Snippets of a dream

My kitchen, in the house in my head.
You on your knees. My hand on your chest, shoving with words and grief and the sheer power of my fury.

Your arms around my waist, restraining me, forcing my hands to stillness. My fierce almost sobbing breaths against you.

Biting kisses, still as much anger as love. Your hands on my face, my fingers digging into your shoulders.

Pressing you into the table, leaning into you and forcing your body bent back with the sheer force of my desire.

On your back, on my table, golden wood and paler gold skin. My body atop yours, cream and curves and heated slickness.

Riding you, breasts bouncing. Your hands reaching to them, my hands slapping yours away, taking you, using you for my own pleasure and watching your face a study in pleasure and agonizing need as I shake and tremble and cum above you.

Sometimes it hurts.

Recently, I made the decision to break things off with someone I was walking a dangerous line with.
It was a mutual decision, because he couldn't give what I needed, and I wasn't willing to let myself grow gradually more and more resentful of not getting my needs met.
I wasn't willing to harm his current relationship, and he wasn't willing to harm mine.
So we walked away.

It was the right thing to do.
The grown-up thing to do.
The ethical thing to do.

And that doesn't make it hurt a damned bit less, any time I let myself think too hard about it.

In Praise of the Vulnerable Man

This is just made me cry.
This is my husband. This is my Rush. This is my Mate, who is not afraid to cry in my arms.
This is the man I love, whose strength to be vulnerable allows me to give the same to him.
This man who trusts me enough to be vulnerable, is the man in whose arms I can be.

You are the bravest man I’ve ever met 
You unreluctant at treacherous ledge 

You are the sexiest man I’ve ever been with 
You, never hotter than with armor spent 

When you do what you do to provide 
How you land in the soft as you fortify 

This is in praise of the vulnerable man 
Why won’t you lead the rest of your cavalry home 

You, with your eyes mix strength with abandon 
You with your new kind of heroism 

And I bow and I bow down to you 
To the grace that it takes to melt on through 

This is in praise of the vulnerable man 
Why won’t you lead the rest of your cavalry home 
This is a thank you for letting me in 
Indeed in praise of the vulnerable man 

You are the greatest man I’ve ever met 
You the stealth setter of new precedents 

And I vow and I vow to be true 
And I vow and I vow to not take advantage 

This is in praise of the vulnerable man 
Why won’t you lead the rest of your cavalry home 
This is a thank you for letting me in 
Indeed in praise of the vulnerable man

I love you. I trust you because you trust me.
You are my safety because you understand the courage it takes to bare your soul. 

I was bouncing, writing happily about committing violence on you, when three simple words broke it.
Broke me.

How ironic. I was writing about breaking you, when your words broke me.

“I trust you.”

You don’t understand.

I have heard a thousand “I love you’s” from a hundred throats. That is not arrogance but truth. I care for people and make no secret of it, accept them and let them know that- it is damned attractive in a world in which we all feel as though we must be ‘perfect’ to be loved.
I have heard a thousand ‘I love you’s’ from a hundred throats, and perhaps a dozen, in close to 30 years, truly meant it, meant it as I do.

So those words mean little to me- they are a way of justifying your emotions, your desire, a way of expressing need without admitting that it is need and nothing more.

I trust you.

Those words are rarer, harder.

Do not misunderstand. I hold the trust of more people than even I probably realize. I have made a career of being the person people trust.

And yet, it never fails to hit home, never fails to kick me square in the chest and draw an almost subliminal need to be worthy of that trust.

I am thankful I don’t hear those words often.

You thought they made me uncomfortable, seemed amused by it.
You misunderstand.

It isn’t discomfort you see. It is the abrupt drop of tensed shoulders, the standing from a stalking crouch. It is the Predator turning from focused hunter intent on maiming you, into a purring pussycat and tempting me to rub against you in invitation to stroke her coat.

Setting Fire to the Rain

Last night, in the cool darkness of the car as Rush and I sped toward home, we talked.
Listening to Adele, listening to "Set Fire to the Rain," and the plaintive, bluesy lament of her knees too weak to stand in your arms.
I am reminded, with painful, heart-squeezing suddenness, of the last time I held you within my body.

Never before, and never since, have I been so willing to walk through fire for someone. Never before, never since, have I loved with so much passion and so little reason.

