Your words, Sir
Thick and slow
And sweet
Flow through me
Honeyed
Heavy
I am languorous with them
Stretching upward
Reaching outward
Hands dropping gracefully
To my pillow
Tracing a path to the place
On my neck
Where I want your lips
Murmuring
Your words, Sir
Soft, gentle,
Whispers
Shivering through
To my core
Brushing so delicate
Against my heart
Shattering it all the same
Your words, Sir
Flow through me
The pleasant lassitude
Of lava burning
Through the center
All the way through the center
Your words, Sir
Leave me hungry,
Quivering
Wanting
More
Of you
And
Your words, Sir
Showing posts with label Fantasies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fantasies. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
That Thing You Do
I don't pretend to understand, sir, what it is you do.
I don't mean do as in work, as in polite conversation, what do you do?
I don't mean do as in what you do to thrive, to bring light and lightness of being in to your life.
I don't mean hobbies, pastimes, or how you fix your hair.
I refer to what you do to me.
I mean how you make me want to be...someone...somewhere...else. Better. New.
What is that?
And still I dream of someone who isn't there and wake with an ache that can't filled, calmed, soothed, because you can't caress something with nothing. You can't fill an empty place with dreams, wishes, hope.
Frustrating, sir, frustrating.
Fearful, sir, fearful.
The Angel knows better, she does, than to give way, to stand down, to open, unfold...trust.
The Angel is a fool.
What is that thing you do, sir?
I don't mean do as in work, as in polite conversation, what do you do?
I don't mean do as in what you do to thrive, to bring light and lightness of being in to your life.
I don't mean hobbies, pastimes, or how you fix your hair.
I refer to what you do to me.
I mean how you make me want to be...someone...somewhere...else. Better. New.
What is that?
And still I dream of someone who isn't there and wake with an ache that can't filled, calmed, soothed, because you can't caress something with nothing. You can't fill an empty place with dreams, wishes, hope.
Frustrating, sir, frustrating.
Fearful, sir, fearful.
The Angel knows better, she does, than to give way, to stand down, to open, unfold...trust.
The Angel is a fool.
What is that thing you do, sir?
Monday, May 11, 2009
Trembling
I woke trembling this morning, a sort of all-over quake.
It was the dream that did it.
I dreamed I was Kate again, back in her time (whenever it was - I cannot say, there is never a calendar and she doesn't answer when I ask, perhaps because I am a ghost to her, or the faint whisper of a dream she doesn't understand) and in her place (I know this one - Ireland, although not as we know it today).
It was dusk, and she stood with a number of other young women in a circle, surrounded by another circle, men. They were laughing, smiling, the women turning deosil, the men widdershins. In the center, beside the balefire, the High Priest and High Priestess watched, waited, listened to the inner call.
With an unspoken accord, Priest and Priestess made their choices, selected a woman, a man, and led them away into the fields. The two circles slowed, stilled, and each woman faced a man. They joined hands and wandered into the fields, newly furrowed for spring planting.
Odd, how in dreams one may know things the waking mind cannot, will not, does not want to know.
Kate was exuberant, joyful, a sexual woman who was not ashamed of her wantonness, of the pleasure she took from men or the pleasure they took from her. Not taken. Freely given.
I watched, the moon above smiling down on these children of the earth who were performing a ritual as old as agriculture - showing the land how to go, encouraging fertility, feeling their blood run as the sap in the trees, fiery, hot, rushing and roaring to bring forth new life.
I watched, but I also experienced, because I was, after all, once Kate. At least - I think I was. I believe I was. Can't prove it, though. I guess it doesn't matter, because a delusion, to the deluded, is a real as anything.
Dark earth below, loamy, soft, richly perfumed. Moonlit sky above, scattered stars providing soprano counterpoint to the moon's soft alto crooning. Lovers tender, wild, consumed and consuming, caught up in Spring's symphony, chorus of night creatures creating a tapestry of song punctuated by lover's cries. Beautiful.
I woke with the dream's dawn, feeling Kate's release shivering through me, a shadow of her elation still with me, an invisible robe of satiation wrapped around me.
Sometimes I envy Kate - she was so easy in her skin, so content to be who she was, so fearless and unabashed about her sexuality. If she wasn't, isn't, real, I don't care - she's a part of me, a reminder of what I could be, could have, if only I can learn to let go.
