Monday, November 17, 2014

My Dreams Trigger Me

 I'm spelunking in old emails to find dreams from before. This one triggered me for a couple weeks. That's the longest amount of time I've ever been triggered for. It might trigger other trans men for body dysphoria, but it isn't particularly triggering for me to read it, just to have dreamed it. Names have been changed or amended to protect mostly my friends. Also, exact place names have been edited out.
The dream started in this little bar/restaurant I know in Chicago.  I was sitting at a table, drinking one and eating some pommes frites, waiting for a friend (it wasn't clear who) when a girl came up to my table. She was about 26 with dark wavy hair. She had a gorgeous smile. I automatically recognized her.
She said something about seeing me from the other room and thinking she recognized me. I told her who I was. I was a little confused because we already knew each other, but I didn't say anything. She extended her hand and said, "I'm A____."
That was shit. I knew it was shit. "You're B_____. Stop giving me your bar name." She looked furious. She slapped me across the face and walked away. I forgot about my friend and followed her.
I walked through the door to the next room and was in the first apartment I shared with my roommate. It was huge. B____ was sitting on the futon watching TV and petting Calvin (a cat, named after the philosopher). I asked her why she was so upset. She should have known I'd recognize her.
Calvin jumped off of her lap and onto my shoulder. He nuzzled against my cheek and scratched a tooth against my glasses. I shooed him away and got a claw in the back of my shoulder. I realized I was probably bleeding a little, but I didn't really care.
B____ was crying. I sat down to comfort her. I started to put my arm around her, but she wasn't there anymore.
My shoulder really hurt. I walked toward the bathroom in my bedroom to survey the damage. When I got to my bedroom, it was gone. The door was there, but there was just a wall beyond it. I turned to go to a different bedroom (there were three bedrooms with baths en suite), but I wasn't in the apartment anymore.
I was in a parking lot. It was mostly deserted. It was windy. There was rain spattering, though it magically did not spatter my glasses. I recognized it as one of the parking lots I used to walk through on the way to and from work.
"I was wondering when you'd show up," said a vaguely Australian voice from behind me.
I turned around, truthfully expecting to find an old friend who moved to Australia over half a decade ago. It didn't sound like her voice, but the accent sounded very American-transplanted-to-Australia to me.
Instead of her, there was a blond woman. I didn't instantly recognize her.
"I'm sorry. I was expected?"
She motioned for me to follow and I did. We walked to the theater-in-the-round at my alma mater. It was deserted. There was a chair in the middle of the stage.
"Sit."
I sat. Calvin ran by, chased by Hermes (another cat).
"Good boy. You need a shave."
I looked up at her and caught her eye. I suddenly knew who she was. I felt a little bit lost, a little bit scared, slightly embarrassed, extremely turned on. I croaked out, "Yes."
My friend VN, who is of course involved in a shaving scene, brought out a stool, some shaving cream, and a straight razor. Somehow a water basin appeared out of nowhere. VN started sharpening the razor, which didn't take long, and she shot him a look. He scowled and left, probably disappointed that he didn't get to stay for a shaving scene.
She started lathering my face and neck. Slowly and gently. I could smell the shaving cream. I could taste some on my lips. She was done lathering and picked up the straight razor. She stepped behind me and pulled my head back by my hair, roughly, but not particularly hard. I felt the straight razor firmly at my neck. I could feel my artery pulsing beneath it, threatening to slit itself by pumping harder and expanding farther and farther. My toes curled.
She made quick work of my neck, my head tucked away in her cleavage, her scent overtaking the smell of the shaving cream.
She walked in front of me and made quicker work of my face. Never once cutting me. Never once looking away from my eyes. I smiled as she applied a towel. She brought her face close to admire her handy work. Her face was almost touching mine. My lips were millimeters from her ear lobe. I could feel the peach fuzz on her face tickling the now-sensitive skin on mine. And then there was contact.
I moaned and closed my eyes. I was suddenly very sure this was a dream. I was scared that closing my eyes meant she would not be there when I opened them again. I opened them to the sound of the ocean. The beach was deserted. Just me in a chair. I was looking out at the Atlantic. I know this because the beach is one I went to with my parents in North Carolina. I looked around for them, but they weren't there.
The chair began sinking and I jumped off of it and fell into the water with my clothes on.
"Just take them off. We'll get you dried off."
"We're in public."
"Nobody is here. Nobody will see."
I was relieved to see that she was back. She held out her hand to help me up and I undressed. Slowly. As I undressed, I felt strange. Because my body was different, but I couldn't figure out how. I spread my clothes out as I took them off. I kept looking at her to make sure she was still there. My skin felt clammy. She had a towel slung over her shoulder. Once I was naked, she snapped at me and pointed at her feet. I instinctively knelt as she dried my hair.
At some point, she finished and lifted my face with her fingers at my chin. She pulled me to my feet. She moved in for a kiss, but stopped short. My breath grew ragged. My cock stiffened in anticipation. I focused on her breath fighting against mine, pushing against each other. She lightly kissed my lower lip. I tried to kiss her back, but she pulled away too quickly. I heard a frustrated grunt before I realized it was me. She was walking away from me.
I followed her, but the air was so thick and she was going so much faster than I was. Eventually, I lost sight of her. I found a peeling wooden bench and took a seat. I started stroking my cock. The back of the bench fell away and I fell back. I landed on a bed I didn't recognize. In a room I didn't recognize.
"What are you doing?"
I was relieved to see her. I slid to the floor.
"Good boy."
She rubbed the back of my head. We looked out the window. All there was was a night sky. The moon was huge, but not full. The stars were bright.
She knelt beside me and drew me into a kiss. This one was deeper, more insistent. I felt her tongue in my mouth. I felt my tongue on her teeth. She bit me and I whimpered, but I didn't break the kiss. I knew better. She pulled me up to the bed and I realized that she was now naked as well. She reached for my cock. She stroked it a couple times. She placed it near her cunt.
I was confused. I was scared. I was relatively sure this was all happening too quickly.
"I know."
She said the words, but her hand was insistent, I sank into her and felt nothing but a slight pressure against my groin. I pulled out and sank into her again. Again, I felt nothing. I pulled out and looked down to see a strap-on. I pulled the dildo out of the harness and freed my cock. I sank it back into her. I felt nothing. I pulled back out and the dildo was back in the harness. She sat up.
"That's why this could never work. You can never feel."
"I can feel."
I took the dildo out of the harness again. She reached down to grab my cock and I heard the squeak of skin against hard, wet rubber.
"You can't."
I started panicking. I leaned over to kiss her and she turned her head away. She pushed me back and onto the floor.
"I can feel."
I looked down to see nothing. There wasn't even a dildo in a harness anymore.
"I can. I'll figure it out."
"It's too late."
She walked through the door. I chased her, but found that the door led me to a dark room. She was sitting in an arm chair, faced away from me.
"Why is what I feel important? It never has been before."
She shook her head.
I woke up.

