There was a small fraction of a moment, some incidental clicking of a second hand, that served as my awakening. Perhaps it was the rough scratching of the beige apartment carpet on the soft delicate skin of my left cheek or the way that each thrust brought with it another sharp slap of his hand against my already welted backside... it's really very difficult to tell. It may have not been physical at all, the way that repressed memories or the ignored knowledge of previous lives tends to take one by surprised at the most inopportune moments.

Sex is my poetry. Being close to people, intimately close, fills me with an undeniable sense of purpose. My partner and I communicate most effectively when we're connected in that sense; it's almost as though all those things that we set aside and ignore during the course of normal conversation suddenly don't need to be said. Everything between us returns to equilibrium.

I enjoy a life in balance. I like black, white and grey. I like happy, sad and neutral. I like pain, pleasure and, well, both at the same time. The nasty sort of pain and the illness that has precluded our sexual relationship has thrown a blanket over some of my more delicate senses. I've become less overtly sexual in nature... where we'd spend our weekends together ordering in and fucking all day we now rent movies and cuddle. I'm out of balance with myself.

This weekend was different. I've been used, abused and fucked within an inch of my life. I've made guttural sounds that shouldn't come from a human being. I feel loved, I feel beautiful, I feel closer to him than I have in a long time. I used to believe that my need for the closeness that sex provides was a flaw, something that made me weak and needful, but I'm reevaluating that.

For now, I'm satisfied.

This entry was posted by Mellie, on Sunday, November 12, 2006.