Tag / sex

I feel fine, but my box springs are lonely. They get separation anxiety and get clingy – its all I can do to tear the sheets off every morn.

I’ve got sass, but my passenger seat is insecure. Its making demands for new upholstery as if that will fill the hole. Some chrome would be nice too.

I’m fulfilled, but my skin aches. Starts asking to stay home from school. My skin stays in bed all day.

Don’t you worry about me. I’m fanfuckingtastic. I am thankful to be breathing, working, creating, so healthy. It’s my bed you should pay a visit to if you want to take care. Its my ride you should be seen in should you wish to reassure. Its my body that is crying, “Please take care of me.”

But myself, I’m all good with everything.

You. You. Only you. I want you. I only want you. I want to be you. I want to devour you. I want to hold you in my stomach. I want to keep you. I want to hide you. I want to make you a secret. I want to fall in love with you. I want you to fall in love with me. The way I understand love to be.

Focus. Focus. Look hard through the lens. I’m a woman with needs. Living in LA. And lately everyone looks like a target to me.

Bullseye. I saw emotion water your eyes. I felt your heart want to leap out and capture me. I saw you try to capture me. But all you’ve gots is a photo and I’m still free, free, free. Nothing like a butterfly, everything like an asteroid – before I ever make it to earth, burning up in space. I’m a woman with needs. Living in LA.

I know I am posing. I never learned shame. Especially the unspeakable is casual game. I strike any position with full awareness in frame. I like new ideas and am open to direction. I need a direction.

For all this energy, a direction, a course. A dangerous woman has dangerous thoughts, of course. And how can a woman, more assertive than most, receive that attention, celebrate the feminine against a backdrop of intentions. And dreams of shooting stars. That burn up before we ever hit the ground.

Open the shutter – do you see me now?

I found some (in)appropriate photography online that I thought might accompany my next article on sex toy recycling. Couldn’t resist posting them here in my private journal:

You can find sex toys everywhere sensual pleasure exists or has existed—unless you live in Alabama, of course, where the last remaining US state law banning the sale of these items is still on books. Yes, outside of Alabama and India, we legally play with sex toys because we like pleasure and we don’t like disease. All us good little girls (and boys) are at home having safe sex with our toys—or so we thought. We carefully picked out the color, size and ergonomics of our personal sanity device, but did we consider the materials it was made from? A Little History

Sex toys have been around since the beginning of time. Not mine, specifically. But other peoples’. Like the dildo William Shakespeare mentioned in Act V, Scene 3 of The Winter’s Tale (15th century). Or the Upper Paleolithic people’s 20-centimeter stone phallus discovered in a cave in what is now Germany nearly 30,000 years ago. Or how about the doctors’ vibrating electric tools of the late 1800s—predating the invention of the motor-driven vacuum cleaner by 10 years—said to relieve “hysteria” by massaging women’s genitals until “hysterical paroxysm” was achieved. Eleven such sanity aids are on display at the Minneapolis Bakken Library and Museum of Electricity in Life.

Is it just me longing for the “good old days” of healthcare right about now? Preventative maintenance covering vibrators instead of that toxic little blue pill! Read more…

I’d have to disagree with Freud, the creative genius inventor of psychoanalysis, that repression – specifically sexual repression – is the defining motivation to our personalities.

Now, I might be psychoanalyzing myself here, but I think it’s Death. It’s not some opposable digit, biped motion, or language capability that separates us from our hairier four-legged counterparts. It’s that somewhere in human evolution we were there watching another of our species die and instead of simply feeling despair or triumph over their plight, we had the lightening flash that: I, too, will die.

A random, accidental event births “ego”, solves the missing link and instigates all sorts of historical repercussions including insanity, violence and the need to obsessively use right angles in architectural design (you can’t walk down the street without it, people).