Whether from memory or wanting, I cannot say, but some part of me resonates with that dream, the unthinking, the passionate part. All these hours later, I am still shaking, fine tremors in my hand forcing me to retype, correct spelling errors, clean up spilled water, catch dropped things.
I am reminded that I have neglected a part of my life, of my psyche, for too long. I hope it goes away...and I hope it remains.
It was the dream that did it.
I dreamed I was Kate again, back in her time (whenever it was - I cannot say, there is never a calendar and she doesn't answer when I ask, perhaps because I am a ghost to her, or the faint whisper of a dream she doesn't understand) and in her place (I know this one - Ireland, although not as we know it today).
It was dusk, and she stood with a number of other young women in a circle, surrounded by another circle, men. They were laughing, smiling, the women turning deosil, the men widdershins. In the center, beside the balefire, the High Priest and High Priestess watched, waited, listened to the inner call.
With an unspoken accord, Priest and Priestess made their choices, selected a woman, a man, and led them away into the fields. The two circles slowed, stilled, and each woman faced a man. They joined hands and wandered into the fields, newly furrowed for spring planting.
Odd, how in dreams one may know things the waking mind cannot, will not, does not want to know.
Kate was exuberant, joyful, a sexual woman who was not ashamed of her wantonness, of the pleasure she took from men or the pleasure they took from her. Not taken. Freely given.
I watched, the moon above smiling down on these children of the earth who were performing a ritual as old as agriculture - showing the land how to go, encouraging fertility, feeling their blood run as the sap in the trees, fiery, hot, rushing and roaring to bring forth new life.
I watched, but I also experienced, because I was, after all, once Kate. At least - I think I was. I believe I was. Can't prove it, though. I guess it doesn't matter, because a delusion, to the deluded, is a real as anything.
Dark earth below, loamy, soft, richly perfumed. Moonlit sky above, scattered stars providing soprano counterpoint to the moon's soft alto crooning. Lovers tender, wild, consumed and consuming, caught up in Spring's symphony, chorus of night creatures creating a tapestry of song punctuated by lover's cries. Beautiful.
I woke with the dream's dawn, feeling Kate's release shivering through me, a shadow of her elation still with me, an invisible robe of satiation wrapped around me.
Sometimes I envy Kate - she was so easy in her skin, so content to be who she was, so fearless and unabashed about her sexuality. If she wasn't, isn't, real, I don't care - she's a part of me, a reminder of what I could be, could have, if only I can learn to let go.
Whether from memory or wanting, I cannot say, but some part of me resonates with that dream, the unthinking, the passionate part. All these hours later, I am still shaking, fine tremors in my hand forcing me to retype, correct spelling errors, clean up spilled water, catch dropped things.
I am reminded that I have neglected a part of my life, of my psyche, for too long. I hope it goes away...and I hope it remains.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Beneath the Bright Moon
The moon is full and I am empty, but not empty. More, I feel empty in a place that was once full, and I am looking for what is lost, or may never have been there in the first place.
~~~~~
Standing by the river, I watch it flow, swift, swollen, dark mysteries silver beneath the bright moon. I am silver beneath the bright moon. Alone and silver.
I wonder where you are, beneath this same bright moon. Are you in the deep wood, dancing with shadows? Or do you glide along pathways of light, beside this same river, across the water where I cannot see?
I miss you, Lord of my Desire, Lord of my Dance, of my Song, of my Inner Fire. From one life to the next have we been together, so where are you in this here and now?
I am waiting here, beneath the bright moon, her cool light against my fevered skin a blessing, a promise, but her whisper soft touch is not what I crave.
I crave you, Lord of my Desire, Lord of my Dance, of my Song, of my Inner Fire. I crave your fingers trailing liquid heat along my flesh, your kisses arousing and chilling me outward from my Center, your warmth along my length as we swim in the river, ardor briefly cooled by the silken caress of the sweet water beneath the bright moon. I crave you sliding along me, slick, wet, fitted to me so perfectly, half made whole beneath the bright moon.
I am lost here, beside the river, lost without you, able only to flounder in the shallows without you, alone and lost beneath the bright moon.