Memories:
The scent of you: hot metal and cigarettes and spicy musky arousal.
Your bedroom, with the rainbow fan left over from some long-ago child  moving the hot hair over our bodies as we lay spent in one another's arms.

My body moving over yours, stretching gorgeous fullness of you inside of me. My thighs tireless from constant horseback riding, riding you, moving you in and out of me with the rhythm I have only in horses and sex.
Your dark hands on my breasts and my little gasps and whimpers. Looking down, still learning to enjoy sex as pleasure, not pain, revelling in the sight of your body moving inside of mine. Your voice, a chocolatey chuckle, "You like seeing me inside of you, don't you?" My flushing, stammering reply... 17 and still so innocent, so shy, despite the worldliness I claimed. "Yes...."
Your low voice, telling me to bring myself- to cum for you.
Leaning back a litte, aching with fullness, your hands on my breasts, twisting spirals of pleasure from my nipples fluttering to add to the heat in my groin. My fingers finding my clit, shy at first- I am still too nervous  to share this often- small circles while you move against me until the pleasure grows, spills through me in shivering waves and low moans as I spasm against you. The deeply masculine satisfaction on your face as you pin my gaze with yours even as I shudder and whimper against you.
Your hands tightening on me, flipping me until I am beneath you, pinned, a little breathless from the aftermath of my orgasm and the adrenaline of the sudden movement. Your body pounding harder into mine, you willing now to take your pleasure and my body arching to meet you, hips matching your pace with greedy hands and mouth on your heated body.
Feeling you tighten inside of me, tighten against me, my body responding instinctively to the promise of pleasure and spasming around you again as you finally spill yourself inside of me, the mini-orgasm of my lover's orgasm dragging my nails into your shoulders.
After: your hands idly tracing my body. Poessession and pride and pleasure in your touch. Little ticklish wriggles and soft moans as I lie spent and sated against you.


A flood of memories now:
Taste of mango dropping down my hand as I sucked my fingers clean and licked the juices up, your eyes watching me as I suck each finger clean individually, thoroughly.
Moments later, your cock in my mouth, satisfaction of your low groans. Silky hard ridge of your cockhead under my tongue. Choking pleasure of taking every inch of you in- still inexperienced at it but so eager to learn, so eager to please you.
Later still, the movie forgotten, dusty scent of your couch and the tickling of your hair against my thighs, the heat of your mouth between my legs. The whimpering arching sharpness of your teeth lightly teasing my clit, your tongue lathing it gently afterwards until I arch and moan and grind into you begging wordlessly for more.

Your car, late at night. Church parking lot, ancient graveyard behind us.
The taste of you filling my senses, neck sore from sucking you but I don't care- I just want this. Shiver down my spine from the location, your hand on my neck, heat easing the muscles even as you press me further onto you. My low humming moan against your balls and your complementary shiver.

Rushing adrenalinefearjoy riding behind you, eyes closed in refusal to see the speedometer and tangible expression of trust in you. Smell of leather even over the rushing wind, arms right around you. Humming motor between my legs, tight press against you. Exhilaration of riding a motorcycle again- no knowledge yet of the greater joy of riding my own- with someone I love.

The last days:
Curled against you for what I didn't know was the last time. Your body wrapped warm and safe around mine. No, you were not safe anymore and I knew it. I was not 17 anymore, not naive anymore, and there was more pain and anger and bitter rage between us than there ever had been love. Your hands in my hair, your fingertips on my skin, and the mingled joyregretneedhoperagelove of every single moment I think about you.

I let it fall, my heart,
And as it fell you rose to claim it
It was dark and I was over
Until you kissed my lips and you saved me

My hands, they're strong
But my knees were far too weak,
To stand in your arms
Without falling to your feet

But there's a side to you
That I never knew, never knew.
All the things you'd say
They were never true, never true,
And the games you play
You would always win, always win.

But I set fire to the rain,
Watched it pour as I touched your face,
Well, it burned while I cried
'Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name!

When I lay with you
I could stay there
Close my eyes
Feel you here forever
You and me together
Nothing is better

'Cause there's a side to you
That I never knew, never knew,
All the things you'd say,
They were never true, never true,
And the games you'd play
You would always win, always win.

But I set fire to the rain,
Watched it pour as I touched your face,
Well, it burned while I cried
'Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name!