Me? I just choose to think about Death every day. I won’t expand too much except that I’ve come to the realization that to every yin there is a yang, every coin has two contingent sides, and the complimentary opposite to Death is not Love, as some might expect and neither is it birth. It’s sex. Sex and Death are exactly the same only completely polar.

Sexual repression and mortaility repression: maybe Freud was closer than we thought.

Everything was perfect.

I want only to live one moment for the rest of my life. The one in my memory that keeps repeating now.

So alive. A force of nature. You might be the most potent soul I have ever made love to. Those gentle giant’s hands – both reaching wide towards to take handfulls of me.

I want to take pictures with my eyes so I can look any time I want. To see your chest flex above me. To hear your own moan of abandon.

To slow down this dance toward death too soon and feel only your aliveness shake and tremble sustained forever.

Touching your body is a tonic. Being touched by you is almost too much for one heart to bear.

And being without you is desperate poetry in a lonely room with stained sheet sleep rerunning reminders of how very near you are not.

He acts like he’s never had a dirty thought in his life. That’s why I so love to seduce him. And he surrenders so automatically, so wholeheartedly, so naturally. He naturally surrenders to me. He is my willing prey. I am the natural predator.

Nocturnal sleep walk off the bridge without looking down. The massive solid handsome Golden Gate bridge into the always deadly chill bay Pacific ocean. I am the initiator, and he follows through. I would create the jumping scene, I would know the most impressionable execusion, and he would bring down the axe, chop the gallow loose. He would knock the chair from underneath my feet, leaving me dangle there in the air twitching kinda morbid with the most spiritual look I’ll ever achieve – quick, mom, take a picture. I swear I’ll do it. I’ll jump, I swear.

He would not try to stop me.

Oh how I must be filled with this man who does not stop me. He must be as close to me as possible. He can come inside me. This is no ordinary love.

So pure. So present. So perfect. Like every human. Oh, how I long to be a human like him. Oh, how I know what it’s like to be him – to be perfectly human – only when I deliver him. Oh, how all the love songs I used to think were mushy … are still mushy and I’ve found someone to bang heads with instead, dark beat and heavy wave, until the madness falls upon me and I decide I want to see his waist and he takes off his shirt without me asking. I decide I want to see his insides and he takes off his skin like my poppet. How he assures my best when he submits with such eagerness. So naturally the servant becomes the served.

Ah, to give and be received.

I remember a man who took off both his shirt and belt just to give me a massage. Straddling me in candle light, he started at the feet. He went right for the treasure chest, the secret entrance, open says me if the the grip is right: attentive and gentle, receptive and firm – yes, the feel is right. He is in.

I remember how he used his mouth. Around my toes exhaling warm words like, “so strong”, “look how beautiful”, or my favorite of all, just the whisper, “yes.”

Yes, yes, I remember a man who took care of me like a lover. Praise the men who make sure we feel safe and precious and cared for and loved.

When women feel safe, we open up.

When women feel precious, we are generous with beauty. When women feel cared for, we dance and we sing and we laugh and we shine we make it all make sense finally and suddenly without answering even one of those silly mortal questions. Just batting long eye lashes in a world that reflects us. Just lying on a bed, underneath this wise man. A man who, too, likes living in an open, generous, beautiful world full of women who feel cared for. I can tell by the way he doesn’t stop at my feet.

I remember becoming a woman right there in his very hands. Those giving, gentle, giant hands.

If you were here now, I would not even hesitate.

I would lay you down and see only everything. Look through the wishing well pools of your eyes, dip that water sip that water oh that water – is shallow compared to what you are about to learn.

Pay attention.

And you would, if you were here. You would hold your breath as I strut through the room singing the song we both just discovered we love, playing on lightening clear speakers with enough body to make mine move. Like this. Move like this.

You just watch.

I am watched. My favorite role play.

I would collect you without hesitation. Taking all of you. Seeing all of you. Knowing all of you the way you wish yourself to be. That is who you are around me. Whomever you always wanted to be.

Pay attention. Pay attention to me.