I haven’t been writing much lately, and I can feel it wearing away at me. When I don’t write, I feel weary, and when I don’t write because I don’t have time and energy to do so, I feel doubly weary. And I have been so, so weary lately. So I promised I would make some time for myself tonight to write.
And here I am. A blinking cursor and a blank page, and I wonder what I want to say.
“I’m trying to write and feel like I’m in danger of being Way Too Blunt And Honest.”
“Idk, I kinda think that’s how writing should be.”
There are words clogged up in my throat: I miss when sex was easy. Well, easier, anyway. When it was creative and fun and no one cared what time it was because we were so lost in one another that time became irrelevant.
When I sent sexy selfies and felt good about it. When I felt confident and competent and secure and certain.
Lately, I feel like I’m asking a lot. Like I AM a lot. Like engaging with me takes a lot of work and energy and effort. Maybe more than it’s worth.
I know it’s in my head. Mostly.
I start to touch words like, “Please fuck me in the ass,” and I swallow them or hit backspace until all evidence that they were ever there is erased. I start to reach out with my hands and will them into stillness. Everything got loaded, hard, complicated.
Maybe because I don’t know how to want. Or how to communicate what I want. Because some things are confusing, and some things are new, and some things are nerve-wracking, and some things… some things, I don’t even know how to ask the questions I want to ask.
“I’m in danger of being Way Too Honest…”
“…that’s how writing should be.”
I like the way that power makes desire feel more tangible over distance.
I like doing what someone tells me to because it means I don’t have to think, sure, but it also forces me to be more creative than I am when I am left to my own devices.
It makes me feel more secure. Lets me know I am wanted and desired and fun and interesting to engage. Not too much work. Not work, but fun.
I like pain because it gives me a place to focus my mind. Slow building pain, in particular.
I fight. I can’t not fight. I don’t mean to; it’s just an impulse reaction that takes some time to override in my brain. It doesn’t mean I don’t want it. The reality is, the harder I fight, the more I probably want whatever the thing is. My body has an adverse reaction to desire. Hence my gravitation toward bondage.
I don’t always know how strong I am. I am self-conscious about my body because it isn’t the archetype of standard beauty. I’m attractive in my unusual appearance, but once the novelty has worn off, I don’t always know what’s left. I am afraid of hurting the people I care about by accident because I’ve done it, more than once, and my body is stronger now. I don’t know how to ask for things I like when it’s something where someone has gotten hurt doing it.
I don’t talk much about my objectification kinks, but my desire to be a sort of…walking sex dispenser is a Thing. Like. Happy to just get grabbed, used as a fuckhole (I got three…) and then move along with life. Simple, easy, uncomplicated.
I’m a cynically hopeless romantic, but at the end of the day, the hopeless romantic always wins out over the cynical. I’m sappier than I want to admit, and because I don’t express that often, I don’t know how to when I want to.
I don’t… talk much about what I want anymore at all, really. I don’t connect with my desire most of the time; I feel like I spend more time trying to shut it down than I do expressing it.
I know when and why I stopped saying these things, and I understand why I have been afraid to start again.
But I’m tired now. Weary. Weary from holding things in, holding things back, not saying the things I want to say, not saying much of anything at all. I’m tired of everything feeling loaded and complicated and full of doubt.
I don’t want to feel like I’m too much effort. The solution has always been “then be less, need less.” But maybe the answer is the opposite. Maybe the answer is the be exactly what I am, need exactly what I need, want exactly what I want. Maybe the amount that I work to minimize everything is what makes it feel so loaded, pressurized, complicated.
Maybe it just has to be ok. Ok that everything doesn’t always line up exactly. Because something has to give. If I can’t express what I want, I don’t have a chance in hell of getting it. If I don’t talk about the things that are hard, they never get easier. If I don’t share what I’m feeling- or fucking acknowledge that I’m feeling anything- then I can’t deal with it.
I miss when everything was easier. When my brain just shut off and I didn’t have anything to lose. But I care more, now. And it makes me cautious. And caution makes me pause. And pausing makes me think, and thinking makes me hold back just in case.
And I am weary- so fucking weary- of holding back.