What is it with these storms? They make me itch, make me ravenous. And in my current state of mind- the kind that says, “The world is terrible and we’re headed for collision; we’re all going to die so make the most of it now,”- these storms make me just a little bit reckless.
They make me crave. I want the kiss of a knife, the rush of a hand around my throat, the trapped panic of my back against the wall, the unyielding bite of rope, the heat of fire.
I want to lose my sense of words so that they tumble out without order or thought in stream of consciousness nonsense. I want to know what it feels like to cum upside-down- or if I even can. I want to lose my senses, one by one, and then regain them intermittently. I want to bury myself in the shame of the acknowledgement of affection shown and breathe through it.
I want to get pushed to breathe through it.
I want to get pushed, to find the edges of my comfort and control and move past that. I don’t want to think; I want to do.
These storms, they swirl and call to something in me. I feel tense, tightly coiled, looking for release. I’m begging for it and drunk on the sensation of having no sense of when or where or how I can.
I want to tell you every time I have jacked off to thoughts of you, just to see what you’d say (I won’t, but I want to).
I want you to tell me to cum with intention, your name on my lips when your touch is just slightly out of reach.
So much touch that is so much more than slightly out of reach. Anticipation leads to expectation leads to disappointment. I just want to feel this.
I want to feel, in crevices of my skin. To be overwhelmed and overstimulated until my mind short circuits and I stop wondering if you’re going to stop if I push back too hard.
I want. These words taste reckless, and I love it. They taste like desire and dreams that I don’t remember. They taste like bad ideas and good stories and coffee at midnight and what if… moments we laugh about later.
I don’t know what it is about these storms, these summer storms that tease my skin and build the pressure in the air that brings desire so poignantly to the surface.
But I don’t care. The storms are building again and there is a rainbow in the sky- a promise, I laugh, though I don’t know what for, and I don’t put much stock in promises, usually– but this is different. I am wet with wanting and rain and anticipation, I am soaking with desire and dreams. I am building with reckless energy that is begging to unleash.
Today, I would beg for release.
Monomaniacism 