that are not you, my dangerously safe space (“with a penis,” you once reminded me… not that I could ever not be aware of that. Grrrrrr fuck fuckedy FUCK)
You give so much and it will ever be enough. Nothing will, and that’s the thrill of it. Even my cherishing of solitude does nothing to quell my desire to explore you. All these things exist at once.
Like May Sarton, I know I need solitude to place everything into context. She says:
“For a long time now, every meeting with another human being has been a collision. I feel too much, sense too much, am exhausted by the reverberations after even the simplest conversation. But the deep collision is and has been with my unregenerate, tormenting, and tormented self. I have written every poem, every novel, for the same purpose — to find out what I think, to know where I stand.
[…]
My need to be alone is balanced against my fear of what will happen when suddenly I enter the huge empty silence if I cannot find support there. I go up to Heaven and down to Hell in an hour, and keep alive only by imposing upon myself inexorable routines.”
Perhaps I am not so exhausted as May was. The tormented self has been healing in my holding and revealing. The tormented self tormenting itself is dissolving layer by layer. Indeed, I am regenerating, renewing, becoming stronger, brighter, more able to face the fear, to take the pain, to transform it into the ecstasy I know is there, underneath the old stories of fragility. The tormenting self’s inexorable routines have left me and instead the Self I am fucks me right through torment’s grasp. No punishment except what you promise me - and that is as much a pleasure to struggle for as it is a pleasure to receive.
I crave your touch more than anything. I am but one half of the crazy beautiful monster we created. She will devour us both again and again, and she’s only just gotten started. I am a changed woman through our explorations, both together in space and separate. The impact of your handprints, bright red on my ass, may be transitory, but the act ripples into eternity. Portals opened. Skins shed. Deeper knowing. Feed me. We are creating a symphony of insatiability and I volunteer to be the ever-renewing feast, where dessert first is a rule often enforced and its breaking is punishable by a force beyond us.