He asks you,
“What does it feel like?”
A reasonable question;
But how do you answer?
It’s a constant, pressing need
A pilot light waiting to grow
Ignite to an inferno
How could you express that desire in words
Explain the claiming, aching hunger
That will devour you if not satiated
You pull him to you
With patience you do not have
And slowly describe
How the fire feels under your skin
Do you bite?
Do you beg?
Because language is sighs and grunts,
Moans and screams
Tangles of limbs and sweat,
Fingers in hair,
Squeezing around skin,
Pinning the claws against his back.
A roar that could be yours or his,
Or never have happened at all
Yet in the after,
In the quiet stillness
Where time could be measured in seconds,
And still all feel the same
He still wants to know.
So, you suppose,
You will have to show him
All over again
Until he finally extinguishes the flame
“I don’t like how the word feels in my mouth.”
He tells you,
“I don’t like the shape of the words.
I could call you so many things, my dear,
But they don’t sound right coming from my lips.”
You look at him, confused, as his fingers trail to your chin,
Tilting your head up, oh so gently
“I want to ask the question.
I want to hear the sounds that you emit.
The words stuck in your throat,
As I drive sense from your brain.
I want to feel you around me
As I make you say you’re mine.
More than your agreement,
I want your affirmation.
I want to taste the air as you call yourself
It sounds so much better in your voice
To hear you say, or try to say,
In every way you want me.”
The voice on the line
The knock at the door
Your stomach flips over
And you choose:
Open it, or don’t
Slam it in his face
Or he comes across the threshold
And you see his eyes, the corner of his mouth.
It twitches into the smile he saves for you
And you alone.
The fog clouding your brain:
Is it a hand or a claw that reaches out?
Drawing him to you, pulling him so closely,
To press the air from his lungs or because the space is intolerable.
Resentment, annoyance, humiliation, gone.
Because there is truth in the way his mouth forms around yours,
In his hands that can’t touch everywhere at once,
But will try their damnedest anyway.
When he calls your name
And makes you helpless to your hunger,
Do you feel the heat in your blood
Pulsing through your veins?
Does the fire make you burn brighter
Or turn you to ashes at his feet?
When he calls your name
And you scream his into the night
There is sincerity in the touch
That tries to erase things
You will remember in a moment’s time
When he calls your name
And makes you wish for nothing more
Than the sweet surrender of submission,
The bitter taste of honesty,
Whether it is love, or starvation
It does not matter.
You taste the words on his lips
And make them yours,
Owning them as completely
As he might have once owned you.
He comes in a suit.
It’s clean. With a matching tie. His beard trimmed.
He tells me,
“If I attacked you, you wouldn’t look me in the eye.”
He and his friend had come into my work the week before. Drank too much. Tipped too little.
His friend says he wanted to hear us fuck.
They try to get me to leave with them. They say we’ll play guitar and sing. Maybe more.
They say I don’t have to fuck either of them. Or I could.
After all, the night is still young.
I get them out the door, and he stops, right in front of me.
“But I just wanted a kiss,”
I ask him it back.
“Did you just want a kiss?”
He smells like whisky, with bloodshot eyes. His skin droops and sags.
“Well and then see where it goes, but you won’t fuck me. You won’t ever fuck me.”
Another coworker is waiting, trying to get inside, but he’s on top of me and I’m back against the door unable to run back inside or leave.
So I kiss his cheek and say,
“Get home safe.”
And they finally exit, let my coworker come through. Let me go back inside.
So he comes back in his suit and says
“I don’t remember what happened,”
“My friend told me I should come back and ask you out. That you’d say yes.’
He tells me,
“The other guy, the other one that works with you, said I don’t know what you did but I basically raped you.”
He says, many times,
“But I didn’t rape you.”
He sits at the counter, with his smoothed out hair and alcohol on his breath,
“I am sorry,
But it’s all moot isn’t it,
Because you will never fuck me.”
And he doesn’t understand that what happened was intimidating. That his presence makes me nauseous.
“I didn’t assault you”
“I didn’t touch you,”
“I didn’t rape you.”
Because this standard is such that If you, a well meaning man,
Come into my work
Where I make the money I need to survive
And make me feel threatened,
Trap me with no place to run
Tell me I’m only as important as my legs will spread for you
Because, as you said,
You didn’t fucking rape me.
Because I will still look at you.
Because I will talk to you.
So nothing really happened.
Nothing happened at all.
I don’t want to drunk message you.
So I’m writing this instead
Because I’m sick of using inebriation to tell you what’s on my mind.
I want you to fuck me so hard I see stars.
I want you here, in my arms.
I want you to sneak me away and fuck me against the bathroom stall – with girls coming in seeing my fingers curled around the metal frame, hearing moans and grunts and sighs.
I want you to pin me down, twist my hair in your hand, and tell me I’m not going anywhere.