Friday, October 19, 2012

Afternoon Disappointment

Posting or reposting drafts left in my blogger folder.

I am asleep. In my dream. This sort of dream is only remembered if I wake up soon after REM is achieved. In shorter periods of slumber. On car rides. Day naps. I always start by dreaming about being asleep.

I am asleep. I can feel grass beneath my arms and legs. I can hear birds I don't quite recognize. And traffic. And then I hear a voice, unmistakably yours. You're calling for me. Searching.

I think that you know where I am. I am where you left me. I open my eyes to the night. I see stars I don't recognize hanging in a pool of deep violet-blue sky. I see a large orange harvest moon. I hear the bugs and creatures of the night. I hear you call. Again.

I try to open my mouth before I realize that it's already open, as if in a silent scream. And that's when I feel it. I feel it rolling through my veins, a burning. I feel like I'm imploding, like my blood is made of fire and is threatening to burst out of my body.

There is a distant wailing, getting closer. I feel every muscle in my body extend and go stiff. The fire is at my skin. The wailing is louder. You call again and I can tell you're closer.

I see your shadow, blocking the moon. The wail bounces off of you and I'm suddenly very aware that it's coming from me.

You are yelling at me. You are telling me to stop. But I have no control over my voice or my implosion. I cannot stop.

You drop to your knees between my legs. You pound your fists into my muscles, each finding relief with each strike. I can still feel my fiery blood. I am still wailing. But I'm gaining control of my muscles, one by one, with your help.

And you are on top of me. And my boiling blood heads toward my groin. I feel myself stiffen, the fire all regulated to my cock. And I am still wailing until I feel your mouth pressing against mine. And suddenly, the wailing stops. I no longer hear the birds or the traffic or the creatures of the night. I hear my heart beating. That is all I hear.

We dissolve into a fine mist, twirling and tangling in the dark, exploring each other, forming larger drops as we combine together, returning back to mist as we fall apart. We move like tides. We wax and we wane and we sound like the ocean as we crash against each other just to retreat back into our own selves.

We become corporeal again.

"Are you sure you meant to be water?" you ask me.

"I didn't meant to be fire," I answer.

"What's left? Earth?"

I look at you, understanding what you are asking me to do. I crumble to the ground. I am the mound of dirt. You walk to me. I can see you with the eyes I no longer have. You sit on top of me and move your hands through me. You lift me up and let me slip through the gaps between your fingers and onto your thighs. You reach deep inside of me and pull me inside out, tilling me with your hands, bringing the most fecund parts of me to the surface. You replace my top soil. As you work, you turn from body to mist to body to mist and back and forth again and again.

We combine into a muddy clay. You lie in me and breathe into me. When you exhale, I feel you invading me. When you inhale, I feel myself being drawn into you.

When you are inside of me, I feel nervous and vulnerable. When I am inside of you, I feel calm and protected. We begin to hover in that in between space, both half in and half out. We both hang on, the dynamic becoming harder and harder to maintain.

I have the very sudden thought that I don't know what any of this means to you. I do not know what you are feeling. And at that moment, we fall apart. And we are on the grass. We are sprawled on our backs, beside each other. My hand is touching yours.

I feel the crack of electricity at my fingers. I turn to my side and you have gone.

I am small. A child. I am in the WWII tent my father used for rendezvous. The wood stove is stoked hot. I'm too hot.

I lift the flap and I see that we're camped in a clearing near the river. It's cold outside. There's a breeze. It's just barely spring. There are puddles on the field where the other buckskinners have set up camp. I search for my father. I can hear laughter in the teepee. I know it's Ed's teepee and that my father is probably there. They are probably sitting around a campfire and telling stories and singing songs an passing a pipe around the circle. A couple people probably have guitars or ukuleles out. Possibly a fiddle.

I steer clear of the teepee. I pad through the puddles in my bare feet, the mud oozing up between my toes. I pause to play, wiggling my toes to feel the power in the mud. It reminds me of something, but I can't remember what.

I head toward a trail. I don't take this trail at night. I'm not allowed to leave camp at night. But I take it anyway. A short way in, I hear a hissing from just above me. I look up. I see the opossum that threatened me during the daytime on this same trail in this same spot when I was a real child rather than a dream child. I am suddenly myself again. I am an adult. I remember running as a child. I ran back to camp. I got my brother. I took him back to the tree. I don't remember what happened after that. As an adult, I do not turn and run. I stare at the possum. I am no longer scared.