I set fire to the rain
And I threw us into the flames
When it fell, something died
'Cause I knew that that was the last time, the last time!

Sometimes I wake up by the door,
That heart you caught must be waiting for you
Even now when we're already over
I can't help myself from looking for you.

I set fire to the rain,
Watched it pour as I touched your face,
Well, it burned while I cried
'Cause I heard it screaming out your name, your name

I set fire to the rain,
And I threw us into the flames
When it fell, something died
'Cause I knew that that was the last time, the last time, ohhhh!

Oh noooo
Let it burn, oh
Let it burn
Let it burn

Numb

I feel smothered and encumbered and defeated and drawn
Disappointed, over-extended and frustrated and shaken
This over-giving , over-loving, this care taking goes on
With no chance of intermission.
I'll be checked out, I'll be gone

Have to remove myself from sensation

Here comes the feeling
I run from the feeling and reach for the drug
Can't sit with this feeling
I'd rather be flying and comfortably numb

I feel anxious, I am nervous, I am bored
I'm overwhelmed, rather be out of my gourd

Have to remove myself from sensation

Here comes the feeling
I run from the feeling and reach for the drug
Can't sit with this feeling
I'd rather be flying and comfortably numb

I am lonely, I feel hungry and unloved
I feel angry, I am livid, need a hug

Here comes the feeling
I run from the feeling and reach for the drug
Can't sit with this feeling
I'd rather be flying and comfortably numb

Escape

Hurting. Aching. Raw fear mixing with fury I don't know how to ease, how to sublimate, how to turn into something constructive. The predator paces the cage in my mind, bars slammed shut before she does something the human will regret later. She wants out, wants to escape this anger and confusion. She wants to run to someplace safe and clean, where the stifling blanket of frustration isn't choking us, where the tension isn't thick enough to cut with only the sharpest of word-knives.

We want to escape. We want quiet, peace, the sense of being loved without anger beneath every word. We want the earth beneath bare feet and the warmth of loving arms around us. We want comfort and a safe place to scream out the pain. We want for it to be okay to be hurting, without anger or questioning why. We want to be allowed to miss the freedom of the skies without accusation of resenting the earth.

I want to escape, to run until the anger doesn't chase me away from you and your tension doesn't cut me like a knife.

Ritual

Slow, deep breaths.
Smudge the space.
Clear myself of you

Lay out the altar
Tools of my trade. Aids of my soul. 
God figure. Father, protect me from my own heart.
Goddess. Mother, heal my aching soul.
Stone for Earth. Earth, teach me strength to walk away.
Incense for Air. Air, clear me of desire for you.
Candle for Fire. Fire, burn away this pain & desire.
Shell for Water. Water, wash away my pain.
A drop of blood for Spirit. Let it all come out in this drop and be gone from me.

Walk the circle. Knife of bone and stone.
Here is boundary between Outer and Inner. 
Here is the line between you and me. 
Here is where I set the barrier: only enter, what I seek.

As Above, So Below.
The Six Sacred Directions, hear my plea. Accept my offering of tobacco
Ancestors, share your  wisdom. Accept my offering of cornmeal. 
Little People, take my honey and pay no tricks on my head or my heart. 

Stand, and face the Moon.
Mother, heal me. Cleanse me of the desire for that which harms me. 
Turn, face the setting Sun.
Father, protect me. Shield me from that which would harm me. 

Feel the Earth beneath my feet.
Caress the Wind that stroke my body.
Soak in the Heat the touches my skin.
Feel the Water droplets on the grass on my legs.

Heal me, Shield me, Help me. 
It hurts. 
Give me strength to walk away. Guide my steps along the right Path. Help me not to stray from it. 
Ease my aching heart when I am tempted to turn back. 
Give me the strength, and the courage, to go on where I should. 

Sink to the ground, let the earth heal me. Let it strengthen me.
Cry. Let the tears purge me. Fire and water, burning droplets. Stretch out on the earth and soak in Her presence, feel the air's caress like a comforting touch.

And after a small eternity, stand renewed and strengthened.

Thank you, Mother. 
Thank you, Father.
Thannk you, Earth. 
Thank you, Air. 
Thank you, Water. 
Thank you, Fire. 
Thank you, Spirit.
Thank you, Six Sacred Directions.
Thank you, Ancestors. 
Thank you, Little People. 

