Oh, look, another rant from the 30th December:
A boy. A bioboy. A heterosexual bioboy. A shaved heterosexual bioboy. A totally shaved heterosexual bioboy. An old punker totally shaved heterosexual bioboy who wore Westwood in the70s and frocks since he was a lad and who knew I wasn’t a girl but left me wringing out the sheets anyway. Zoo all squishy over smooth straight man flesh through baby pink fabric, frills and lace, sheer stockings and suspenders- one should never say never…
Puppy cyber-sex. Beatings with rolled up newspaper, pissing outside or nose rubbed in it, sleeping at the end of the bed, eat on the floor, walks in harness and leash, lurking around the dinner table waiting for scraps, licking feet and face and hands all over. Choke chain. Now I wanna be your dog.
An encounter so intense that it left me hiding under the covers in panicked shock. That moment when it all unravels, when word becomes flesh, when thought processes collapse alongside boundaries, when you can’t see and can’t stop and blindly throw yourself forward into the firing line or the abyss or the sky or the sea or the oncoming traffic and there’s no way to tell what is coming next but only that it is inevitable. Propelled by a force somewhere between epiphany and complete breakdown, running to or possibly from, a safe space to shed skin and share scars, coming to in a puddle of sweat, hurt and scared and distressed and mute and shaking and bewildered and above all grateful. You’re not the girl you think you are.
The intense shag-fest of the last couple of weeks has left me saddlesore and senseless and struggling for breath. Most of these play-pals have been more than casual liaisons- these are people to sleep snuggled up to afterwards and inbetween, to share meals and tea and ideas with, to giggle with and spoon with and bathe with. And thus the role of consort becomes also one of confidante, counsellor, companion and collaborator. I don’t know what to make of most of it, or why I need to make anything of it at all. I just know that I need to take care of myself, and this means giving myself time and space to process and reflect. Sometime quite soon it will be time to pull back again, keep my clothes on in company and myself to myself for a while whilst I build up my energy levels again.
But maybe not quite yet.
A boy. A bioboy. A heterosexual bioboy. A shaved heterosexual bioboy. A totally shaved heterosexual bioboy. An old punker totally shaved heterosexual bioboy who wore Westwood in the70s and frocks since he was a lad and who knew I wasn’t a girl but left me wringing out the sheets anyway. Zoo all squishy over smooth straight man flesh through baby pink fabric, frills and lace, sheer stockings and suspenders- one should never say never…
Puppy cyber-sex. Beatings with rolled up newspaper, pissing outside or nose rubbed in it, sleeping at the end of the bed, eat on the floor, walks in harness and leash, lurking around the dinner table waiting for scraps, licking feet and face and hands all over. Choke chain. Now I wanna be your dog.
An encounter so intense that it left me hiding under the covers in panicked shock. That moment when it all unravels, when word becomes flesh, when thought processes collapse alongside boundaries, when you can’t see and can’t stop and blindly throw yourself forward into the firing line or the abyss or the sky or the sea or the oncoming traffic and there’s no way to tell what is coming next but only that it is inevitable. Propelled by a force somewhere between epiphany and complete breakdown, running to or possibly from, a safe space to shed skin and share scars, coming to in a puddle of sweat, hurt and scared and distressed and mute and shaking and bewildered and above all grateful. You’re not the girl you think you are.
The intense shag-fest of the last couple of weeks has left me saddlesore and senseless and struggling for breath. Most of these play-pals have been more than casual liaisons- these are people to sleep snuggled up to afterwards and inbetween, to share meals and tea and ideas with, to giggle with and spoon with and bathe with. And thus the role of consort becomes also one of confidante, counsellor, companion and collaborator. I don’t know what to make of most of it, or why I need to make anything of it at all. I just know that I need to take care of myself, and this means giving myself time and space to process and reflect. Sometime quite soon it will be time to pull back again, keep my clothes on in company and myself to myself for a while whilst I build up my energy levels again.
But maybe not quite yet.
posted by Zoo at 5:06 am
2 Comments:
Ohhhh this is beautiful writing - and i've missed your posts so much!
Touching tender and true and GREAt distraction from the aircon in the quad while breathing underwater outdoors.
xx
mayhem
BLUSH! MUCH BLUSH! MISS YOU SOOOO MUCH, AND NOT JUST FOR THE PATS...
x
Z
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