Hurry, Lord of my Desire, Lord of my Dance, of my Song, of my Inner Fire...hurry and find me again.
~~~~~
Standing by the river, I watch it flow, swift, swollen, dark mysteries silver beneath the bright moon. I am silver beneath the bright moon. Alone and silver.
I wonder where you are, beneath this same bright moon. Are you in the deep wood, dancing with shadows? Or do you glide along pathways of light, beside this same river, across the water where I cannot see?
I miss you, Lord of my Desire, Lord of my Dance, of my Song, of my Inner Fire. From one life to the next have we been together, so where are you in this here and now?
I am waiting here, beneath the bright moon, her cool light against my fevered skin a blessing, a promise, but her whisper soft touch is not what I crave.
I crave you, Lord of my Desire, Lord of my Dance, of my Song, of my Inner Fire. I crave your fingers trailing liquid heat along my flesh, your kisses arousing and chilling me outward from my Center, your warmth along my length as we swim in the river, ardor briefly cooled by the silken caress of the sweet water beneath the bright moon. I crave you sliding along me, slick, wet, fitted to me so perfectly, half made whole beneath the bright moon.
I am lost here, beside the river, lost without you, able only to flounder in the shallows without you, alone and lost beneath the bright moon.
Hurry, Lord of my Desire, Lord of my Dance, of my Song, of my Inner Fire...hurry and find me again.
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Unkindest Cut
I have nowhere to direct the ever-present anger. I bite down on it, clench it in my teeth until my head aches, my neck aches, my whole body aches from the strain. I can't seem to find relief from it, nor can I release it, let loose the flood, pour it forth in a stream of vituperative, toxic words until I'm spent.
I must consider how I speak to my son, sweet child, little boy who trembles when he approaches me as I clean, muttering to myself, he trembles when he walks into the room and in his small-boy voice says, quavering, "Mommy? Mommy, I love you..." huddled in on himself and ready to fly if I move too quickly toward him. I've never struck him, never lashed out at him in anger...but he knows it is not safe...and he knows he needs to tell me...sweet boy...he loves me and doesn't understand.
I cannot let the angry words slip out into his world, so I chew on them, swallow the bitterness, and try to turn it into sweet smiles, cuddles, hugs, try to buffer him from it all.
I cannot speak to the people in my life - they have made their feelings plain, they don't want to hear it any more, they are bored with it, tired of it, can't bring themselves to care, to offer support let along help craft a solution.
So.
So, so, so.
What is the Angel to do?
A few days ago, I found myself staring at a knife, thinking about slicing, about pain and blood and release. I can see it, feel it, in my mind - just a small cut, tiny, it wouldn't have to be visible, and if anyone saw it I could blame the cat's claws, her startled jump at some noise or motion, it's happened before and I almost always have a scabbed over scratch or fine crimson line on some portion of my anatomy.
Anatomy.
I'm well schooled in anatomy. I could cut just the right places, feel the fiery burn shiver along its course, a slender tracery of the anger marking me, of the scarlet web encircling my psyche, holding me in, down, apart. I could make patterns, designs, a horrible sort of artwork out of it. Who would notice? I could hide it for days, months, years if I wanted to, always careful with my secret until the work is done.
I could.
I don't. I won't.
But I want to.
Oh, how I want to.
The unkindest cut...perhaps...is the one I haven't made.
I must consider how I speak to my son, sweet child, little boy who trembles when he approaches me as I clean, muttering to myself, he trembles when he walks into the room and in his small-boy voice says, quavering, "Mommy? Mommy, I love you..." huddled in on himself and ready to fly if I move too quickly toward him. I've never struck him, never lashed out at him in anger...but he knows it is not safe...and he knows he needs to tell me...sweet boy...he loves me and doesn't understand.
I cannot let the angry words slip out into his world, so I chew on them, swallow the bitterness, and try to turn it into sweet smiles, cuddles, hugs, try to buffer him from it all.
I cannot speak to the people in my life - they have made their feelings plain, they don't want to hear it any more, they are bored with it, tired of it, can't bring themselves to care, to offer support let along help craft a solution.
So.
So, so, so.
What is the Angel to do?
