Fire and Hate

My heart is cracked and I am breathless trying to hold the pieces together, scrambling to pick them up as they fall to the ground and shatter. I miss your voice, your touch, your smile. Your energy filled the rooms within my soul, and now the life that you gave has been sucked from me as a fire sucks oxygen from the air so that it can grow in ferocity. I’m suffocating in the flames of your absence and I can’t breathe without you.

Your advice and view of the world was so unique to my young mind. Your strangeness made me feel normal. Your love made me feel wanted. Your simplicity made me feel calm. Our talks of divinity, of love, of possibilities together, all building a world and a future of wholeness; That world was shattered when I discovered your lies.

Except not shattered. The world still existed because it resided in my soul, the rooms of my soul that you filled. But that world, my world, is no longer bright and happy, with growth and life. The world within me is blackened and dying without the oxygen that your flames stole. Everywhere I turn is a shattered piece of a promise you had made to me, to us. Every word exchanged, every whisper of love, it was a lie that you were willing to tell.

How can someone willingly lie to someone they love? How can it not eat at their soul? It eats at mine as I lie that I am okay to those whom I love. I will never be okay. You changed me, and not for the better. I became cynical, the epitome of a weeping figure that stands on the cliffs before jumping. You were the one, and I never truly knew you. I would’ve jumped for you, but I would’ve jumped for someone that didn’t think I was worth telling the truth.

You. You deserve nothing in life because you had everything and you spat on it. Whether with her or me, you ruined that everything. You suffocated two women with multiple acts of lying and deceit over multiple years. I wonder if she has realized that she can’t breathe yet.

Let it go, people say. Just let it go. I guess it is easy for people to say to walk away without realizing what you stole. I did walk away, thank god, although I think of you with every move I make. I was able to leave, without the ability to breathe. And you told me to keep it together. Over five years of friendship, of courtship, of compromise and love…you saw my heart break and you looked at me in pity and then anger as you walked away, back to her, the one you kept from me for four years.

You are small, in body, mind, and spirit. I wish the cancer had taken you before you managed to ruin what we had.

To Cut

woman bound and waiting to be cut

The tip of my sharpened blade trailed down the smooth, white skin of her stomach. Her skin was young, supple, completely unmarked from age or childbirth or fat; it was without flaw. As the knife passed her belly button, it curved closely around, causing her to have a sharp intake of breath, pulling her stomach downward and away from the knife.

“Do that again and I will leave.”

I reached up and tightened the rope that bound her two hands tightly together at the wrists. Her eyes were wide with fear. She looked like a caged rabbit that knew it was to be slaughtered, and her fear excited me.

“Do you understand?”

She nodded quickly.

I placed the tip of the knife back onto her skin and pressed down evenly, just barely breaking the skin on the inside of her thigh. A small trickle of blood colored the silvery blade. I picked up the knife, the blood coming with it, and wiped it on the top of her thigh. The smear of red didn’t ruin her perfect skin as it faded to pink and then to nothing; it added to her perfection. It looked like art to me; art created by the two of us.

Glancing at her face, I saw that she had passed out. I guess some girls do that at the sight of blood.

I slapped her awake.

“You will watch me.”

Placing the knife onto her other thigh, I pressed again and drew downwards. It was deep this time. She moaned, her eyes rolling backwards, and tried to draw her knees up.

Those moans…

I pressed her legs back down, and slid her knees apart so I could sit between them. Her blood was dripping slowly from the cuts; it was pooling under one leg. I took the bloody knife and raised it to her eye level.

“Look at it. See how fragile you are?”

She couldn’t even nod at this point. I pulled her underwear from her mouth and tossed it aside. She immediately closed her mouth and licked her lips moist again. I had to remember to give her water.

“Open your mouth.”

Her eyes pleaded with me to stop. She knew better than to scream for help. Her mouth opened hesitantly.

“Show me your tongue.”

Her soft, pink tongue slid from her mouth. Its wetness beckoned me. No… it beckoned for…

Placing the blade of the knife onto her tongue, I made her taste the blood that stained her leg and my table; I made her lick the coppery weakness that I controlled.

Her tears were silent, and the blade went back to her skin.

Everybody Fucks Weird To Somebody

This post is going to get weird.

Dave Chapelle is an American comedian who is known for pushing the envelope on the things he says that society finds acceptable. In the standup special from this year, there’s a bit where he says “everyone fucks funny to someone” when someone judges his “appreciation” for feet. That phrase can’t be more true! Talk to a few people about their sex lives and you might be surprised at what turns people on. When I was younger, I would be really uncomfortable and wary of anything besides lights off, silent, missionary sex. I was super Christian about sex. I was raised to believe that sex was something to be avoided until marriage, that it was shameful to feel sexual pleasure, and that all desires should be hidden. Anything out of the norm was wrong.

Then I dated someone who liked to have sex with chairs.

We were about three months into our relationship when we started discussing what truly turned us on. While that might seem a bit far down the road to have a deep sex talk, I was 18 and very used to “vanilla” sex. He was 21 and had lived in Japan for two years, dating an older woman. He was worldly and I was a tad naive. I asked him what he really liked, what truly got him wrapped up in sexual ecstasy. He seemed to enjoy regular sex but I wanted to make sure I pleased him the most (because I’m competitive and love to please). After a few moments of my cajoling, he said he liked to fuck chairs.