I understand her instinct. She is not alone, or she would not draw attention to herself. She is protecting somebody. I mean no harm. I continue down the trail.

I cross the bridge over the small creek. I see the large cross and halved log pews of the outdoor chapel of the Mennonite camp sitting atop the hill. I was told to stay away from the camp if the campers were there. It was never clear if this was out of respect for them or if it was a denouncement of them.

You sit on one of the pews. You look up at me.

"Did you have a nice walk?"

"It would have been nicer if you were with me."

"Obviously."

You smile and I fall to my knees before you. I put my head in your lap and you stroke my hair. My fingers grasp at you, getting tangled in your shirt. The sobs burst out of my chest as if they've been trapped, waiting and pushing at the door with the knob twisted--just waiting for someone to disengage the dead bolt.

"You've got to stop this crying at the drop of a hat," you say sternly, still stroking my hair.

I laugh into my sobs. "Yes."

"It's getting quite tiring."

"Yes."

You pull my head off of your lap by my hair and you force me to look into your eyes. You are crying.

I try to move closer to kiss your eyes, but you hold me back by the hair.

"Your actions have consequences."

"Yes."

"Your feelings have consequences."

"Yes."

"Do you like these consequences?"

"No."

You let go of my hair and I half-stand, stretching to kiss your eyes. Your tears are salty on my lips. You pull me back down and into an embrace and I breathe you in. I feel calm and protected and nervous and vulnerable. I feel terrified. I feel content.

I wrap my arms around you, one hand on your shoulder blade, one on your waist. The pebbles beneath me dig into my knees. I feel your heat, insistent on my stomach. You begin to push me down farther. I can smell arousal on you. You are suddenly naked, as am I.

I bite my tongue as you push me hard into the ground.

You start to speak again, but I hear a beeping and a buzzing, rhythmic and annoying. I wake up to my phone alarm.

Friday, October 12, 2012

It's Obviously Complicated In My Dreams

Posting or reposting drafts left in my blogger folder.

I am counting matchsticks on the dining-room table of my childhood home. I count three, then move them to the side, then count another three. I am small. Muppet Babies is on TV. Kermit and Miss Piggy have decided to have sex. Everything is in black and white. I get caught up in it. Things do not go well and their nanny catches them in the act.

I smile and turn back to threading Fruit Loops on a string. I have one eye covered with an eye patch. This is an activity that will do nothing for me. My eye will not get stronger. The problem is in both of my eyes, though the sickeningly sweet eye doctor who makes me uncomfortable whom my mother has me going to never does figure out the actual problem.

I begin to eat the cereal off the string and I look up to see that The Snorks are on. The black and white does not do them justice. I move a chair to the fridge, stand on it, and turn off the TV. I glance back at my game of solitaire on the table. I cannot win it without cheating. I go outside.

I am fourteen years old. I hop on my bicycle and am instantly transported to the park where She goes with her children and husband. They are there. Their autistic son is humming and squealing on the merry-go-round with his father. Their daughter is running toward me, her hand outstretched. She wants to play. Already, I hate children, but I am good with them and She is watching, so I follow the girl to a fort made of wood and metal with a slide attached. We climb up the ladder and stand on the platform.

"Arg! We're pirates, Mommy!"

And She smiles up at us. Her eyes twinkle up at me. She looks right at me. I start floating, as if I'm being filled with helium. They get farther and farther away. I can no longer see the park. I flip on my back and look at the rapidly approaching clouds. I'm swept into one. It's cold and wet.

I stick in the cloud. There is fog in my eyes. I try to swim out, but my leg is shackled to something. I reach for my ankle and feel the iron, thick and rusted, secured to an equally thick and equally rusted chain. I pull myself along the chain, following it back down through the cloud and around. It is attached to a floating pirate ship.

I climb up onto the ship and She sees me. She brings the key to my leg iron and squats beside me. She runs her fingers through my hair.

"It's time to grow up now. It's time to stop calling."

She puts the key in the lock. It feels like She's putting the key directly into my ankle. The pain wells up and spills out of my ankle in bright blue rays of light.

"It's time for you to figure some things out. Move on."

She twists the key. I scream. I grab Her head and I squeeze as hard as I can. I try to pop Her head. She looks at me, unflinching. She is sad. She is disappointed. In me.

"I know," She says as she flings the leg iron open. "It's time to walk the plank."

I don't understand what she says. I repeat it. "It's time to walk the plank."

She takes my hand. The pain in my ankle is washed away. She pulls me to my feet. She looks me in the eye.

"I never needed you," She says. "You just imagined everything."

The pain from my ankle gathers in my heart, bright blue rays of light cascading from my chest. I take a running leap off the gangplank. I fall. I fall fast, the blue rays being lost behind me. I grow. I am an adult by the time I hit the land.

The blue light is just throbbing in my chest. It is muted, beneath the skin. It no longer hurts. But I know that it will always be there. A car passes my head and I realize I've landed in a ditch. Another car passes, throwing gravel at me.

I stand. I walk into the forest preserve. I am cruising. I am looking for someone to make me feel anything. The old men who are always there don't even look my way anymore. They know I am like them. I am not here to present myself in all my glory and be worshiped. I am here to do the worshiping.

I walk through the trees, listening to the fall leaves crunch beneath my feet. The trees are deep golds and reds and browns. I can smell the autumn mingling with the basest kind of sex. I sidestep used rubbers and broken beer bottles, silently judging those that left them to mar such a beautiful place.

I see him running between the trees. I know him. I recognize his features. He's back and I know to want him. I begin to run, chasing him from place to place, I keep following until I can no longer see him. I am far off the trail. I do not know my way back.

