Hands, touching hands… reaching out

I need hands on my body
Hands on my skin
Touch I have hungered for
Needed so long
Want to be needed
Need to be kneaded
Massage
Muscle-knots always so tense
Carry all this anxiety
Walking with so much
Desire
Anger
Hurt
Too lonely
Still lovely
Vulnerably passionate
Predictably volatile
Pleadingly versatile
I need…

TOUCH.

Poem after a night of too little sleep

Midnight.
Exhausted. Shouldn’t have had so much caffeine.
I’m not going to sleep…
May as well clean.
There’s rearranging to do,
I’ve been putting it off too long.

4:04am
Error. Sleep not found.
I’m not only tired,
But physically drained
As well.
Sleep still won’t come
(and I don’t have the energy
to make myself come)
So I’ll take a bath instead,
Hope to wind down.

5:15am
“Past five in the morning
Feeling worse for the weather,
It seems…”
Erasure flits through my head
As so often happens
And I’m wishing I could sleep.
Still.
Turn on my computer
Click around on
Facebook for a few.
Killing time.

6:34am
I can feel my eyelids hanging heavy.
I post my standard
“G’night, FB!” photo and caption
Too tired to add
“song for the night, tumblr blog for the night”
Showcasing and sharing
Fun findings, sweet sounds
Finally drift off to slumber.

12:22pm
Wake up again.
Fuck, seriously?
One Two Two Two,
Ungh, too-too-too early
To be awake yet —
I only got to sleep less than
Sex hours ago.
Shit. I mean
Six
Hours ago. Fuck, I’m horny.
Back to sleep.

2:03pm
Eyes slowly open yet again.
Two or three… shit, even one
Warm body next to/inside/around mine
Would be lovely, but that’s not the way
I went down. It went down. Fuck.
Still horny.
Back to sl–
No, actually, full-to-nearly-bursting bladder
Says head in to the bathroom.
Then maybe back to sleep.

2:12pm
Two twelve-year-olds
Would mean a world of trouble
If they were in my bed. Don’t
Give it a second thought.
Go to sleep, dear,
Alone. Please, get some more
Sleep. You need the rest.

2:30pm
But… fuck!
A butt-fuck would be better
Than the gut-wrenching rumble
Of jet engines low overhead
Joined by the groaning, crashing roar
Of the central heating blasting too-hot air
Through an already over-warmed house
And the thump and beep-beep-beep
Of construction crews still hard at work
Replacing the sewer mains
In the neighborhood.

3:00pm
Three. The wishes, so they say,
From a “magic” lamp
And the powerful creature contained within.
If given the chance
I’d ask first
For a stable, safe, long-term place to live
Second
For the means to satisfy my body’s appetites:
Food for the hunger of my belly, variety and quantity
Sex for the lust that drives me, never lacking willing and eager partners
Intoxicants for the occasional desire to shift my conscious state
And third, finally,
For the financial means to care for myself
And to positively impact the lives of any and all
Who I saw lacking in their needs
The ability to alleviate suffering in all its forms
Even if only temporarily.

And then, I’d probably take a nap.

It keeps throwing me, the way that so many people conceive “having sex” as explicitly and only a penis in a vagina.

Like, distinguishing between “well, I got my cunt fingered and had the most AMAZING orgasm, but I didn’t have sex with that person.” I dunno, maybe I just have a wider concept of what sex can be than some people?

But I would totally count manual simulation to climax as sex. Cunnilingus? Sex. Mashing body against body with no penetration? Sex — even if there were no orgasms had by any of the participants. I mean, how is it possible for two cis* women to EVER “have sex” if the only thing that actually qualifies is a flesh phallus being pushed into a pussy? And yes, I know that’s exactly what has been historically used to “other” lesbians, to claim that it was a perversion of the Natural Way Of Things, etc.

But like… it’s hard to keep in mind that there’s no contradiction for a lot of people when they say “I might fool around a little bit but I won’t have sex” — even if that “fooling around” includes fingers on genitals, even if it includes kissing, even if it includes using toys on/in/with someone. To me, all of that is sex. To many other people, none of that is “having sex,” and it’s confusing for me.

You know who else puts a huge focus on “the singular sex act” though? Proponents of the proven-to-fail “abstinence-only” sex education. It’s the reason that there’s “the loophole” — anal sex isn’t “sex” and so the artificially constructed concept of “virginity” remains intact. Blowjobs? Not sex, apparently, depending on who you ask and when.

