Erotica: Spring Awakening (Part 11)

Separating ‘we’ from ‘me’ is easy. Though I worried, only nights ago, about the decency of sharing intimate thoughts about a lover, today, it became clear. My thoughts about my lover are my own. While he may inspire them, they are no more his property than a sunset owns a photograph. Neither is more or less valid. Both have their own power and beauty. One does not detract from the other: they are different, if connected.

He has his own interpretation of life, I suspect most frequently displayed through music, passion and political discourse. It is his to share as he sees fit. Sharing my perspective on my experience through my words gives nothing away about him – though sharing my words with him exposes myself graphically to him. But it is not fair to share words about him without him being aware of it. I am still surprised – and flattered – that he chooses to read them.

And, if I am honest, I am using them to fill the space where I would usually erect a barrier. Typing is easier than speaking. Prose allows space for the reader to skip over anything unpalatable or complicated. The written word discloses in a way that is open to interpretation, malleable enough to deny or ignore. Unlike conversation, a story can be taken in manageable chunks.

There is also distance. Words on the page help me pretend their power is contained: irrelevant to the real world. Except that I share my words with him.

In making myself vulnerable, I highlight his strength. By honestly opening myself up to whatever he has to offer, and letting him see the power he has over my body, I am accepting him in a way I suspect has not come as easily to him as it should have done. Someone once told me, ‘Being desired is a powerful thing.’ Despite his clear desirability, he seems unaware of his worth. I know enough of his past to know that he put up with things he did not deserve. I do not yet know him well enough to know whether this is because that is what he needs – or wants.

The physical is easier to quantify – if only in that I am unable to quantify it for the first time in my life. I could list the positions and the acts, the desires and the kinks that are becoming uncovered but it would feel crass. It would also convey nothing.

Whenever I leave him, my mind is a blur – though increasingly, my body feels his imprint. Whereas other lovers may have left specific memories of a particularly hot moment or phrase, he connects with me on so many levels that it is too overwhelming to even try to remember all the ways in which he has enthralled me: spiritually, intellectually, physically, emotionally – and often more besides that I could not have predicted or even really label. Mind-blown is the closest I can come to describing his effect on me.

This is new.

He knows what to say. I never realised how deep my lust for words runs. My cunt is wet from his linguistic play alone. My brain is stimulated until my body becomes almost too hungry to bear.

And he knows how to touch. I am not sure he realises how much I want to fuck him every time we kiss. I feel my cunt opening as his tongue slides between my lips; my clit pulse as he mutters filth in my ear; my juices flow as he threatens me with – or treats me to – hard, real, fucking – whether with cock or tongue or fist or mind, or all of the above.

I have been open before but never with anyone who was capable of seeing what was being offered. Until now, no one has noticed all the facets, let alone the spectrum that lies beneath and between. They have been too busy examining their own reflection.

The surface is easy – if unpredictable. The fun lurks deeper – and darker. He sees me as I am, and casts flame into unexplored, neglected areas. He helps me reflect on life in a new light without imposing the floodlights previous partners have used to drown out my excess and blank out my perspective.

There is no right or wrong: just being.

I am not scared to be myself any more. For the first time, I can show my humour, my sense of the absurd, my self-accepted baggage, my kinks and my penchants in the fuck of a lifetime – and ask for a hug and a cup of tea afterwards without any guilt. I am not scared to assume different masks and let him see all aspects of who I am, rather than finding a ‘me’ that he likes and displaying only that.

Sex runs the same spectrum as life: from positive to negative, wild to domestic, monosexual to omnisexual, emotional to emotion-free. It can be used to heal or harm: sometimes both. The worst beating can be more healing than the most mundane missionary sex; and the wildest experimental excess can be blander than creating a new life in a quiet, intimate exchange.