Thank you, strong heart for healing. 
Thank you, strong feet for walking. 
Thank you, strong eyes for crying.
Thank you, strong hands for crafting ritual. 
Thank you, strong voice for speaking our pain. 
Thank you, Self, for strength and love. 

Close the Circle.
Carry the joy into your life.

Predator Tears

The predator paces n my head, caged and angry. An eerie howl- equal parts rage and pain- pounds behind my temples and pircks tears in my eyes.
The predator does not handle pain well, does not hande denial.
She does not understand human ethics, or why she cannot have what she wants when it sits before her, wafting delicious scent of arousal to her keen nose.

She does not understand, and it is the inside of my heart on which she sharpens her claws.

Prey Dreams

The woods around me are cool and green, but I don’t notice- not today. Rarely am I prey- I have reminded lovers more than once that I am a predator in my own right- but in this moment I am the frightened rabbit Rush named me for, bounding through the woods with fear hot on my heels.

Fear isn’t the only thing. My feet are pounding, bare into the cool earth, and while I know my own steps are loud, they aren’t as loud as those behind me. So rarely am I the one pursued in my dreams, but today, I am. Branches slap at my exposed skin, leaving welts of their own before you even begin to draw close, and every bush I dodge and tree trunk I leap seems to reach out and exact its own toll for passage… or perhaps it seeks to slow or catch me for your use.

I can hear your steps behind me, over my own labored breathing, and a glimpse back is enough to make me stumble. That stumble is enough to be my undoing, slowing me just enough for an animal leap and outstretched hand to force me to my knees, scrambling painfully in the dirt, trying desperately to rise before… but it is too late, and the full weight of your body lands across me, driving the air from my lungs with a surprised grunt.

I’m nearly useless until I can breathe again, able only to draw my knees up in a pathetic attempt at something between the fetal position and kicking you away. Your only response is a growling laugh- as much the beast as the man- and a deft yank at my legs to force them back down while I choke and wheeze and try to curl away from the heat and weight of your body across me. I won’t mention the secret whimpering desire to curl into you, instead.

My breath is slowly coming back, gasps of oxygen slowly drawing strength into my limbs, but my legs are already pinned by your weight and my wrists by your hands. Your face is nearly atop mine and I want to snap and bite like the captive animal I am at this moment, but the snarl on your lips is enough to freeze me in place.

I am reasonably certain that if I call a true halt to this, that you will. Reasonably certain that if I call ‘Red,’ that you will stand, help me up, and all will be finished. But there is a kernel of doubt in my mind, and that kernel  freezes my limbs and wets my thighs.

The ground is hard beneath my back, little sticks and sharp edged leaves cutting into my skin and I know I am bleeding from at least one of the scratches that line my body like whipmarks. I know it in a much more visceral sense when your snarl abruptly becomes a growl, your face lowering to my neck, dragging my wrists as you slowly smell down the length of my bare body, causing goosebumps in a strange cocktail of fear and slowly growing desire. The first bleeding scratch you find is along my ribcage, ironically just below the old barbed wire scar and your tongue is oddly raspy against it. For once, it doesn’t tickle and in fact makes me writhe in pain until you clamp down on my skin with sharp teeth, freezing me again with a gasp and small whimper.

In this moment, I feel more like prey than I may have ever before, frighteningly unsure of what exactly you intend but only certain that I have little to no choice in it. I am embarrassingly grateful that your teeth are relatively gentle, and as your cheek grazes my side, my breathing speeds up again but for entirely different reasons.

I know you can hear the change, and the touch of your face against my skin as you explore my body with the most primitive of senses holds a note of cruel playfulness now, knowing that my body will respond to you despite my mind’s screaming fear… or perhaps because of it. Abruptly, the teasing caress is replaced by your teeth again, this time in the soft skin of my belly. My strangled gasp is closer to a barely restrained scream, and I know you can smell the abrupt switch to fear-scent along my body. Your reaction is clear and completely primal as your body sinks into mine, hands tightening on my wrists with bruising force, and your teeth sinking into my skin with enough force to make me writhe and scream against you in something between need, pain, and utter terror.