I see a flash of skin behind a tree. I walk toward it, prepared to drop to my knees and fill my mouth. Prepared to run if need-be.

I round the tree and do not see him. I drop to my knees. You are looking down at me.

"Good morning, ___."

I open my mouth to speak, but can tell that it's not expected of me and close it again.

"Were you here to suck some cock? Were you being a little slut?"

I nod, my mouth open again. I want to feel the soft skin entering, invading. I want to feel the skin move over the hardness beneath it, as if perfectly lubed on the inside. I want it to fill my mouth. I want to taste a bitter salty tang that moves from the tip of my tongue to the back of my throat. I want to feel the pulsing in my mouth. My mouth is open. In waiting. I am looking at your knees.

You lift a leg and firmly place your foot at my chin. I can feel the sharpness of the toe of your shoe as it steers my gaze upward. I look at your face. My mouth is still open. In awe. In lust. I no longer know how I'm feeling.

You push me back, stretching my legs as my shoulders hit the ground, my knees folded beneath me. It hurts my knees. But you don't care. You step over me and I can see your cunt drawing near. I take a breath, preparing myself, but you're atop me too quickly and I breathe you in. I taste you. I bite you and attempt to eat you like a peach. Sweet juice runs down my chin and pools at my collarbone. You force yourself into my mouth. I feel your clit mid-tongue, poking at me, daring me to attack. I move my tongue, attempting to stimulate, but not knowing how, having never had a clit this far in my mouth before, having never had to deal with labia taking space in my mouth, making it harder to negotiate where my tongue ends and you begin.

I hear you moan. I realize how hard I am. My cock hurts. I shift to put my fingers around it. You lift my head by the hair and attempt to shove more of your pussy into my mouth and the juice begins to drown me. I stroke my cock. It is already wet. My precum has drooled down the shaft. Stroking is easy.

I rub my tongue against your clit, as fast as I can. You start to shake. You hump your pussy into my face until you go over. You pull away and I gasp for air I don't need. I need you back in my mouth. My hand moves quickly on my cock.

You notice what I'm doing and you slap me.

"Did I tell you you could do that?"

I automatically open my hand, spreading my fingers. My cock slaps me in the belly. You place it at your entrance and sink onto it. You don't treat me like anything but a toy. You do not want your toy spent. You are not angry. You are not anything. You are enveloping my cock. You are hot and tight and wet and you are slipping so easily on me.

But this isn't what I want. I want your mouth. I want something in my mouth. That's why I came here. I try to sit up, to reach your mouth, but you push me back down, roughly, my head striking a rock on the ground.

You roll me over and I am on top of you. I know better than to not plunge inside of you. I briefly panic and make sure my cock is still there. It is. It feels like it's going to explode, but I know it's not allowed. I try to kiss your mouth, but you turn away, denying me that. I catch a nipple in my mouth.

I feel your hands at my hair, trying to pull my mouth away from you. I suck harder. I resist. I feel you ripping hair from my scalp. I feel blood dripping through my remaining hair. Sticky and hot.

And you disappear from beneath me. And I am falling again. I am falling and on the edge of cumming. I feel empty. My mouth feels empty. My pussy feels empty. My dick is large and red and pulsing. And I'm still falling.

I land in a ball pit. I bend my cock. It hurts, but I bend it toward my own pussy and enter myself. I sink into the ball pit as I move my cock in and out of my pussy. I sink through the balls and am falling again. I turn over.

I wake up. I write it all down.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Anonymous

He had to be in his early 20's. He had dark Italian skin and hair and a baby face with deep dimples, rivaling my own. He had the lightest, brightest blue eyes. His smile was clear and blinding. And to this day, I dream about his dick. It was just perfect.

It was my first time cruising for something anonymous, an idea I got from an ex. I wasn't sure what the protocol was. I passed him on the trail and he smiled and sort of bumped into me as he passed. I stopped. I briefly remember having the thought that this kid wasn't cruising, he was just out for a walk and kind of clumsy.

It felt like hours. But I finally made myself turn. I walked in the direction I heard him heading and got to an overgrowth of stump and weed and spider. He cleared his throat behind me.

He was leaning up against a tree, out of sight from the trail, his pants around his knees, his cock in his hand below the light blue striped polo, and the sweetest smile on his face.

I dropped to my knees in front of him and he let go of the most absolutely perfect dick for sucking I think I've ever known. The perfect hint of vein, soft and supple and hard and red and tasty. I wanted to take it home to show it to my mother and prove to her that beauty does exist in the world. I opened my mouth and he shoved beauty down my throat. I gagged a little, but quickly recovered as he retreated and invaded me again. He grabbed my head and started really fucking my mouth, alternating between hard and fast and soft and slow. He slapped my face with his glans. I sucked at his balls, I kissed up his shaft, I sucked gently at the head. And then he pulled me to his groin, implanting himself as far as possible in my throat. And he came.

I could feel his core pulsing. He didn't just come from his crotch. My hands, which were grasping his waist to steady myself once he took his final plunge, could feel his entire torso rock with his orgasm. I heard his breath catching, barely audible. I could taste him as he pulled out and was briefly disappointed that he didn't cum shallower so I could taste more. He pulled up his pants as I stood. He pulled me to him and kissed me hard, his tongue searching my mouth for leftover remnants of himself. And then he turned and walked away.

I kept cruising on several different occasions, to find him. To find someone like him. I never did. It eventually occurred to me that I was missing the whole point of cruising. I wasn't suited for it. And that each experience failed to deliver like the one before. The fear and excitement was slowly replaced by a different type of fear and an overwhelming sadness. It only took six different strangers for me to give it up completely.

