Blog, Erotica, Kink, Psychological & CNC

Transitions and Transience

I folded myself over on the couch, burying my face into his warmth. “I don’t know how to want you right now,” I said, “but I do.”

Transitions are inherently awkward and god, there have been so many lately. For someone who loves movement, the shifting, chaotic whirlwinds of change, it’s been hard to know where to place my feet through these tectonic shifts. Uncertainty has become a crippling doubt; I’m overthinking the steps of a dance I used to know inherently. So when I look at him, his eyes full of mischief and challenge, I hesitate where I used to grab hold and wonder if I am reading this right. The ground beneath me feels solid but I’m scared to trust it. In truth, though, I am mostly afraid to trust myself.

His teeth on my skin, and I’m struggling to keep from gasping. My hips arch up, his hand on my throat, god, I need this. Inside of me, a storm brewing; I have reached the point where my words are unfiltered whimpers and we have said just enough to make it ok. I got you; you got me? A nod, and the collision of skin, grasping, pulling, pressing. Need, and desire, and the transience of time, the awkwardness of transition lost in the ways we connect, and reconnect, like no time has passed since we were here last.

Feeling myself slowly unclench, unwind, uncoil. I have been wound so tight without realizing it until the moment I began to relax. Control. Remember how to lean into letting go. Stop thinking and be. Stop trying and do. Want, the kind that permeates and builds and comes to the surface like a fresh spring bubbling up. I remember how to do this, maybe.

A pinprick, two, three, four. I want to taste his blood but I’m not great at getting to it. Still, some small pools begin to form, and my mouth waters. Leaning down, I slowly lick the drops that threaten to slide down his skin. Small, metallic pinpricks blossom on the back of my tongue. I want more. Savoring, saving. There is time. Start slow.

“If only I could get to yours,” he says, and I know I would offer it to him if he asked. Told. I’m not thinking about that right now.

Time stretches, and I am drunk on the scent of him everywhere, wanting more, always more, and this is exactly enough. Let it take hours. I care if he cums insofar as I want him to get what he wants, but this could take all night and I would fuck him, eagerly, and never get tired of this, of him. I’ve missed this; not the sex, per se, but the passion, the creativity when we fuck, when we want, when we reposition bodies through movement, through tying, through pleasure, the way our skin moves and shapes and forms and molds to one another.

“I’m sorry that took so long,” he says, and I want to shake him.

“I- what? No. Please don’t ever apologize for that.”

Sex is easy; it’s always been the simpler part to focus on. But there is more, so much more than sex that come in the cracks and moments no one else notices or sees. Snippets of conversation. A question- “I don’t know how to ask this, but… was this ok? Like… is this a fucked up way to portray this? Offensive?” -about a movie I only half-processed as the rum slowly seeps through my senses, the rum I drank to dull my senses and cut through the emotional outpouring I was scared might erupt from within. Transitions in gender, in conversation and tone, in the position and movement of limbs and language in the space between one another. The ground is shifting so quickly, I barely notice it anymore, my body grown accustomed to the reverberations of changing landscape.

Salmon roe on the end of a chopstick. Resistance. No. So many times, no. I’m not eating that. I don’t know when I realized that red was my only way out, but it was sometime before the salty bubble touched my lips. I knew I didn’t want to.

I knew I wanted to do something I didn’t want to do because he asked me to.

These are the easy parts. Even the moments I struggled are easy in a sense because I like the struggle. Choking out the words.

“Fuck. I’m sorry; I think I really need to get off before I go to work. Is that…ok…to do? You don’t have to do anything, or engage at all. I just… need to roll over and do this thing.”

I knew it might come to this conversation, but I still wasn’t prepared for how to have it. It’s a physical need, like nicotine or caffeine; I just needed to get off. So when he starts unbuckling his pants, I want to bury my head in shame. Fuck. I didn’t mean to pressure him, and yet, here he is, doing something because I said I needed a thing, and…

“It’s really ok. You don’t have to…”

He cuts me off. “But what if I want to?” he asks. I blush.

“I mean… yeah, if you want to, go for it. Just… you’re not… y’know, obligated to do anything.”

“I know,” he says, patiently. I lay on my back and grab my hitachi. He pulls it from my hand. “C’mere,” he says.

I roll toward him, embarrassed, and he grabs my hair, shoved my face toward his cock. Oh, fuck. Yup. Ok. I roll onto my knees and take him into my mouth eagerly. He hands me the hitachi.

“Do both.”

Sex is easy; it’s the push and pull of who we are, how we interact that gets under my skin. How do you explain the vast context of experience that goes into the microreactions shifting like high-speed clouds rolling across my face? Sex is easy because it gives me something to curl my fingers into, something to hold onto, something I cannot doubt or diminish or dismiss. The rest is trust. I’ll start asking more if you’ll start saying “no” more. An agreement months ago, and we are on the precipice, the other side of transition now, from there to here, where I have to start asking more. Where we push and pull against ourselves and each other.

Sex is easy because I can ignore the push-pull cyclical dialogue that happens beneath the surface.

Tell me what you want.

I want you to tell me what to do.

So… tell me what you want.

Is this always the subtext? No. But I can’t ignore it when it divorces itself from explicit sexuality, and so I focus on sex, because gives me a way to process this without acknowledging it. Engage without seeing it. Sex is the blindfold depriving my sensations of input and calling it organic emersion.

Transition and transience. What do you see? A friend, a parent, a lover, a teacher, a play partner, a person panicked, a person trapped between pride and desire, a person struggling to learn where to place their words. They are all true, but in the moments between one and the other, what do you see? The cracks and fragments of transition are where we are the most real.

Is it ok that I love you this hard? I ask. I need to know that this is ok. Permission to desire. Hard means deeply, but it also means difficult. I love hard, push and press against the edges, one hand on the railing with the rest of my body leaning out over the abyss. I got you; do you got me? I already know the answer to this; I can feel the pressure of his hand wrapped around my wrist as I let go.

The shifting movement of the earth becomes irrelevant as my feet touch the sky, and I only learn how to fly when I let go of the illusion that I ever controlled the ground I walked on.

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