Baby, please hold me; make all those bad dreams disappear.

Y’know, I look back at my writing from when I first started blogging, under an alias, behind a mask…

And I was so much more open, so much more honest. I wrote what I felt, said what I meant, was explicit because it never occurred to me to make things “polite” or “safe for work.”

And somewhere along the way, I started censoring myself. I stopped saying what I meant because someone might see it and criticize me over it. I wrote less of what I really felt because those emotions didn’t really need to be “broadcast” so loudly. I turned to euphemism because I was told that I was too crass, too vulgar, too much.

I have been struggling to remember how to do what I once did. I have to work to un-learn the bad habits I’ve picked up.

I really want to be fisted. I have been craving that for quite some time now. I’ve stopped bothering to count the days (the years) since I’ve had my ass fucked, I just know it’s been too long. It’s always too long between. Between any particular sex act, between any sex at all with another person (masturbation is just sex with myself, even if I’m someone I love.)

I have so many things that I need, sexually. And if you count masochism as a separate thing from sex (I don’t always, but sometimes…), then there’s still plenty in that regard that I need and lack.

But what’s been on my mind the last few days as much as anything else, is how much I miss the little bits of affection that often come along with having a girlfriend: running her fingers through my hair, a hand on my cheek, a hug hello, a quick little peck of a kiss before bed, a smile as she catches me looking at her with lust, putting on an impromptu sexy dance to a song that’s playing, putting on an impromptu silly performance to a song that’s playing, making breakfast together in our underwear, relaxing as she gets dinner started, calling out for delivery and scrambling to get dressed to answer the door because we got distracted fooling around while waiting, holding her close while she cried on my shoulder, being held close while I cried on hers, the look in her eyes when she’s lost in thought, the little “you okay? wanna talk?” when she sees the pain in my eyes…

I miss having someone around, someone who cares. And yeah, holy fuck, do I miss having sex more than once every few months and trying to be grateful for what I do have… but I think if I absolutely had to choose, right now, between the two…? I’d take the affection and romance over eating pussy and having my ass fisted while I cum.

I’m lonely. And it’s more than touch that I crave.

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
Muscle-knots always so tense
Carry all this anxiety
Walking with so much
Too lonely
Still lovely
Vulnerably passionate
Predictably volatile
Pleadingly versatile
I need…


Poem after a night of too little sleep

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.

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.

“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.
Turn on my computer
Click around on
Facebook for a few.
Killing time.

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.

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
Hours ago. Fuck, I’m horny.
Back to sleep.

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.

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.

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.

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
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.

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