I could run into any of the six guys I sucked off anonymously on the street and I wouldn't know them. There would be that nagging feeling that I knew the first from somewhere. I'm fairly sure I wouldn't know from where.

I wouldn't recognize the second at all. I wouldn't know that the guy standing on the bus with me has choked me to gasping tears with his cock while roughly pawing at my breasts under my binder and talking incessantly about watching out for cops and how it's so hot that I'm a trans woman. I seriously stopped trying to explain that after him if there weren't prior knowledge. I learned to redirect quickly.

I wouldn't recognize the third at all. I would have no recollection of the guy standing in line in front of me to get coffee begging me for train fare in broken English after squirting the most horrible-tasting cum I've ever had the misfortune of swallowing down my throat. I wouldn't remember how his hand ineffectively groped my shoulder and legs and I wouldn't remember the mix of desperation and fear in his eyes before we even started.

I might recognize the fourth, but I wouldn't remember that the guy I'm interviewing with was the man who was hesitant when I climbed into his car in the church parking lot because he wasn't sure how I'd react to finding his cock encased in panty hose. I won't remember how silky smooth his cucumber-and-watermelon-lotion-scented cock felt in my mouth, or how his fingers felt playing with my dick and fingering me. I wouldn't remember how the guy decided to drive away when I hopped out to get a condom from my car after he had agreed to fuck me. I wouldn't remember how disappointed I was and how much I ached for meaningless penetration.

I wouldn't even be able to pretend to recognize the man who came to the house and dropped his pants in the living room. I couldn't tell you how tall he was, or how old. I'm not even 100% sure what his race was. His cock fit nicely in my mouth and I was able to deep throat him easily without gagging. His cum tasted really good. But he was too easy. He was not a challenge at all. His wedding ring dug into the back of my head. My brain went to bad places while he pulled his spent self out of my mouth, zipped up, and walked out.

I would probably recognize the last. But I may not remember from where. 

He was in his sixties, at least. His hair was still red. I briefly caught his eye while driving around one preserve, but there were cops out in droves that day. I caught his eye again, when coming around another bend, only to be disappointed by a family picnic. I left the preserve. And then I saw him again, on the highway, passing me, signalling way ahead of time for another preserve.

I had already resigned myself to going home and this preserve didn't have any good places to hide. It was much busier and less wooded. I pulled in after him anyway.

I saw him get out of his car and walk behind the bathrooms that were locked for the season. I saw a small trail through the brambles that I had never seen before. He stopped when the trail disappeared where the rest of the park could seen. It had obviously been made by animals or cruisers.

I squatted by his legs and looked up at him.

"I was hoping you'd follow. You seemed to have given up," he said.

I didn't respond. I unbuttoned his jeans and lowered his zipper.

"You have a doll face. Are you sure you're old enough?"

I nodded as I pulled his jeans and underwear down to reveal his cock. "Are you going to card me?" I asked as I encased his soft dick with my hands.

"No. I choose to trust you right now."

I laughed, took my hands from his dick and planted them firmly on his ass, which I didn't expect to be so well-toned. I maneuvered down and up again to catch his dick head in my mouth. Letting it sit on my tongue, while he caught his breath. I licked his frenulum with the aid of gravity. I encased his dick in my mouth, expecting it to swell and grow.

It did not. I accepted this as a challenge.

As I worked on him, I glanced up at him from time to time. His eyes were closed. He was not thinking of me. I heard a moan escape his mouth as I lightly scraped his shaft with my teeth. He started to get hard.

I worked at him more roughly now. I didn't avoid teeth, though I didn't intentionally use them. I handled his balls as if they did not have any nerve-endings. I licked up and down his lengthening cock and tugged at his fire-red pubic hair. I stuck a finger in his ass. And he came. And his moan came out so loudly I thought the model airplane enthusiasts 50 yards away might rush into the brambles to find out what had happened. His torso collapsed a bit once the last of his come had emptied onto my tongue.

He caught is breath as I pulled his pants up and carefully rezipped and buttoned them.

"I just came to suck. I haven't had a hard-on in years," he said

"It was my pleasure."

"It's supposed to work the other way. The old guy is supposed to suck off the young guy."

"Not in my world."

I left him and started to walk toward my car.

"Wait!" His call after me sounded desperate. As if he was trying to find any reason to keep me there.

I turned.

"Don't you want a blowjob?"

"I don't like blowjobs." I could see him trying to confront the loneliness that was beginning to engulf him. I could hear his brain grinding away, trying to think of some way to get me to stay. I imagined I could easily dominate him and he would have no choice but to submit. I could get anything I wanted from this man.

I turned away and walked to my car.  And I cried for him on my forty minute drive. I cried for him at a time where tears did not come easily for me. Before I got home, I dried my eyes.

I immediately walked into the bathroom. I washed my hands and face before I sat on the toilet. I brushed my teeth. I picked brambles off of my shoes and jeans for a half hour. I decided that this would be my last time. I drank water right from the tap, suddenly thirstier than I'd ever been before. I hopped into the shower and made the water as hot as I could stand.

When I was finished showering, I made dinner, discussed my afternoon with my partner, and watched a movie. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Beat the Loneliness Out

Sometimes the loneliness is overwhelming. Other times, it's barely there. This flux of desperation for some sort of physical and emotional connection is human condition perhaps. It's painful when I hit the desperation high tide and I'm alone and unable to seek comfort in any way that will actually help. I know from experiences that it's more painful when it happens and I'm with people who cannot help. Or will not help. It's more painful when I'm in a relationship and I feel it. Because that tends to mean there is something wrong in the relationship.

I'm not in a relationship right now though. The loneliness isn't always there. It sneaks up on me.

