Sunday, June 5, 2011


Last night he said something to me that he's said before, but this time, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

He said that what he gives me is a gift, that what pleasure I receive is not expected to be reciprocated and that, indeed, if attempts are made to reciprocate immediately it can feel contrived and detract from the experience as a whole. He's quite experienced and I trust he can read me even if I can't read myself, and he said it all smiling, without judgment and with this look of adoration I just couldn't stand to meet for very long.

A gift, though. I'd never thought of it that way when receiving. I'd always wanted him to know it was felt, appreciated, enjoyed, but in simply thinking that much I'd interrupted what was meant to invite pure reaction.

So it  becomes now the challenge to release the burden of thought and the impulse to act upon it, to be of the moment and made only of the reactions to what gifts he gives me. It'll be very difficult. I'm going to need help. Reminded again of a line in someone's post on that Fetlife website to the effect of being beaten hard enough that one forget's one's own name. Can't help but feel it must be something like that, an intensity so strong it whites out the basics of identity, those lines which define the awful edges where you end and I begin.

Ridiculous, that I should feel guilty being asked only to react to his gifts, that if it meant I would only lie there silently and swoon then I should do so.

Pleasing him is erotic in it's own right; it pleasures me to pleasure him, and so it seems that feeling is mutual. Shouldn't be so hard to accept the fact and simply be of the moment when gifts are given, but for some monstrous reason, it is. Walled contrivances and inapplicable obligations begging to be beaten down, ruts directing flows of thought though the logic within them is sound. Shatter them, spill everything until it's no more than skin thinned along the surface of the now.

Pretty thoughts and pretty images and the simplicity of naivety painting with too many colors, there must be names for these desires beyond the glossary of a new lifestyle. Getting lost in conversations had years ago on some obscure fetish forum because I found a reflection of my own feeling in the line of a stranger's paragraph, why didn't I look here before, do this before, be this with you together before now?

But it doesn't really matter, does it. We're here. This is now. And I want to stay here in this moment and savor what I've been so long without. You've been here, I've been there, we've crossed sometimes but we've never been this. Feels like the fairytale we are, insatiable.

Feels like falling in love all over again.

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