I had never before been so torn on how I felt. I was intrigued, disgusted, confused, and wanting to both please him and run away in the same moment. So I asked him to show me. He proceeded to place a regular straight legged chair between the bed and a table. He placed his hands on the bed and his feet on the table. His cock was pressed on the cushioned back of the chair, and he made love to that chair like it was a woman.

I was astounded. He clearly wasn’t fucking with me. He actually liked it. I asked why; his cock wasn’t even surrounded by anything. He said it was probably the pressure that made it feel so good. So we worked together to find a way to get his kink into our sex life.

It only got “weirder” from there. When I entered the swinging world at the age of 19, I was placed in a sudden world of partner swapping, orgies, and kinks and fetishes that weren’t being hidden or ignored. It was amazing! While I was still very “vanilla” in my sex life, I would go to swinger parties with Bill, who is a married man. His wife would be in attendance, and she would know about what he and I did together. I went from vanilla sex to having sex with Bill in front of a group of people while his wife got a very close-up view. Thus, I was in the sexual twilight zone.

I have discovered over the years that there is NOTHING that someone can say turns them on that will freak me out anymore. While I might not agree with it because it doesn’t get my juices flowing, it will not freak me out. Aside from children and animals, I think everyone should try to find their kink because kinky sex is…amazing. Use communication with your partner and try to reach an agreement on what you are willing to try. Heck, if they can’t give it to you, maybe they will let you get it from someone else. Honest communication is what enables couples to embrace what they find works for them in the bedroom.

Maybe you want to be tied up and forced to watch your wife get fucked by someone. Or maybe you want to try reverse cowgirl. You do you, boo. If someone judges you and thinks you’re a fucking weirdo for what you do in the bedroom, feel sorry for the mediocre sex they are having.

And, maybe try stuff out once, or twice if you weren’t sure the first time. You might surprise yourself.

Side note: tentacle porn.

Paragliding For Pussies

I went paragliding this weekend. It was amazing; the running and jumping off of the cliffs, seeing the Pacific Ocean in various shades of blues and greens beneath me, and twirling through the air before landing smoothly back on the cliff. I saw dolphins surfing the waves, I saw nudists sunbathing on the beaches below, and I got to talk to the gentleman who was behind me on the tandem flight.

He was a 48 year old man, J.C., with a wife and two young daughters. He met his wife while skydiving and they fell *smirk* deeply in love. With the love of the sky between them, of course their daughters would follow in their adventurous footsteps. The daughters, 11 and 13, are solo paragliders who run and jump off of high areas, catching the drafts of the wind to glide smoothly through the air. J.C. and his wife encourage their children to follow their heart and do so safely.

When I returned from paragliding, I didn’t realize that what I did was considered a faux pas as a mother. Such events are “reckless and stupid” for someone with a child according to a few people who enjoy creating divots in their couch cushions. So while a child of such a skilled pilot as J.C. is capable of soaring through the skies gently, a mother such as myself is not? There is risk in all things, and if we operate under the lowest risk, we will never experience the great things in life such as leaping off of a grassy cliff into the arms of the wind, or the drop in your stomach when your butt leaves the floor of the airplane when you jump out, or the thrill of summiting a mountain, or the pride of successfully lifting a heavy olympic lift after months of training.

Oh, I get it. I need to preserve myself to raise my child. Of course. And I weigh my ability to accept the risks by implementing various mitigations. But as I get into my car to drive home, I am putting my life in more danger than if I was to jump with J.C. again. My son will be just as adventurous as his parents, and of that I am glad.

Enjoy the couch, pussies.

The Dream Traveler

post apocalyptic dream city

The man ran behind the old Army truck. I was in the back of the truck, sitting on piles of gray blankets with a bunch of other soldiers. Everyone else avoided his eyes as he panted behind us, holding his cap on his head and grasping a solitary book under his arm. With his cloak billowing behind him, he looked out of place. We were going to war. He looked like he was headed to university.

“Please, can you tell me where Luxton is?”

I looked around at the soldiers near me. No one else was fazed by his presence. I told him that he should’ve grabbed a map.

“I’m not from here. I’m traveling. Please. Help me.”

As I looked at everyone else, the realization of what was happening washed over me. They weren’t ignoring him; they couldn’t see him; he didn’t exist to them. His cloak and hat were out of place because he didn’t exist here. He was traveling in time and I was the only one to see him.

The truck sped up, faster and faster. The man seemed desperate. I reached out and grasped the man’s arm, pulling him into the truck with me. He fell to the ground, atop the blankets, and quickly opened his leather bound book. As I looked down at the loose leaf paper within the bond leather, I saw a detailed drawing of every street within our city. Even the water pipes were drawn and labeled. It was the most intricate drawing I had seen in my short life as a soldier in this post WWIII era.

The man pointed at an area of the drawing.

“Luxton was supposed to be here.”

As I studied the map, I noticed parts of the city that were not drawn on the maps handed to us by the militia. Trying to orientate myself, I saw on the map a bridge that I knew we would be approaching soon.

“You’ll have to jump off here. Luxton is four blocks away.”

The truck sped faster and faster, turning sleekly into a bullet train. We had reached over 200 mph. The man was still holding onto his cap to prevent the winds from yanking it from his head. I slumped back in the blankets.

The dream started to break apart. The man looked at me frantically.

“You can’t wake up yet! I have to get to Luxton! Please, stay asleep!”

The bridge would be approaching soon. The man prepared to leap off the train.

When I saw the bridge in the distance, I woke up.

I wonder if he made it.