Finally, finally, your teeth slowly release the now well-marked skin of my belly, leaving behind a scatter pattern of rounded teethmarks and a faint trembling throughout my body. Only now do you move farther down my body, and the trembling is of a different sort when your cheek grazes my exposed hip and your teeth skim the hollow between hip and mons.

I hear your breathing change now, scenting the steadily growing arousal between my thighs and it triggers a change in my own- high, keening whimpers of fear and desire as my mind flips between desire for your mouth on me and fear of your teeth in the most sensitive skin of my body.

The graze of your teeth across my labia are enough to make me cringe, and your growl is closer to a chuckle now, which is less than reassuring to my panicked heartbeat.Twisting my wrists desperately, I am thankful that you are distracted enough by the scent of my arousal that your hands have loosened, allowing me to yank my hands free and scramble from beneath you when you rear back in surprise.

In a second I am on my feet and moving but fruitlessly. Without bothering to stand, you you simply leap at me before I can run, bringing my back down hard enough to see stars. Even more vulnerable now, prone in the crunching leaves I try fiercely to wriggle away, but succeed only in settling your weight more firmly across my body. Your hands pinning my arms now will leave bruises without question, and as I buck against you, I can feel you growing harder against my exposed ass from the writhing kiss of skin on skin and the intoxication of complete power over me. Redoubling my efforts, I only earn myself the sharp, bruising pain of your teeth in the back of my neck.

The force of your teeth in my neck flips a switch in the deeply primal, feline part of my psyche and I drop limply beneath you in surrender. I can feel your mild surprise and confusion in the increased pressure on my arms anticipating a trick, but there is no trick now. Your teeth in the back of my neck give the most primitive aching corner of my psyche a simple message: He wins. This is earned.

With a low moan, my head drops to the forest floor and I writhe beneath you in blatant invitation, arching my neck slightly into your teeth. Despite the lust I can now smell equally clearly on you, your suspicion remains and my arms are dragged behind my back to be pinned one handed while you lift yourself slightly from my body and drawing a whimpering moan from me. Lifting my hips in primitive request, I am surprised by the sharp smack to my ass until it’s quickly followed by one large hand pressing my face back into dirt when I lift it in startled inquiry. There is a potent reminder in the rough force that regardless of any change of heart, initiative today is unwelcome and control of this moment resides firmly and completely in your hands. A soft whimper escapes my throat as I subside back to the ground, fighting my own urge to press into you. Your chuckle is nearly human now, and the hand that runs caressingly down my side is a clear reward for my obedience, which draw another small whimper from my throat, but this time in gratitude for the gentle touch.

I revel a little now in the vulnerability of my position- naked, prone, wrists pinned in one of your hands at the small of my back, and your body easily pinning mine. The heat of your skin and scent of it rubbing into mine is enough to make me moan and ache to arch into you, even as your legs roughly part mine and I can feel the hard length of you pressed against my ass. No fear of punishment or desire for obedience is enough to stop my hips from rising to meet you, and even your free hand roughly pressing me back down elicits not the slightest contrition.

Finally, finally, I feel the head of you nudging me, opening me, and when my inner lips finally part and you slide inside of me the sound pulled from my throat is matched only by your low sound of satisfaction.

I am physically incapable of stillness now, not with the heavy heat of you inside of me, stretching and filling me, and shortly I am writhing beneath you and matching every pump of your hips. I can feel you stroking my g-spot with every thrust, but your hand forcing my face back into the ground reminds me once more that my input here is not encouraged, and for the moment I am simply prey to be taken and enjoyed. I can’t not rock my hips to meet yours, can’t stop the steady stream of moaning whimpers spilling from my parted and dirt-covered lips. I may not be able to control any of this interaction, but neither fear nor obedience can stop me from responding to it, can stop the steady stream of pleading sounds ripped from my throat as you fuck me.

I have no idea how much time passes, no idea when  my body finishes adjusting to yours and the movement of my hips roughens, deepens and matches yours. I have no idea when the painful pressure of your cockhead against my cervix becomes almost pleasure, or if I just stopped caring due to the endorphin rush. I have no idea when sweat and arousal mixed to create the potent, slippery scent permeating the air around us, or when you released my hands and let me brace myself for your thrusts.

