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Monday, June 6, 2016


We sat on the grass, talking and laughing. This guy is so great and I love spending time with him, I kept thinking. And he is. Open, honest, funny, committed to anti-oppression, feminist, flawed.

Super flawed. Imperfect, unstable past. Scary. Too smart. Like me.

Scary mostly because I also desire him physically. It's easier when they're boring erections to ride who present no challenge other than "can I contort my body this way?"

To deeply desire a man I also deeply respect is exciting. Terrifying. Because what if he doesn't desire me back?

I could possibly be content with friendship-only, but he stirs up so many feelings in me. The verbal diarrhea which I can't control in his presence leaves all of my secrets and fears spilled on the floor. He doesn't judge, and shares his too.

And I'm trying not to get too excited. I'm trying to just slow myself down.

Part of me is relieved to confirm that I'm not bound exclusively to my tormentor's touch. Relieved that another could excite me again. Kissing him came after hours of wondering if he wanted to kiss me. Then he asked if he could. And to me it was perfect. Electric. Exciting. Arousing. Not enough. Definitely not enough.

Why can I never be content with beautiful, singular moments? Why must I always crave more?

Then the fear. The fear of rejection after the flood of blood through my whole body. The fear that comes with remembering the men who made my pussy swell and my brain work harder and my heart feel full and then disappeared.

Analyzing. Every message. Did he feel it too?

And the urges. Oh the fucking urges. Hearing him talk about penis. Erections. Sweets and cocks. Images of my mouth on his arms, our bodies entwined, inhaling his neck, hugging him from behind, seeing him in my bed, straddling him, kissing the parts of himself he hates most, his hands on me, and his mouth on my nipples as our eyes connect. I want to taste myself on his lips.

His tongue in my mouth again for hours too many to count. I want to know all of his secrets.

Him blindfolded. On a leather sofa. Trusting me as I run my cunt-scented fingers under his nose. Me, tied up, serving him however he pleases. Both of us, sharing a man. Me, bent over with him behind me. Licking them both at once. Watching them. Him in between us. Kissing.

These thoughts fill my mind.

Why do I also want to cry?

Did five years of fucking and loving my tormentor completely destroy my sexual and emotional lines? Or is just the old cries of my lifetime, those voices always reminding me that I am too fat, too damaged, too imperfect to ever be loved? The ones I know are lying even though I secretly believe that every beautiful man will too quickly go away.

He's the first man to really excite me since I left Mansour.

When imagine him as I fuck myself I don't cry afterwards.

I really like him. And I really want him. And I'm partly broken and have an innate tendency to destroy things with impatience and expectations. Men and society have traumatized me and I always pick the wrong men who never pick me back. I have too many feelings and they overwhelm me.

This weird combination of fear and desire, with just a hint of sadness and longing for my lover past is unpredictable and consuming.

I hate it, as I do my flimsy grasp on my emotions.

This fucking rollercoaster is taking me on a ride.

It always feels different.
Always feels new.
But this always
Exactly what I do

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