It's difficult to talk about because it feels like whining with no real reason. I can't explain it when the loneliness hits me. Perhaps it's a sudden realization that loneliness even exists. Or that I am alone. Or that we all are alone. I'm struck with a malaise and I'm restless and I'm stir crazy and I sit around thinking of synonyms for what I'm feeling but not actually getting to the meat of it.

I need a change. I don't know what kind of change. I don't know if it will help.

I need someone to slap this out of me. To strike me with love and brutality in an attempt to bring me back to Earth and out of my head. I need the jolt of each contact, knocking the discontent out of me, proving that, while I may be lonely, I am not alone, and here's another punch to prove it. I need to be beaten and kissed and bitten and scratched and petted and I need to retreat and be pulled back by the hand that just bloodied my lip or bruised my rib or welted my ass and I need that to mean something.

I could find it easily enough. But I'm picky about who meets my criteria. And I'm hesitant when I find someone who's almost there. And I try to convince myself that I don't need it. I don't need the connection. I'm fine on my own.

Or I try to convince myself that I don't need the connection for the jolts. I could find somebody. Anybody. But I know I'm just kidding myself. The connection is one of the key components in curing the loneliness.

Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Games

We are sitting and playing the only video game she ever plays. It is a snowboarding game. I am not very good at it. She is. She plays through a course. Then it is my turn.

I start my course. I play for about twenty seconds.

"Oh, crap. Dear, can you go check the car windows for me? It looks like it's started raining."

I pause and she holds her hand out for the controller. "I'll play the rest of your turn. Otherwise I'll be sitting here bored." I know it won't take long to check the windows, but I hand her the controller.

I go outside. The windows are all up. I walk back into the house and check the house windows for good measure. I sit down. She finishes the course. I put my hand out.

"No. That was your turn. I wouldn't have picked that course. It's my turn now."

I smile and watch her play. Watching would be boring if she were as mediocre at the game as I am, but her way of playing is quite exciting and impressive.

When it's my turn again, I play for about twenty seconds.

"It looks like the dog needs to go outside. Could you take her out, Honey? You're going to have to stay out with her to make sure she doesn't get into any mud."

I pause and hand her the controller. I understand what she is doing.

I take the dog outside and I watch her play through the window while I'm outside. She finishes my turn and starts another course. The dog is done and we come back inside. She finishes the course and I put my hand out.

"No. It's my turn now."

"Are you sure?" I ask. "That was a different course than I picked."

"Yes. I'm sure. I was nice to you and let you play twice in a row."

"I see. Thank you."

She beams. "I love you, that's why!"

"I love you, too."

I watch her play again. At the end of her turn, she hands the controller to me.

"Are you sure you don't want two turns in a row? After all, you gave me two turns in a row."

"No. That's fine. You're a boy. Boys need more turns at things like video games."

I nod and start playing. I play for about 20 seconds.

"Darling, could you go in the bedroom and make sure the DVR in there is set to record House Hunters?"

I pause and hand her the controller.

I walk into the bedroom and turn on the television. House Hunters is not set to record because they play long marathons of it nightly. Regardless, I set it to record House Hunters. For good measure, I also set it to record House Hunters International, which conflicts with a show I like to watch. I roll my eyes and make House Hunters International a priority over my show. I turn off the television and walk back out to the living room. I sit on the couch just as her turn ends. I don't put out my hand until she hands me the controller.

I raise my eyebrow at her and she smirks. I start playing. I play for about 20 seconds.

"On second thought, could you set it not to record House Hunters? I'm fairly certain it won't kill me to miss it sometimes. It's on all the time."

I grin at her and hand her the controller without even pausing. I walk back into the bedroom and turn on the television and set the DVR to not record House Hunters or House Hunters International. I turn off the television.

She's not doing this to get more time with the video game. She can have as much time with the video game as she wants by telling me that I don't get to play right now. She's toying with me. She's trying to see how long it takes before I start grumbling. This keeps happening for another two hours or so. I can tell she's getting really bored with the game, but is more than delighted to keep playing in order to figure out what silly things she can get me to do without me questioning them. I slice some cheese, but put it in the fridge "for a snack later." I prep the garbage and take it to the curb even though garbage day is a day away and it's raining outside. I bring the garbage back up the drive and put it in the garage because garbage day is a day away and she "forgot" even though I reminded her. I pet her cat because she hasn't had enough attention from me and she thinks the cat is sad about that. (Her cat does not particularly want to be petted, but I chase her down until she relents.) I get her water. And then I dump her water because she decides she wants juice instead. Then I get her more water because she wants both.

The last time she hands me the controller I don't even pay attention to what course I'm picking. I know I won't get to play all the way through. I play for about 20 seconds.

"I feel like you haven't kissed me in forever," she says.

I pause. Nobody finishes the course.

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Drunk

It was my first time. I don't remember what we were talking about. Probably a play. Maybe the girl you were in love with. Possibly something pop culture or academic. I remember us sitting on cushions on my dorm room floor. I remember you pouring Captain Morgan and generic cola into cups you had brought down from your room.

You didn't know it was my first time drinking. You didn't know I was drinking because you drank and I didn't want you to think I was too good for what was good enough for you. I downed the drinks you made. Over and over again. Until we had gone through most of your bottle. I'm sure you drank most of it.

I watched your hair bounce with your laughter. I watched your teeth gleam in your huge smile. I listened to you laugh and shine. I started dozing off.

You scooted around and let me rest my head on your shoulder.

"Are we still going to watch the movie?" you asked.

We were almost finished with it. We had paused it at some point so one or the other of us could use the bathroom and we never got around to finishing it. I reached for the remote and hit play while you poured us each another drink. I sipped at the tumbler, absent-mindedly pulling at your red curls and letting them go or wrapping a lock around my finger. I watched the movie, carefully sipping, my head on your shoulder, my hand in your hair. I felt you sigh and suddenly relax. Like you had been tense the entire time. Like you finally let yourself go.