I have no idea when the last shred of control fell from us both, or when your teeth found my neck again. I have no idea how much time passed before I felt the telltale speeding of your hips, the change of your thrusts to cross the line into pain, or the clenching of your hands on my hips. I only know the effect on me, only know the anticipation that rocked my hips to match every painful pleasurable stroke. I only know the tightening of your hands on my hips- another set of bruises I anticipated with pleasure now- and the growling roar pulled from your throat as you spilled yourself in me.

I only know the mini-orgasm that tightened my body as my lover’s orgasm always does, and the heated collapse of your body across mine, spilling me again into the dirt. I only know the tight wrapping of your arms around my body, pinning me close to you and ignoring my half-hearted attempts to move. I only know the chuckling, raspy words spoken with an effort and growled into my ear, “Who says you’re done yet?”

Nostalgia

This is supposed to be my evening of alone-time. D & Akasha are together, the baby is asleep, and I am finally able to truly just relax and be entirely alone without weight of expectations or needs.
I love my partners with everything in me, but true alone-time is an increasing rarity in my life.


Instead, I am thinking about the Navigator tonight.

I have just finished re-reading a piece of erotica we co-wrote, passing it semi-randomly while looking for another document on google and clicking on it from pure nostalgia.

What we wrote was never truly on the table in real life, it was a fantasy that even the one wonderful night we did have could never truly live up to... no experience, no matter how amazing, can match 3 years of fantasy and pent-up desire.

But reading that story, remembering the heat of his lips on mine and the faint hint of worked metal that he always seems to carry rubbed into my skin from his own... I miss him.
I know that we are never meant to be, and I wouldn't leave my husband, my girl, or my son.
But it has been over a year since I have seen his face, heard his voice, or smelled the warm scent of his skin on mine, and I miss him.

I miss the comfort of being curled up with him and bullshitting about everything from cars to the insanity of women's fashion. I miss the warmth of his hands in my hair and the easy comfort of working beside him painting, landscaping, or writing a paper.
I miss the solid trust in his friendship and the pleasant sexual tension that never quite went away.

I know that my life right now, and the relationships I'm in, do not allow for the same relationship that he and I once had. I have no idea if he would even find my post-partum body attractive, with its stretch marks, widened hips, and still slightly flabby belly. I do not like my body now the way that I once did, do not trust its sexual power the way that I once did, do not have faith in the responses my body once drew.

I know that another man in my life is not in the cards for a variety of reasons, and that one as alphic as the Navigator would be a disaster to the delicate balance of my polyamory.
I know these things, and I do not regret the life I have chosen.

But tonight, I will let myself remember the warmth of his arms around me, the conscious tenderness of his kiss, and the hot metal and male scent of his skin rubbed into mine.

Loss

We're in the car, and driving home.

My home,not yours anymore and that is its own special kind of pain.

You're talking about the woman you loved, the woman you still crave despite the pain she caused you and the scars you still stroke on nights when the loneliness is too much.

I am sympathizing with you because I have my own scars, my own secret could-have-beens in the middle of the night.

"...it's the most intense things I've ever felt," you tell me, and I shudder in response.

"I've felt it three times," I tell you. "Once for Wolf," whose strong-safe arms are no longer- can never again be- in my life. "And two other times."

I know the intensity you mean. The obsession- and yes, it is obsession. Your brain releases the same chemicals during the early stages of a relationship that are released during an obsessive episode for an OCD person. The craving for them, for their bodies, the meeting with their minds, the brush of their soul against yours.

The fierce craving for their touch, the need to touch them, to mark them and show the world that they belong to you, that they love you and they are yours and you are theirs and yes!

"You're lucky to have felt it so many times," he tells me.

I glance at him, pretty and dark and hurting. I know what he means- that I am lucky that having felt it more than once, I know I can feel it again. Know that the loss of it once is not the loss of it forever. But the words won't come past the lump in my throat.

"You get past it," I tell him. "You go to bed hurting and you wake up hurting and you go through the motions hurting- eating and drinking and working and playing- and you know it won't ever go all the way away but you hold on to the little things, the little pleasures."

"It's different for you," he says. "You have someone."

"It's not like that," I respond. "It doesn't make the pain less. But you cling to the little things. The taste of tea in the morning, the rush of caffeine in your body. The taste of chocolate on your lips. The accomplishment of learning a new skill. It doesn't take away the pain, but it makes it bearable.