And then I want you to hold me close- like in that moment I’m the only person that matters.
Because goddammit, I miss you.
I miss you so much it hurts.
And I know full well you don’t feel the same.
You don’t say hi anymore. You don’t call, or message, unless I cave and make the first communication. And it sucks. So fucking much.
But, I also get it. You’re hung up on your ex. You are very, very far away. So, I won’t tell you any of these things that occupy my mind.
But I miss your arms around me. I miss the way you look at me and the way you say my name. I miss the way you smile at me when you haven’t seen me in a while, kiss me and say, “Well, I feel better.”
And I can only say these things when there are stars in the sky, when my breath smells like whisky and life is blurred around the edges.
I hate that you make me feel these things, and that you don’t feel them back.
So that’s why I’ll write them here. I won’t burden you with a message you feel like you have to respond to, and probably won’t know how to, when you’re thousands of miles away.
This is my safe place. To openly feel whatever it is I’m feeling.
I miss you. And I really wish I didn’t.
You make me want to scratch my face off.
It’s not out of anger – it’s that every second you’ve been in my life has been a combination of fluttery highs that have made me happier than I can describe, and anxiety of when am I going to fuck this up because I know I will.
And it’s not that you have not told me how you feel, if your own special and lovely way. It’s in the way you touch my skin, in your words in my ear, in the way you raise your eyebrow that tells me you’re thinking of all sorts of terrible things you want to do to me. In the way you say you miss me. In the way you call just to say hi.
It’s because I never thought I’d feel this way at all, let alone with someone who could, maybe, possibly, like me back just as much.
And having never done the adult actual bona fide relationship thing, I’ve never had any desire to have the conversation of;
“So, what are we?”
Because any time this might have potentially come out I would retreat into emotionless pit of darkness with a supply of vitamin D supplements because no one has time for that shit.
But you make me want to venture out of my little fox hole and sniff at the sun.
And you terrify me, but in a way that makes me want to jump off the high dive, that pushes me further, that makes me want to try.
So, the other day when we had a conversation about our future goals, our plans, our dreams – I had a moment of;
Is this enough for you?
I am not ashamed of my job, of what I’m working for, of what I’m doing. But the nomadic, artistic life is definitely one of those concepts that will make a person say
“Go do it, go follow your dreams and passions and conquer the world,”
“Sure, that’s fine, but what are your real goals?”
And I’ve been thinking about this, because again, that nagging horrible voice in the back of my head is saying,
You’re not enough. What you want is not enough. They’ll want more.
And a realization came from a most unlikely of sources.
You, on your own, don’t have to be enough.
Because, you and I, and I know I’m getting so far ahead of myself, but, we can have our own little bit of happiness, create something together, and it can be ours and beautiful.
But you can also go do that with someone else, and that’s okay. You need to have your friends and your family and the other things in your life that complete you, and make you you. I need you to have a life outside of me, and need you to appreciate that I will have a life outside of you.
I’ve always thought about the concept of ‘other halves,’ solely in how it relates to me. In that, I firmly believe that one person will not fulfill all my emotional and physical needs. That one person, or no one, might be all I can handle at any given moment, or all I want at that specific moment, but in time, I may find that x and y is missing from my life. It might be that a and b needs aren’t being fulfilled. That I want to explore m and n. And that could be something requiring another physical partner, or something that friends, or even I can do on my own. I’ve been fluctuating with on my own personal tolerance for monogamy or nonmonogamy, and I’m still figuring it out. And it might take me a while to find an answer, if there even is one.
However, I haven’t spent too much time thinking about this from the opposite perspective. What it would mean if I was not enough for someone.
And again, I don’t know what we are right now.
But I know that I love the feel of your hands around my waist as my legs wrap around you.
I love the feel of your teeth against my shoulder.
I love sitting on your couch with a beer watching something stupid on TV.
My friend told me that my eyes go soft when I talk about you. Because you are a lot of firsts for me.
You are the first guy, as an adult, I have missed when they’re not around.
You are the first guy I would be willing, even want, to stick some sort of label on, whatever that may be. Something that gives it the impression of stability.
You are the first guy who’s friends I have met. Hell, met more than once.
You are the first guy who I want to come to, versus having them come to me.
You are some of, maybe the best sex I’ve ever had.
You are the first guy who makes me want for something more.
That being said,
You will not be my other half.
You will not be my soulmate.
You will not be the center of my universe.
But, you could be my love.
And I want to believe that we’ll figure it out as we go. Because if you are not enough for me, and I am not enough for you, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you don’t still want me, or that I don’t still want you.
And maybe that’s why I like you so goddamn much.
Written at the end of a very long day. Meant to be all in fun. Would write a female version, but I don’t have any experience with female profiles on Tinder. If someone wants to write that and link it to me, I’ll probably repost it if I think it’s funny.