The movie ended and I blurted out that I had never drank before.

You considered me thoughtfully and told me to get ready for bed. You needed to get something from your room. You told me you'd tuck me in. My eyes were droopy. You left and I changed into pajamas. I climbed up into the top bunk and waited for you. You came back into the room and turned off the light. You had me sit up and take some aspirin and drink some water.

"You might feel a little rough tomorrow. Come see me if you need more aspirin."

You told me to lay down, so I did, facing you. You put your hand on my cheek and pulled my face toward yours. You kissed me. It was gentle, our lips puffing up and taking space in each other's mouths. Your tongue glanced across mine. I tasted the roof of your mouth. You kissed me for all of thirty seconds and then you were gone.

I'd been kissed by a girl. I'd been kissed by a girl I had a crush on. It would never go any further.

It was my first time.

Monday, September 17, 2012

I Have Vivid Dreams

I was in the dark, but I heard voices surrounding me.

"No. Don't. He's not awake yet."

"He is! His breathing has become shallower."

"Shhh! You're going to wake him up."

Three voices. I moan. There's an ache in my leg. There's another in my head.

"He's awake! I told you!"

I open my eyes, slowly. I don't know the men standing around me. They sound much younger than they look. They notice that I'm looking up at them and they scatter, each hiding in ridiculous spots where I can see them.

Where am I?

"Lamps don't answer," says one man, hiding behind a lamp. I look around and see a door. I walk through it.

Outside, there is a corn field, post harvest. The stalks are all chopped and trampled. The tallest only stand halfway up my shin. There are miles of field around me. I turn back to the room, but it's not there.

Where am I?

The stalks do not answer.

I begin walking. The sun is hot on my face. I'm naked. I cover my cock with one hand to protect me from the sun. The other shields my eyes from the light. I do not know which direction to walk, so I turn back around and walk away from the sun. I take several steps before I feel the ground giving way beneath me. I'm sinking. I feel the soil  overtaking my ankles, my shins, my knees, my thighs. I start to panic once it hits my navel. My arms are trapped to my sides.

I don't remember how to get out of this

"You knew how to get out of this?"

Yes. No. I don't know why I thought that.

I look around, but see nobody with me. The dirt is up to my neck. I'm starting to choke and my feet and legs ache from the pressure of the dirt on top of them. I close my eyes, sure this is the end for me. Sinking in a cornfield with only a disembodied voice to save me. I am done for.

"Jesus, you'll be fine."

I gasp for air and break through the the surface of the water. It gets into my throat through my nose. It tastes salty as I gag on it. I cough and sputter. I know it's the ocean. I see the beach ahead of me. A small dog I know well is waiting on shore for me, barking at me. I understand her somehow. She's warning me about the wave.

It crashes over me and I can't breathe again.

I close my eyes briefly and open them to the underside of a pillow. I'm not being smothered. I can breathe. I move the pillow and see that I'm in a bed I don't know in an unfamiliar room. I see a balcony off of the room. I walk outside and I see rows and rows of demolished corn stalks. I quickly turn to go back into the room, but it's not there.

"See? You're fine." I turn to look for the voice. Again. I see you this time. I turn completely toward you. We stand about three feet apart. Neither of us reaches for the other. We just look at each other. A smile plays on your lips. I'm not sure what my face looks like. But a smile plays on your lips.

You turn and begin to walk away from me, away from the sun. I follow, the moon cool on my back. I stay three feet behind you. I'm walking in your footsteps. I'm watching your heels. I trip. I fall into you. You move and I fall to the ground. A corn stalk stabs me in the side. It pierces completely through. The tip is covered in my blood. My skin surrounds it.

In shock, I grab the stalk and try to pull it through. It won't budge from the ground where it's attached. It does not occur to me that I'm the one who needs to move.

You squat beside me. You wipe the sweat off of your forehead.

"That looks like it probably hurts," you say. You say it so nonchalantly.

Please, help.

I don't know where my voice is. I haven't found it yet. Yet, I plead for help. You take a drink from a water bottle. I grab for your arm and miss. I can feel blood in the back of my throat. I cough.

Please, help.

You straddle me. Just below my wound. You touch the stalk and cover the tip of a finger in blood. You test the quality of my blood between your thumb and index finger. You bring it to your tongue and taste it.

I cough again, blood pooling in my throat. I feel it hindering me from breathing.

You lean around the stalk and put your elbows on my chest. You rest your chin in your hands and watch my face as I struggle to breath. I sputter and cough. Blood runs out of the corner of my mouth, across my cheek, into my hair, onto the soil. I am desperate for you.

Please.

You shift and I feel your hands on my face. You wipe the blood on my cheek. It smears under your hand.

You put your fingers in my mouth. You collect some of the pooling blood in your fingers and scoop it out of my mouth. I try to suck at your fingers, but you're all business. You toss my blood into the dirt and put your fingers back into my mouth. I hungrily try to suck at them, but you fight me on it, grasping my chin hard in your other hand and holding my jaw open. You scoop out enough blood that I can breath again. I gasp. I gasp again. I gasp a third time and your fingers are back in my mouth. They are in my throat. I feel them against my tonsils. I gasp a fourth time and find that I can no longer draw breath. You are blocking it.

I try to gasp a fifth time. I start thrashing around on the ground, no longer conscious of the wound in my side. It is gone as far as I can tell. The field is gone. There is just you, with your fingers down my throat. There is just you stealing my breath. I try to buck you off of me. But I'm weak. I can't buck very hard. I see black in front of my eyes.