"And when you think you can't stand it anymore, when you think you're going to call them in the middle of the night, you remind yourself why they're not there anymore. Why they're gone, whether they chose it or you did. In the middle of the night, you hold on to anger or hurt or fear or whatever it takes to remind you because sometimes they're the only things that are stronger than the craving for them."

After all, foolish boi, how do you think I keep from calling you?

Mornings

It is in the mornings that I wake to find you gone.

It is in the mornings that I reach, warm and fuzzy-minded from sleep, to cuddle you and wake abruptly to the lack.

It is in the mornings, with their 5 hour time difference, too early to call and reassure myself with your voice, that I feel how far away I am.

It is in the mornings, quite and peaceful and utterly lacking in your warmth, when I let myself weep.

Yes- this

OMFG This. Ferns has, as always, expressed my emotions better than I ever can:

Little Boy

An apology and a memory

Beloved one,

I woke up yesterday with tears hot on my cheeks, fear clawing at my chest like a beast trying to rip its way out through my ribs.

I knew that you would leave, knew that you would walk away as surely as I knew the taste of bile in the back of my throat.

There was no doubt in my mind that before day's end, I would lost you.

But when I talked to you in the morning, I pasted the smile to my face, letting myself take honest joy in what I knew would be my last conversation with you as Mine. I reveled in your sleepy voice, high and soft and rough with sleep. I bathed in the soft sounds of joy you made when I told you that I loved you, wrapping them like spun glass in the recesses of my mind, a tightly held balm against the pain I knew would come. I listened to your rustling movements in bed, seeing you in my mind's eye sprawled in your soft sheets, and I smiled even as tears burnt the backs of my eyes.

And then I went about my day, I wandered alone in a city 3,000 miles from my home, idly watching the people around me. I noted their movements, smiled reflexively at those who greeted me, and all the time my mind was full of you, full of all that I knew I would lose. Your face, soft and open when I'm inside of you, your smile wise and kinder than you'll admit when I am small and frightened. Your hands small and quick and nervous when you clean. Your tremulous smile when I kiss you as a man, and your slow, wicked grin as you ride me. Your face lighting with passion as we chat for hours about the things we love, your narrowed eyes and manic smile when you hurt me, your shy eyes when you curl up tight against me. A hundred thousand images flashed before my eyes and broke my heart a hundred times over: you folding clothes, obsessively neat. You at work, focused and proud. You curled close to me, watching a movie. You hurting me, mad eyes and tender hands. You spread out before me, a feast for my senses. You shopping, movements graceful and restrained. You at my dining room table, laughing and talking. You grinning sideways, that delicious, wicked expression. You on your couch, primal and barely restrained. Every image a glass shard in my heart, ripping me slowly, inexorably open. Over and over I saw you, everywhere that I looked. Architecure I wanted to point out to you, dresses I wanted to laugh with you over, pretty boys with their hipster hair I wanted to laugh with you about. Sad murals I wanted to share with you, good food, all of it wrapped around my heart like barbed wire and I bled inside.

Finally, with heavy steps I came home to talk to you, dreading every step, afraid of every word I'd have to write. When you greeted me, I was both afraid and joyful. I leapt into the conversation because I knew that if I didn't, I'd never have it. I'd give in to the temptation to conceal it from you, the nagging hopee that maybe I wouldn't lose what has become so precious to me.

Every keystroke punctuated by a tear, by a stabbing sensation in my chest, by the certainty of loss.

...and then you didn't.

Then you were quiet as you conferred, and you simply accepted in me what I cannot accept myself.

And then you told me that you love me, and the tears spilled out, spilled open in me and my heart was still bleeding but it was marked by joy now and the disbelief that this was really happening.

Were you truly still here? Would I still really be able to hold you, be able to taste your lips and hear your precious voice? It was too much, too deep, too sudden,and I couldn't believe it, couldn't process it, could only curl into myself a release the shaking sobs that had hidden inside of me all day.

I still have trouble believing it, still have to reach sometimes for the twine you had me tie around my wrist, my tangible reminder of your love and your presence.

I still keep waiting for you to change your mind, to look at me with horror and disgust, and just as you told me so long ago in the darkened car... you prove me wrong. Every time.

I've never been so grateful to be wrong before.

I love you.

