"Tell me, my 'captain of the guard'...will you be rough with me? Oh, or perhaps will you be gentle? I never could tell when I fantasized about this.Which way this could go... Ive seen you train, so very fierce. Yet when you speak, mmh. So chilly." I shivered in a show of dramatics, biting at my bottom lip in a manner I hoped would be seen as most fetching. Perhaps inspiring.
"I can perform in whatever manner pleases you, My Lord, but tell me first: how often did you fantasize about getting my hands-on you?" His voice was low, even, calm. Controlled. No hint of excitement, despite our entangled position and the promise of passions to come.
I chuckled, shifting beneath him. "Hands? many times. Other body parts...? many more times, I'm sure."
//tbc
Slip, slide
Subtle surprises
Lips and tongue and teeth
Grazing, glide,
Press inside
The place where bodies meet
Lick, lathe,
Writhe and breathe
Tremble, gasp, grip
Never enough
Almost too much
Stoking fires and building the heat
Who I Serve - Prose
When I was a child I railed against everything and every one
The dichotomy of wanting to be seen as good and right, but needing something wholly different then what I was presented with
Tore me in half
I can't say I regret my upbringing one bit, because I don't
The child of cycle breakers, my warrior guardians showed me what it was like to fight for a better life and to love, loyal and deep, as they did it.
When people say "I would not change what happened because it made me who I am" it sounds so cliche and...
Silly, almost
Because the point is moot
You cannot change it anyway.
But upon reflection, and over time, I have come to ascribe to the sentiment more and more. Acceptance is not just a part of it, but the whole of it
And I am whoever I wish to be, I formed by who I was and what I experienced.
It made me who I am in that I was able to See what I wanted and what I did not
To take the time to sort through what was mine to own,
And what to set down
And now, at the age I am, out of the thick of experiencing it and through the weeds of processing all that was and had to be,
I get to find myself, anew
No longer torn, for who I serve now is only me
Unconcerned with how I am Seen, and wholly concerned only with how my actions sit with me,
Myself
If there is something to rail against, I have the power to change or to leave.
If there is something I desire, I have the power to pursue it or let it go as a dream unfulfilled.
I bring the child I was with me, everywhere I go.
I show her my children
My writing
My paintings
My garden
My partner
My home
I show her my car, my bicycle, the town where I live.
I tell her about time.
It's been eleven years in this one home. Yes. Really. No, I'm not moving. I even painted walls. I planted trees. I've watched them grow.
My children have only known one home. Really, just one. Since the day they were born. And look, yes,
My partner. Same one, for eighteen years. Really.
I take her hand and I show her all these things, all these things she wanted.
And today she asked me,
In my heart
"But are you happy?"
I gave her everything she wanted that she didn't have, but who is the child inside without the person I am now?
I serve myself, yes
But not just myself of yesterday
Not just myself of today
My life is not collecting and granting the wishes made when I was young- if it were, I would be done.
My life still has one question
Are you happy?
I am.
But I must remember, and remind myself, that who I serve
Is me
There are ways in which I have become ruined
Paths dug deep be repeated footsteps over, and over, and over
Repetitions making wounds, carving scars
Weaving through the folds of my being
Reinforcing
Security in the pattern, familiarity in the motions
I walk with my eyes closed knowing every step,
And the cuts get a little deeper
Scars get a little thicker
More permanent
There are ways in which I have become ruined,
In the things I tell myself
And the comfort I get from the safety of walking a well worn path
You know why "it's never too late"? Because it isn't, until it is. And once it's too late, you're dead.
It's so easy to get stuck in the daily drudgery of dragging along the could have beens, never happened, and its-too-lates, because the gap between being there and being where you are appears to be a chasm no longer worth crossing.
But it's not /too late/. It will be, though. It will be. And you either need to set it down as something you no longer wish to pursue, or begin to take the steps toward getting there.
Dragging the corpses of every "it's too late" along with you until it really is too late, just makes you a corpse with a lot of baggage.
It's possible to be touch starved when you are touched all the time.
I am
I am touched all the time by those who need my body, want my body. I am touched lovingly, with care.
I am touched all the time for reassurance,
Affection
Love
Connection
But what I crave, and what aches within me, unsatisfied,
Is the desire to be held by someone
Who wants nothing from me
Solace and comfort for me
In the arms of one offering
But not asking for it
I can be touch starved and touched-out. I can be touch starved and reject touches. I can be touch starved and surrounded by touches,
My flesh craves something
A little more
Selfish
Abandonment Wounds
I know what it's like to be wanted
I know what it's like to be needed
I know what it's like to be loved
My favorite flavour, the one I can never get enough of,
The taste that lingers on my tongue
Is to be taken care of
And yet even that most sweetest of sensations is twisted within me
I trust a masseuse to soothe my aches because I pay for it.
I trust a restaurant to feed me because I pay for it.
I enjoy what is given freely in the moment by those rare enough to spoil me
But I do not trust it
It's free
And that means it's allowed to leave.
I had a dream about a faceless woman
I asked her where her lips were, so that I could kiss them
She said she put them away, so I wouldn't be tempted
I explained Temptation was a feeling, and not a thing I could see, there was no need to take her face from me
Her hands touched my cheeks, my hair, my chin
And I sensed but did not see
Her own growing grin
"Imagination is not real"
But I'll still pretend to feel
So I kissed the flat expanse of her faceless face
And pretended, for a moment
There were lips in its place