A few days ago, I found myself staring at a knife, thinking about slicing, about pain and blood and release. I can see it, feel it, in my mind - just a small cut, tiny, it wouldn't have to be visible, and if anyone saw it I could blame the cat's claws, her startled jump at some noise or motion, it's happened before and I almost always have a scabbed over scratch or fine crimson line on some portion of my anatomy.
Anatomy.
I'm well schooled in anatomy. I could cut just the right places, feel the fiery burn shiver along its course, a slender tracery of the anger marking me, of the scarlet web encircling my psyche, holding me in, down, apart. I could make patterns, designs, a horrible sort of artwork out of it. Who would notice? I could hide it for days, months, years if I wanted to, always careful with my secret until the work is done.
I could.
I don't. I won't.
But I want to.
Oh, how I want to.
The unkindest cut...perhaps...is the one I haven't made.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
How Did It Come to This?
Sometimes I get so angry...and I am lost inside it, this relentless rage that simmers, bubbles, erupts...and I feel defeated, remembering how I used to be, so gentle, so compassionate, so kind...but now, I am nothing but rage contained in a burnt-sugar crust, looking solid but belying the heat beneath, so ready to burst forth at the slightest touch.
I want to scream at my husband "Don't fucking touch me, not now, not ever, don't you fucking dare. Don't breathe near me, you stink like rotting flesh. Don't look at me. Don't speak to me, because the sound of your voice makes me want to stab myself in the ear with a chopstick. Don't try to make excuses for why you failed, yet again, to follow through with your promises (direct or implied) and left me holding the bag, left me changing plans at the last minute, left me doing without because you just. Don't. Give. A. Damn."
I want to kill him, I'm so full of frothing hatred. I want to strangle him, choke the life out of him, make him feel what he's done to my spirit. I want to stab him, watch him bleed, feel the warm, stickiness on my hands, smell the hot copper of it. I want to poison him, to watch him twitch, convulse, his face a rictus of pain and horror.
I want to hurt him, torture his mind, kick him in the psyche until he's nothing more than a quivering husk, huddled in the corner, crying out "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." until I believe him or grow weary of his mewling and end our combined misery with a bullet to his brain.
How does love turn into this?
How does a loving, gentle, compassionate, caring, kind, decent woman become the kind of person who has these thoughts? How did I grow so very angry...where did it come from? And what do I do about it? I can't act...and even the thoughts make me ill...but I can't seem to stop myself fantasizing...maybe...what if...?
I want to scream at my husband "Don't fucking touch me, not now, not ever, don't you fucking dare. Don't breathe near me, you stink like rotting flesh. Don't look at me. Don't speak to me, because the sound of your voice makes me want to stab myself in the ear with a chopstick. Don't try to make excuses for why you failed, yet again, to follow through with your promises (direct or implied) and left me holding the bag, left me changing plans at the last minute, left me doing without because you just. Don't. Give. A. Damn."
I want to kill him, I'm so full of frothing hatred. I want to strangle him, choke the life out of him, make him feel what he's done to my spirit. I want to stab him, watch him bleed, feel the warm, stickiness on my hands, smell the hot copper of it. I want to poison him, to watch him twitch, convulse, his face a rictus of pain and horror.
I want to hurt him, torture his mind, kick him in the psyche until he's nothing more than a quivering husk, huddled in the corner, crying out "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." until I believe him or grow weary of his mewling and end our combined misery with a bullet to his brain.
How does love turn into this?
How does a loving, gentle, compassionate, caring, kind, decent woman become the kind of person who has these thoughts? How did I grow so very angry...where did it come from? And what do I do about it? I can't act...and even the thoughts make me ill...but I can't seem to stop myself fantasizing...maybe...what if...?
Monday, February 23, 2009
Fantasies I Could Do Without
Warning - mature content, graphic and sensitive words, stories, thoughts, and/or issues ahead. Continue at your own risk.
When I was a child, I was sexually molested, first by a trusted friend and neighbor, then in later years by a family member. I never spoke of these events with anyone until I was an adult, talking to the first shrink I'd found who I trusted implicitly. As an aside, he ruined me for other shrinks - I haven't even bothered looking for one since I moved some twelve years ago, because no on else will be him. It sucks losing a really good doctor!
Anyway.
In addition to the molestation, I was raped when I was in my teens.