So when I talk about the lack of sex in my life, I’m not saying “I haven’t put my cock into any cis* chick’s cunt as much as I’d like.” And honestly, while that is one of the few things that I’d like to have happen, it’s not high on the list. I’m saying that as far as any of the myriad things that sex can be, I’ve had very limited opportunities for any of those. Being held close while I use my hands to cum… is sex. Being held close while someone else uses their hands to make me cum… also sex. That’s about the extent of the few-and-far-between encounters I’ve had in a very long time, though, and I want both more frequency and more variations — there are lots of fun things I’d like to try, and lots of things I’d love to do again, and they all involve other willing human participants.

I wonder if there’s a communication gap, then, when I say I want sex and other people hear “I wanna stick it in you.” Because that’s not at all what I mean. I mean, if it happens, that’s also nice — but it’s not the thing I’m aiming for above all else.

I need intimacy. I need connection. And like many of my needs, it’s just going to wait, seemingly forever.

(I started writing this on Facebook and decided to put it here instead…)

How I know the stress is getting really fucking bad: an old muscle tic in my neck is back. Grinding something near my vocal cords that makes the lump in my neck bounce up and down, it makes a grinding noise and feels horrible. But I do it when I’m this tense.

I am constantly aware of just how much trauma and tension my body carries. I hold it, I carry it, I feel it. I don’t have the capacity to ignore it completely. I can shut off my acknowledgement of it, in the same way that I can shut off my acknowledgement of blisters upon blisters when I’ve had to walk 10 miles in a day with old socks and poorly-fitting shoes, in the same way that I can turn off my acknowledgement of my hunger when I haven’t had enough to eat for a week and I know I won’t have enough to eat for months.

But it never leaves me, and my awareness of it is never lacking. There are occasional moments where the beauty of some intoxicating substance or other allows me to forget it for a moment, but that awareness returns too quickly. And I don’t want that temporary break, I want to address the actual issues. I could take aspirin if I had an icepick lodged in my skull, but that’s not an ideal way of dealing with the situation.

I don’t write much here anymore. I want to. I always want to. There are always ideas running through my head, tagged as “this will eventually be a blog post” and “I really ought to expand on that idea, there’s a lot I could say about it.”

And I’m not here writing because real life has been fucking overwhelming. I still don’t have a place to live, I’m no closer than I have been (if anything, I’m further away from that goal) and I’m almost always stressed out and too tense and it’s just… GAHHHHHHH!!! so much of the time.

And I don’t write because I can’t breathe and I don’t write because I can’t give enough of a fuck to uncurl from fetal and do anything at all, and I don’t write because it’s fucking exhausting and I don’t have the energy to even take care of basic hygiene.

There is so much of me that I want to get out, to do something with, to share with the world. And until I have a safe, stable, long-term place to live, that won’t happen. And I don’t know how to make that happen. It scares the fuck out of me, that I have no clue how I’m going to figure out a place to live. Too suspect/know that it will take someone else making things happen, and hating to know that it will never be on my own that I make anything important happen.

And then I have a whole other paragraph to write but as soon as I start I realize I’m too angry to keep going, and that’s often the point where the entire post goes into the trash.

So I’m hitting “publish” with no proofreading, because I want to write. Need to write. And fuck it, here it is.

Morning walks and late-night talks, oh how I loved you then…

~sigh~ seeing pictures of adorable (a-dork-able, even) light-and-dark femme couples online, and stopping to remind myself that I do NOT miss my ex.

I miss the sex, and it’s okay that the rest of her is gone. I don’t miss the constant fighting about the same things over again, I don’t miss the inability to communicate about anything important,I don’t miss MFP trying to project her issues with/fears of substance (ab)use on me, I don’t miss her constantly being scared to touch me during sex or the fact that she needed me to treat her like she was made of the most delicate glass when it came to sex — and then to only find out sometimes days later that she’d yet again “felt like I’d violated her” when everything I could see had been full of constant check-ins and lots of explicit communication and apparent enthusiastic consent and participation, only to find that I had somehow been The Bad Guy yet again.

I’ll eventually find someone who wants me, I’m sure. I’ll eventually have my needs met, sexually and as far as having a stable roof overhead, and with everything else, too. But, holy fuck it’s tough… seeing so many people around me who have their needs met, and struggling to keep going without mine being addressed…

A loveless sonnet

It seems, at first, an echo that we hear
That others speak the feelings in our heart
Yet once again the joy gives way to fear
Those who received now set themselves apart
An echo now distorted, signal lost
Transmission failed, the message won’t go through
When eyes and ears stay closed at any cost
An echo can’t be heard; signs, out of view
Some say they know the forms that love can take
And what they’re sure that love can never be
And swans are always white, but in this lake
A swan is black and swimming gracefully.
Seek pleasure first, let others do the same;
Perhaps one day we’ll speak love by its name.

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