Generally, I'm a slave to my baser instincts. I exist somewhere between (if you follow the triune brain theory) the reptilian complex and the limbic system - feeling my way through life. I'm a creature of tactile sensations - the feeling of freshly washed jersey sheets on my naked skin, the way my hair has just begun to reach and tickle my shoulders, how soft kisses on my jugular vein makes me either feel fear or safety (fight or flight at its most basic level).

This afternoon, bent over the bathroom sink, I attempted to think more about it. Thinking, however, wasn't coming to me. Guttural sounds, mewling, panting... that was all I could focus on. The way the edge of the bathroom counter caught and battered my pelvic bones, the drip drip drip of the cold leaky faucet on my right wrist, my breasts gyrating against the frigid steel , the crown of my head banging noisily against the bathroom mirror... those things were my priest and my temple. I wasn't thinking, I was being. I was doing.

So what if my quadricep muscles were still burning from 2 hours at the gym? So what if I needed to go grocery shopping or buy new sunglasses? Who cares if I had a million phone calls to return and bills to pay? My skin tingled, my head shut off, my pussy was wet and his cock was the only thing demanding my attention.

I bowed to the religion of the flesh. I worshipped, I reveled, I meditated... and it refreshed me. Just give me a good rut, a hardcore fucking, and it always sets my head straight. It's better than any church I've ever been in or therapist I've ever seen. If you want to get to know me, to get close to me, it's easy. Just stroke my reptilian brain, baby. Charm me with words, grab me with your intelligence, sure. I'm interested. Making me want to crawl to you on my knees, now that takes a certain something else. And it has nothing to do with charm.

This entry was posted by Mellie, on Monday, June 19, 2006.