I can't see anything, but I feel your mouth on mine. I know it's your mouth. I recognize the taste of it. I don't attempt to breathe. I give into you. You are greedy at my mouth. Your lips ask for my lips and I give them to you. Your teeth demand my teeth. They're yours. My tongue? My gums? The roof of my mouth? My jaw? My cheeks? My cheekbones?

Jesus, yes! They're all yours. You can have them. You can have them all. Just...

Your mouth pulls away from mine.

"Just what?"

I'm sorry?

"I can have them all. Just what? What are your conditions?"

Conditions? I don't understand what you're saying. I'm repeating the word in my head. I'm trying to make it make sense to me.

"What were you going to tell me I need to do before I can have you?"

please. please. "please." i find my voice. it is tiny. i can barely hear it.

"What?"

"just take them."

You never break eye contact. You sit up. You push yourself up with my chest. You stand.

"Take what?"

A wave crashes over me.

I wake up gasping

Thursday, September 13, 2012

First Decision

We'd barely touched the food we were sharing. We were too busy talking and laughing. You were telling me who you thought I was, the to-go box resting precariously on your thigh. I had my hand on your other knee, tracing the seam of your dress pants with my fingers. Our eyes met and you stopped talking. Your eyelids were heavy, eyelashes fluttering, pupils slightly dilated.

You looked down at the food and carefully closed the box. You lifted it and leaned into the back seat, placing it on the leather interior of your Bug, making sure it wouldn't tip.

I caught a whiff of lilac. Your shampoo? Lotion? Perfume? I wasn't sure. I took a deep breath and held it in. I let your scent enter my lungs, mix with my blood, circulate through my body. My hand, still on your knee, was now splayed out, groping as if your knee were the only place I'd ever wanted to touch.

It seemed like you were leaning between the seats for hours, not seconds. You paused. The hesitation was palpable. I could feel it land on me. I could feel that you expected something of me, but I didn't know what. You made up your mind in that hesitation.

You started to sit back up in your seat, but stopped halfway and met my lips with yours. It was a sweet kiss. It was short, but tender and full of whatever emotion you were feeling at the time. Passion mixed with sadness.

After the kiss, you sat up straight in the driver's seat. Your hands were glued to the steering wheel. You looked straight ahead. Your face was full of concentration for the road we were not yet on. We were still in park. The car was not on.

You sat like that for thirty seconds or so, my hand still gripping your knee. It finally occurred to me that I should move it. I put it to my side. You looked at me. I'm sure you saw the confusion in my face.

"You're going to have a big decision to make today," you said.

"A decision?"

"We are going to do things my way today. You're going to have to decide to go along with me every step of the way."

"So my only choice is to do what you say?"

"No. You could not do what I say."

"And?"

"And nothing. We get to the apartment and nothing. Nothing happens."

"So no consequences?"

"That is the consequence. You do what I say or nothing happens."

I considered her for a moment. I considered my options. I made my decision.

"Yes, Ma'am."

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

Maa'm

Posting or reposting drafts left in my blogger folder.

For him, it was like someone had attached electrodes directly to his brain, heart, lungs, stomach, and dick. Every time she would say or do anything to him, a little electric jolt would occur wherever the corresponding electrode was located. His creativity would be triggered. His heart would skip. His breath would catch. His guts would lurch and flutter. His dick would rise. Sometimes he'd feel the electricity in his toes and they'd vibrate and retract into themselves. Or his fingers would curl and his fingernails would dig into his palms so hard they bled. His eyes would roll back into his head. His mouth would go slack and he'd hear his moans before he realized he made them. His dreams were full of her being tender and kind and stern and cruel.

They shared their lives with each other. She moved more slowly than he, but both were opening up and the relationship was evolving. But it was not that kind of relationship. She didn't feel for him the same way he felt for her.

For her, it was pleasant conversations, laughter, pretty noise, and compliments.

They both knew the difference. It was clear from the beginning. They kept talking. They were content in their talking. For now, that was enough.

He sometimes wondered if she was scared of losing what they had after he would inevitably break, reaching the bottom of the mountain he's been skinning his hands and knees and toes on. He's been desperately trying to keep himself from reaching the ground, the electric jolts causing him to lose his footing and slide farther down the rocky face. Was she scared of losing this thing they shared? Or would she shrug it off, having known it could never work the way he wanted it to work? Would she be angry he hadn't found a way to climb back up, to give her what she wanted for him, for them both? Would she still hear his noise long after he was gone, echoing and vibrating with latent electricity? Would she think of him at all? 

He wondered how it all would feel if he didn't know she wasn't at the bottom of his mountain already. How would it feel to get to the bottom, thinking she would be there waiting, and realize that she had moved--that she was now at the top of the mountain or falling down another toward somebody else? 

Would she ever offer up a heart-breaking sigh, alone, at the bottom of her own mountain, suddenly understanding what it was to be him? Would she buzz and whir from the electrodes fastened deep into her skin for someone else completely? And would she try to dig each one out with the fingernails pulled from her own bloody palms? Would it remind her of the pulpy mess he had eventually become? Would she see a bit of him in herself?

But he knew she wouldn't go through what he was going through. She could never go through the same thing. Because she would eventually find someone to fall down her mountain with her. He couldn't imagine that anyone in his right mind would ever refuse to take such a tumble with her.

He decided that he would take what he could get from her. He would fight the descent. He would condition himself to the jolts. He would attempt not to break completely as his knuckles cracked against the stone and his fingernails poked through to the backs of his hands and his knees buckled and bellowed against gravity.

He forgot how to exist without the electrodes. And the mountain. And her.

Yet he still attempted to dig her from his heart. The blood just made the mountain slicker.

He knew he was screwed.