These things had a fair bit of impact on how I viewed myself, the world, and people in general. I believe, and research backs me in this, that my weight ballooned as it did as a defense mechanism - after all, everyone knows that fat girls are ugly and no one wants to have The Sex with them.
The above is history for the following. Hopefully you'll see the connection.
I think it's perfectly healthy to have a fantasy life, to mentally act out scenarios while having sex or masturbating (you have no idea how hard...er...difficult it was for me to type that!). I mean, what are you going to think about, the laundry? Hmm...come to think of it...I have thought about laundry, dishes, chores, or scheduling while doing the nasty before. Sad.
One of my recurring fantasies is a rape fantasy. Yes, you read that right - and if it weren't for the utter anonymity of this blog, I wouldn't admit it. Hell, I don't even like thinking about it. It's true, though - I have several scenarios that run through my mind when I'm....well, you know.
Sometimes it's a priest, on an altar or in the confessional, or as I kneel and pray (from behind). I would like to note that I'm not even Catholic, and never have been.
Sometimes it's a cop, against the back of his cruiser.
Sometimes it's a whole gang, taking turns.
There are others...but honestly, I can't bring myself to type them all. Always it's violent, messy, dehumanizing, and I'm an unwilling participant...in the fantasy, anyway.
I don't know why I have them. You'd think I wouldn't, considering my history. You'd think I would shy away from such thoughts, be disgusted by them. You'd think.
I don't know...maybe I'm trying to take back control...to turn those moments of pain and powerlessness into triumphs - a way to thumb my nose at what was, change what is, empower what will be.
Maybe I'm just sick in the head.
I don't feel proud of these thoughts...I don't feel good about them, after. I wish I could cleanse them from my mind, erase them from my slate. They are dark thoughts, feeding other dark thoughts, and I am shamed by them.
Why write about them? Because I need to put them somewhere...somewhere they can fade, turn to dust, or maybe be explained by someone who gets it. Gods know, I sure don't.
When I was a child, I was sexually molested, first by a trusted friend and neighbor, then in later years by a family member. I never spoke of these events with anyone until I was an adult, talking to the first shrink I'd found who I trusted implicitly. As an aside, he ruined me for other shrinks - I haven't even bothered looking for one since I moved some twelve years ago, because no on else will be him. It sucks losing a really good doctor!
Anyway.
In addition to the molestation, I was raped when I was in my teens.
These things had a fair bit of impact on how I viewed myself, the world, and people in general. I believe, and research backs me in this, that my weight ballooned as it did as a defense mechanism - after all, everyone knows that fat girls are ugly and no one wants to have The Sex with them.
The above is history for the following. Hopefully you'll see the connection.
I think it's perfectly healthy to have a fantasy life, to mentally act out scenarios while having sex or masturbating (you have no idea how hard...er...difficult it was for me to type that!). I mean, what are you going to think about, the laundry? Hmm...come to think of it...I have thought about laundry, dishes, chores, or scheduling while doing the nasty before. Sad.
One of my recurring fantasies is a rape fantasy. Yes, you read that right - and if it weren't for the utter anonymity of this blog, I wouldn't admit it. Hell, I don't even like thinking about it. It's true, though - I have several scenarios that run through my mind when I'm....well, you know.
Sometimes it's a priest, on an altar or in the confessional, or as I kneel and pray (from behind). I would like to note that I'm not even Catholic, and never have been.
Sometimes it's a cop, against the back of his cruiser.
Sometimes it's a whole gang, taking turns.
There are others...but honestly, I can't bring myself to type them all. Always it's violent, messy, dehumanizing, and I'm an unwilling participant...in the fantasy, anyway.
I don't know why I have them. You'd think I wouldn't, considering my history. You'd think I would shy away from such thoughts, be disgusted by them. You'd think.
I don't know...maybe I'm trying to take back control...to turn those moments of pain and powerlessness into triumphs - a way to thumb my nose at what was, change what is, empower what will be.
Maybe I'm just sick in the head.
I don't feel proud of these thoughts...I don't feel good about them, after. I wish I could cleanse them from my mind, erase them from my slate. They are dark thoughts, feeding other dark thoughts, and I am shamed by them.
Why write about them? Because I need to put them somewhere...somewhere they can fade, turn to dust, or maybe be explained by someone who gets it. Gods know, I sure don't.
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