25. Unabashed and Unashamed

     I have been on a slow boil. No, it’s a smolder. An underground fire, the kind you can get in places like Ontario where the earth is made of nothing but decomposed leaves and pine needles, and the fire just goes deep and goes on burning. Again, like I was a month or two ago, I am hyper-sexual. Really I think it’s the same phase, it’s just growing. I think it’s cumulative, and I’m just acutely aware because there was another definite lack of sex for awhile. Or maybe it’s intensified because instead of just letting it roll me over, I’m actually encouraging it. Maybe both. Likely both. It was probably a week without sex, but it felt like a month. It was only circumstances beyond our control. Insidiously coincidental poor timing and travel that wasn’t the fun kind. Impossible conditions. I’m not sure when I started making it better by making it worse. At some point I decided to play it as a deprivation game, making no sex into something sexual by pretending it was intentional. A new, diabolical torture inflicted for the very effect it was eliciting. It was a really good idea, but doing this makes everything sexual. Everything. No Sex turned to Sexual Deprivation makes every moment you’re not having sex, sexy. There was no moment during which I was not conscious of my pussy and every open expanse of my skin. Last time I wrote about it I was just letting it spin out of control. Now I’ve gone active – I’m the one doing the spinning. I am my own gyroscope.
     I think I first started ratcheting myself up because I was writing about blow job technique. Then I abandoned most of the books I was reading (I somehow almost always end up in the middle of three books at a time), and started reading nothing but porn. Up until then, I’d been denying myself masturbation as well. I don’t know if I stopped because I gave in or because part of me knew it would make it worse, but it made it worse. Deliciously worse. I got to the point where I could think of nothing else. Even the act of painting my toenails became about sex – I squirmed over just deciding which color was most delightfully devourable (purple), and squirmed again over the cold touch of the wet brush against each toe. Driving (and I was doing a lot of driving), became internally pornographic. My whale brain set one half to following directions and my ability to operate a car, while the other recalled the specific sensations of being bound. The difference between ropes and leather restraints and the stinging edges of latex straps. Fuck me, the visions of being bound – bound in public, bound and slapped, bare-handed spanks skin to skin, spanked and fingered to orgasm at the same time… For once, I was a player in my own fantasies and all the nameless virgins in my head faded into non-existence. I lost control of what was going through my head for days. And always, it was his cock inside me – in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass, his cock filled every available space in my mind, the way it usually does with my body. It still does.
     I can’t keep my fingers out of my pussy. I’m dropping everything I’m in the middle of twice a day to go touch myself. I take toys and porn into the bathtub at noon. I pinch my own nipples under my shirt, when I think no one is looking. I touch my breasts in public when I know for sure they are. Putting on lotion has become vaguely masturbatory (though to be fair, it always has been, to some extent). Putting on lip balm has become like tracing lube or a fingerful of spit over soft labia. When my husband brought me a Blow Pop from the office of one of his clients, I stared at it for twenty-four hours. Impossible to imagine the lick and suck of it – especially as it had come from him especially for me – in this condition. Surely it would kill me.
     When we finally got a chance to fuck, it was a frenzy. I couldn’t shut up, couldn’t stop telling him how good his cock felt fucking me, how I’d been thinking of nothing else for days. I pushed my fingers into my pussy with his cock, so I could feel him fucking me. I buried him in my mouth and my throat and sucked him like that longer than I usually dare, my face in his belly, gagged myself on him and loved it and came up gasping. He milked my nipples hard while I rode him, came away from my orgasm wet at both ends. He held me over him and fucked me from underneath, my pussy so wet that I could hear its slickness on him. I fingered my ass at the same time, so he could feel it while his cock was stroking into me. He pinched my clit and pulled my labia wide while he fucked and fucked me. Gods I loved it when he did that, held me tight with his fingers so that every time I rocked my hips it tugged and stretched me. Usually I don’t play around with his come when it’s already in my mouth. I make sure the spasm is complete (though I’ll admit I fuck that up sometimes), and swallow. But when he came, he filled my mouth so full that I couldn’t bear to be done with it so quickly. I let it pour down over his cock, still in my mouth, sucked it back over him.
     I fell asleep immediately, finally spent and sated, but awoke in the morning with his warm body against mine, and I knew as I watched him leave for work that it wasn’t over. That I’d lie soft and cozy and naked on his side of the bed, when he’d gone. That I’d put my fingers in my quim and remember his cock there. That I’d put a toy in my bag before I left the house. Add lube to my drive. Go in the steam room at the gym and lie naked in a puddle, feeling hot water fall onto my wet body from the ceiling. I am shameless – and I don’t mean that in a bad way, I mean I am without shame. I am obvious and careless (see previous comment about shameless). If I happen to run into you, in this particular epoch of my post-career, stand at the gas pump across from yours or thank you for holding that door for me, pay you for my paint at the art store, I’m going to be imagining you flushed in the reckless abandon of sex, and you’re going to know it, because I can’t get the look off my face. I don’t want to. If the lines had started to blur for you, so that the myriad acts of not being fucked had begun to take on the mental/emotional characteristics of fucking, would you?

(Unabashed and Unashamed)