Wounded Healers

“Without your wound where would your power be? It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble into the hearts of men. The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human being broken on the wheels of living. In Love’s service only the wounded soldiers can serve.” -Thornton Wilder

My best friend, who is well on his way to becoming a priest, gave a sermon today with this quote as its basis.

As always, it put tears in my eyes.

I have wounds. Some scarred over, and some still healing. A few bleed even now.

I have wounds. And yet, I am the one to whom many turn for healing, for safety, for trust and love.

For years, I wondered why. Did they think me unwounded? More whole than they? Surely not, when I have allowed my wounds to show for years now and it hasn't slowed the flow of requests, but truthfully sped it up (my academic studies have also influenced that, of course...).

So, I'm left seeking another answer. Why? Why would someone come to a wounded healer? Physician, heal thyself.

A doctor who treats herself as a fool for a patient.

Why would they come to me?

And then he showed me this quote, a few years ago.

"In love's service, only the wounded soldiers may serve."

In love's service, only the wounded soldiers may serve.

Only the wounded soldiers.

Only the wounded healers.

My wounds haven't made me less fit to heal, to serve, to teach.

They've made me more.

"Without your wound, where would your power be?"

Without your wound, where would your compassion be?

"It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble in the hearts of men."

It is your very fear, your very wounds, that show that you know, you understand, and you care.

"The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human broken on the wheels of living."

Your wounds stand as testament to your knowledge, to your compassion, to your understanding of their pain.

"In love's service, only the wounded... (healers) may serve."

Bad Poetry

Climbing desperately, trying to find a higher ground

but drowning

Pulled endlessly into the mire

Help me, voices call

And I can't!

But my heart is breaking for them

But my legs trudge back to them

Even as the path takes me under water

and drowning

From postsecret

You know who you are- I love you.

My Favorite Mistake

I saw you today, saw you for the first time in months.

You called me, hurting, and even curled in someone else's arms I don't know how not to answer you, how not to soothe you. I know my voice is sharp sometimes when you are hurting but it is fear for you that sharpens it, and not anger.

And today, today I saw you again, your shortened hair making your face seem masculine but your smile a thing of beauty. We danced around it for over an hour, you made me food and we sat around on the couch chatting until you finally created the excuse to go upstairs and asked directly, "Do you want to cuddle?"

I was going to say, "No." I knew I should say no.

I knew I shouldn't wrap my arms around you and fill my lungs with your spicy-sweet scent, shouldn't tempt both of us, shouldn't risk hurting either of us.

I opened my mouth to say, "No."

"Yes," I said, instead.

Yes.

ShitfuckGoddesshelpmeIstillwantyoufuckfuckfuckyou'renotmineanymorepleasegivemestrength.

Yes.

My body wrapped around yours, your warm breath against my skin, the bittersweet familiarity of your body pressed against mine, the soft needing kisses to my chest and shoulders, fuck it's hard.

No one else balances me so well, complements me so well, knows my masculinity and expresses their own feminity so perfectly.

No one else offers the same perfect acceptance of my own gender and dynamic fluidity as yours.

I love the boys in my life. All of them, more than they will ever know.

But this, this thing with you, it's different and it clicks into place in my heart and it fits so perfectly that it hurts and my eyes are filling with tears even as I'm kissing you back, my hands moving to you wrists, your too-short hair, your throat, curving around your waist until only the stinging of the tears in my eyes brings me back to myself.

It was a mistake to come see you, but one I couldn't have not made.

But when you go all I know is you're my favorite mistake...

-Sheryl Crow

The First Law is not to obey

Have you ever read the Anne Bishop, "The Realms of the Blood" books?

If you're a dominant woman, or a submissive man, then I suggest that you do.

You see, maybe you're different from me, dear reader. But that's what I want.

I want a submissive who understands what this passage means:

"The first law is not to obey. The first law is to honor, cherish, and protect. The second law is to serve, and the third law is to obey."
"What if the third interferes with the first two?"
"Then you throw it out the window"
-Lucivar to Daemon, "Queen of the Darkness," by Anne Bishop

I want a submissive who understands that sometimes service means saying, "I respectfully refuse to let you push yourself too hard/make yourself sick/do something stupid."

There's a wonderful line in one of the "Realms of the Blood," books, which I will paraphrase rather than looking up:

"The Queens protect us. That's why sometimes we have to protect them- especially from themselves."

What I want- and what I need- is someone who can understand what that line means.