TINDER DRINKING GAME
Take 1 drink each time you see:
A professional headshot ala American Psycho
The picture doesn’t include the guy
The picture includes the guy but the guy is out of frame so you have to go to the profile
The picture includes a girl that could be an SO
The picture has poorly edited out other people
The picture basically has neon lights screaming DOUCHEBAG
The picture has you wondering where the bodies are buried
Take 2 drinks each time:
The profile advertises the guy as some version of “dominant, *nudge nudge wink wink*
The profile openly advertises for a sub/slave (+1 if the guy has a gf and they are vanilla)*
The profile has any pseudo philosophical quote, i.e. You can’t destroy energy, only transfer it
The profile advertises the height of the guy as it relates to dick size
A girl popped up, & that’s not what you’re digging right now.
Take 3 drinks each time:
The profile advertises height as though they didn’t want to/it’s a chore
The profile says the girl has to message first
The profile “can’t believe they are on Tinder again”
You got through almost all/all of the pictures onto to see one that fell under the first category and/or once you read the profile
Blearily take a sip while continuing to swipe when:
You got so lost in swiping you’re pretty sure you passed a soulmate 5+ ago, and can’t do anything about it and it’s too much effort to care.
*Added because there is a website for this – Fetlife. Although people get angry on there too because its supposedly Kinky Facebook and Not Kinky Tinder. Because nobody can win, I guess.
I wrote this about 6 months ago, and had a friend post this writing elsewhere. It was before I started this blog. Now, I have a place to vent these feels, and the emotions then and now are more or less the same.
They ask me, ‘What does it feel like?’
I don’t know how to answer this question. I know how I want to answer the question, but it’s not an answer I can say aloud.
It feels like fire.
Normally no larger than a candle flicker, it grows, unwanted, unwarranted, always at the worst possible times. It feels like flames clawing their way through my skin, through my brain, and the only way to get rid of it is to bite, scratch – attack. To revert to the lizard brain and pounce on the next thing I see. It feels like a lethal combination of lust and raw power.
They rephrase the question.
‘What do you need?’
This is not rhetorical- it’s a question that needs an answer, and I’m in conflict.
The lion would pounce, bird would fly, fox would bite.
We’re past the point where human language has any meaning, where the only words understood are grunts, or moans – sighs or gasps.
And I pull them to me, with patience I do not have, and kiss them. I slowly show my hunger.
We fall into a tangle of limbs and sweat and I feel their hands everywhere, fingers in my hair, squeezing around my skin, trying to pin my hands that have become claws against their back, jaws snapping, thighs squeezing like pincers around their hips, and there is a roar that might have come from either of us or never have happened at all.
We breathe deeply, out of rhythm. It is not a moment for tender touches or sweet words as we take stock of the markings of the fire. I pick up my things and head to the door. The cursory goodbye, and I’m gone.
The cool air hits my face as the lizard brain retreats – humanity restored.
Control is back.
The flame simmers once again.
So in my post on New Year’s Day I mentioned that I wanted to write a book. In truth, I have been working on this already, and parts have been shared with different people.
The book changes POV, and part of the story involves the changing relationship/dynamic between two of the main characters. As simply as possible, they go from outright shouting matches to what is essentially stress relief/hate fucking. It’s not the main part of the story, but it’s in there. It boils down to using sex as a coping mechanism, and it not necessarily mattering who the other person is, but seeking human contact in the closest warm body you can stand touching you. Is it pretty? No. Does it happen? Sure.
Two people have read these parts relating to their relationship through in their entirety. Others have read chunks here and there. And it’s been quite interesting getting the feedback, because the guys that read it send me back much different interpretations than the girls.
I.e., the guys don’t understand the girl character’s agency.
Or, really, that she has agency. They’ve stated that they believe she’s being used.
I had a discussion about this with one of my very close guy friends – and he said it may have been a matter of experience. Have those reading it experienced sex in this way, even second hand? Is it beyond the purview of their experience and, therefore, it makes little to no sense why a character would behave in that way or make those assumptions or do x then y to get to z?
I don’t believe this is a 50-50 split. I don’t think every girl will immediately get it and every guy will immediately not. It’s simply that I’ve never experienced such a clear gender divide in interpreting writing before.
It’s not that this doesn’t happen. Look at the stigma around romance novels/women’s literature, erotica vs. porn, sci-fi, and some graphic novels.
How do we overcome this? Do we overcome this? It’s experience, and preferences, and choices, and life. There are conversations to be had about the differences between Literary Fiction and Women’s Fiction, but how we interpret the book itself? That’s a person to person case.
And this is not to say that the scene in question does not still need editing. It does. Or that I’m not grateful for the feedback. I am.
But when do you, as a writer, say, I’m listening to those comments more than yours? I can’t address your feedback and this feedback and not make it look like I was of a sound mind when this was being created?
Or maybe I’ll just stare at the computer screen until my eyeballs bleed, because writer’s block is just so, so real.