8/27/2010 5:19:47 PM: Falling in love is easy. Everyone, at heart, is lonely somewhere, looking for a body to fill the void. Lust, however, is a volume to love's pamphlet, a vast and varied, nearly archaic set of steps and rules to discovery, and lastly, to satisfaction. You can discuss over coffee a potential mate's political leanings, their goals for the future, and to a certain extent, what is in their heart. You cannot know if the taste of their mouth is pleasant or not, if they cry out or make quiet whimpers when they come, if they will cherish the body before them or merely gloss over it on a quest for a selfish orgasm. There is, after all, nothing so heartbreaking as a partner who will not return a lavish and languid oral delight, subsisting instead on a cursory and mechanical act to fulfill their side of the lovemaking, or worse, relaxing after their own joys and making stammering excuses that they "don't do that sort of thing" when you expect reciprocation. No one should ever have to ask for reciprocation, at worst, they should merely worry about how to decline it if they aren't in the mood. Sex is a balance, after all: we steal energies from one another with a delightful little spark each time they are passed. We pass the energies back and forth until each is with its rightful owner once more - holding onto both (or several, depending on your pastimes) at once, with no regard for your partner's need to have it back, is a travesty. When we give our energy to another to hold for awhile, we are entrusting them with something greater than our heart, we are giving them a piece of our very soul to admire and caress. Much like the phenomena of the mundane becoming intensely interesting when viewed at slow speed, the longer the act of play and lovemaking, the more time we have to watch these energies, to appreciate the sacrifice and the gain, and the humbling presence of something greater than ourselves, something that is in reality ourselves. Once more, as we could not possibly live a full life watching everything around us in slow motion, it is unrealistic to consider making love for hours each time - but the long form is something to be cherished and deified, bowed to frequently between more hurried bouts.

8/27/2010 5:18:28 PM: Snap. Snap. Snap. The cockring I wear around my wrist was a desperate tether between my worlds - something benign enough to pass for a simple accessory, but with a trio of snaps that might attract the attention of someone who knew what it was. Perhaps they'd follow me, sit down too close to me in Starbucks, look at me until I looked their way, and lay my intentions bare with their eyes. This band of black leather marks me and steadies me as much as an even-handed Master might; a tether to remind me of who I am, to not lose myself to a vanilla world again, which made me sacrifice everything that made my heart skip beats in favor of what was "easier". I am kink, I am dark and different, I feel the core of me stir at the thought of a collar being fastened around my neck, and this was no passing fancy. They told me, when he left, to "find myself" - take classes, join a bowling league, travel. How can I tell them that finding myself involves nothing more than a twisted smile from someone who is about to do dark things to me? That being owned, and slipping the cuffs off to own right back, is where my heart finds peace? I live for the erotic - it blooms my world into color where the vanilla is mere shades of grey. I want to play, to twist and turn and uncover and cover all the subtle nuances of someone else - to twine around each other like vines climbing under and over one another. I want to discuss poetry with an idle cock in my hand, spent from our latest bout. I want to hear delightfully wicked whispers about what he'd like to do with me in my ear, wholly spontaneous and unrelated to our surroundings and conversation, while we're standing in line to pay for a magazine. I want to live my life like the shimmering inconstant surface of a soap bubble is the only barrier between living and breaking into sex at any given moment. I'm looking, this bracelet whispers. I haven't given up on finding you yet.

8/27/2010 5:17:36 PM: What I'd be, if I weren't me Writing, beauty, and buttered raisin bread toast and hot milk tea in the wee hours of an icy cold winter morning. The smell of old books and the air right before a thunderstorm, the look of freshly brewed tea and autumn leaves. Harmonious singing as proof of some higher power, somewhere, the ability to learn new things each day. The feel of a silk sash through my fingers, the way the light plays on the water of a lake, and being around people who can live for the moment. Lavender buds dried in a muslin pouch, a twist of leather, a cool drink of water, the twist of a sheet around an ankle when you fall into bed. Crows rising to flight over a harvest-ready field, chases in the moonlight, and all the words a look can convey.