Passion and intimacy are not exclusive: but society encourages us to think that they are; and that the answer lies in money. Spend your way to better sex is the subtext, even when not explicitly stated. Niches exist but the mainstream encourages silencing, aside from the occasional, ‘Look at the freaks,’ article: pretend everyone is ‘normal’ and with any luck the ‘dissidents’ will assume they are in a minority. Even if they’re in the majority. Money is power but only because we allow it to have power. Sex is power but only because we allow it to be used for control.

I have no desire to control my lover with sex. I do not want him to control me with it either. But I happily relinquish control to him within sex because I want to feel him inside me. And because I know he is willing to give himself as fully as I can take it.

I have never been so aroused by words – and not just the dirty ones. He is the first lover I have had who truly understands the power of the mind and, I think, lets his arousal show in his filthy mutterings. It may be an act for my benefit but the desire that drips from his tongue and the intensity of his actions suggest that he may be as fully engaged in the moment as I am.

Engaging during sex is new for me. I have always separated myself from my body; knowing my desires; knowing my needs; rarely articulating them and, more frequently, ignoring them in favour of being a ‘dream lover’. Being in my body held too many traumatic memories. Far easier to go through the motions, pull out the tricks and use all the technology available to provoke my own physical release and keep a partner happy that they were satisfying me.

My orgasm was not about myself but a reward for a partner’s efforts. It was about pleasing my lover rather than taking any pleasure for myself: a self-betrayal that makes me realise quite how deep the damage from my non-consensual past ran. I had too much guilt about what had happened to me to allow myself any true pleasure from the act. That does not mean I didn’t climax – but it was never about me. I wanted to please my lover, be a ‘good girl’.

I do not feel a need to please now – though I’d be lying if I said the phrase, ‘Good girl’ is entirely without sexual charge for me. That level of baggage is something I can cope with: a silver lining turning a negative into a positive. A spark in the dark.

This does not mean I am sexually selfish. I adore exploring my lover’s body with fingers and tongue and skin-on-skin. I relish taking my time, falling into every kiss without concern as to when or where it will end; allowing my hands to stroke and caress, scratch and grip until I am no longer able to contain my lust and look at him, eyes begging for more.

I don’t have any desire to be an outsider either – which has not always been the case. A clan of outsiders is still a clan. I took support where I could find it. Now, I feel happily self-sufficient, yet more connected than I have ever been. I have friends, family, acquaintance, colleagues and more who value me. I value myself so I can see it now. My lover has put a smile on my face the likes of which I haven’t known since I was a teenager – if ever. Even then, my past had served to give me an air of cynicism

Now, I feel innocent. I am honest with him because there is no other logical way to be. I am open to him because I do not want to waste time on unnecessary boundaried bullshit that could otherwise be spent getting to know each other better. I want him to know me as I am because I want him as he is, and if there is a disparity in our feelings then it’s better to know sooner rather than later.

I am myself with him because I do not know any other way to be with him. And I don’t want to. I like it. I have never fought back against a partner, challenging their views and calling them on their beliefs before. He is enough of a friend that to let him get away with anything less than critical thinking would be patronising. I am not going to let him be dim when I know how brightly he can shine. He has hidden his light for too long.

I do not know what will happen in the future. But for the first time, it is not about a plan. I am going with the flow. But he has a pull as strong as a whirlpool. I do not know what lurks on the other side. But I’m letting myself get swept into the rip-tide.

For some reason, I’m not scared but excited.

My phone keeps changing the word love to live. And I feel like I am finally starting to live.

Read Part One of Spring Awakening
Read Part Two of Spring Awakening
Read Part Three of Spring Awakening
Read Part Four of Spring Awakening
Read Part Five of Spring Awakening
Read Part Six of Spring Awakening
Read Part Seven of Spring Awakening
Read Part Eight of Spring Awakening
Read Part Nine of Spring Awakening
Read Part Ten of Spring Awakening
Read Part Eleven of Spring Awakening

Read Part Twelve Spring Awakening
Read Part Thirteen Spring Awakening

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