Tuesday, October 29, 2013

32. Evolution

     Things that change: Everything. Things that don’t: Everything.
     And at the same time, neither of those statements is exactly true. Things are fluxy. This is me writing my way through it, from the inside. If you’ve been around for awhile, you might have noticed a few things. You might have noticed that the posts come more infrequently. (Yes, I see it. Once again, the English teachers present can, with all my love, fuck off.) There are reasons for my hesitation. Make no mistake, the biggest reason is that I’m lazy as fuck, but there are others. The easiest one is that originally this was all written out ahead of time (well, through the first eight or ten posts, anyway), and posted weekly while I was trying to keep ahead of it. On the other hand, I’ve been back to being ahead of it for the last couple of months, there are two or three more installments on the page after this one even, but I’m still slow to post. So I have to ask myself why. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, and I think it’s time to face the ugly truth of the situation. It’s another thing you might have noticed, if you’ve been around for awhile: It’s not as good as it used to be. It used to be about reflection and sexuality and sorting through my evolution from someone with a respectable career I was really pretty good at, to someone who is (instead) paying attention to all the other things I am. It has always been about sex, yes. But it used to be introspective and funny and maybe even a little philosophical, albeit inappropriately (which is the best way to be a little philosophical, if you ask me). Somewhere though, it has mutated. Mutated might be a little harsh. Let’s say it has metamorphosed into individual episodes of graphic pornography. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of graphic pornography, but what used to be an exploration, an investigation of my life and the sexuality inherent to it, has become more like a biweekly (if that) report. A play-by-play of my Saturday nights (and Wednesday nights, and Thursday nights, and the occasional Tuesday…), and while I sense that there’s a place for that, I think I’m better at something else. I think I need to shoot for something in between.
     I tried really hard not to become beholden to You, but the thing is, that was easier when there were four of You, than it is now that there have been fifty-five thousand. I think the motivation behind writing shifted from me sorting through my shit, to providing You with something to read, and much of the insight has been sucked out of it, in the process. One of the first four of You told me in the very beginning that she wished it was more narrative, sex stories if you will, and I think that’s sort of the same way I justified the diminishing art of the thing. It’s very possible that she’s in the majority, by the way, given the fifty-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-six page view difference between then and now, but remember way back in Fruit, Wine and Tantalization, when I said “I’m trying not to worry about you”? Right. So maybe this is me sort of returning to the inception of it all, by writing my way out of the flux. I’m trying not to worry about You.
     It’s no coincidence that the blog is fluxy right now. It’s the literary incarnation of my sex life, after all, and that’s fluxy right now, too. I’m doing things I never used to do. I’m capable of things I never was before. As much as I’ve always loved the riding crop, a few scant years ago I would have called you crazy if you’d told me my husband was going to take it to my clit and that it wouldn’t make me safeword. Or you may recall occasions on which my husband has charged me with bringing myself to a g-spot orgasm, and then sat and watched me fail until I came to tears of frustration and abject begging instead, before he’d take pity on me and get me off himself (which he can usually do in five seconds or less – I remember he made me count it out loud one time; I almost made it to three). I always blamed it on a near-impossible angle and the fact that my fingers are shorter than his, but I recently discovered that I was full of shit. It happened while I was backed up against the cushion at the foot of the bed, spread eagled and masturbating under his supervision and scrutiny. What I was doing wasn’t anything new or revolutionary. You know that thing you see from solo-performance porn stars, where they basically just finger fuck themselves super fast, with the palms of their hands slapping against their pussies? It’s just straight, self-penetration, with little to no finesse or any of the subtlety of slow manipulation that I love so dearly. It’s not like I’d never done it before, the point is that I’d never liked it before. Evolution, see? I got myself so close like that that it only took two quick little tries off the end of it, and I was spilling girl-cum into the palm of my own hand. I can do that now.
     At the other end of the spectrum is the slow-fuck that he loves so well. It used to be a delicious tease to me, an anticipatory stasis he’d hold me in until I could stand it no longer, at which point he’d let me off the chain and we’d burst into the hard-fast-and-out-of-control that launched me into wild, flailing orgasm. These days, that long, intense slow-fuck reduces me to a puddle of quivering, girl-shaped goo. Sometimes he does one, sometimes the other, sometimes both. The other night he flipped me face down, ass-up (still one of his favorites), and pinned my knees together under me. He slow-fucked me from behind like that until I was incapable of human speech, and then slammed me hard and fast until I was incapable of human thought. Then he backed off and started over again … and again. By the time he was finished with that game, I was a thing of pleasure only, aware of nothing beyond the sensation of fucking, from the tender skin over the arches of my feet, to the goose bumps raised on my scalp under my hair. Fully on another level of consciousness. It was a lasting condition, too; I went on a blow job run after that like I’d sacrificed my first born child to the goddess of cock sucking. There have been more than a few nights like that.
     And then, and then, and then… there is the element of submission. As always, there is that. I was hashing this out with Harpo, the other day, and I think I’ve got the metaphors right, now. She is my sounding board, and knows (like a good therapist) how to respond just enough to let me figure out on my own, what the fuck I’m babbling on about or obsessing over. She gives me someone else to write even the craziest of my shit to, and it lets me see the forest, even from among the trees. There is no beginning to the submissive aspect of my nature. Even more than a decade ago (dare I say decades?), every new element of domination to which I yielded only served to shine a light on something that was already there. It has never been about discovering something new, it has always been about recognizing something old. Reflections or sensory memories sometimes even from my childhood that were always just there without seeming like they needed explanation, that suddenly fit into place and make sense in a way that leaves me wondering why I’ve never questioned them. So I think of my sexuality as a big, old house that I’ve been living in for my entire life. After I came of age, I became engaged in lifting the sheets off of lavish furniture, reclining on the upholstery I’d never actually looked at before, instead of perching on top of the dust covers. In recent years, I’ve been wandering around opening the doors of whole rooms I’ve been walking right past, for years. Only now, very, very lately, I’m beginning to realize that some of that upholstery is actually just more sheets, that some of those rooms turn out to have walk-in closets in them. Should I stop playing around in the figurative and get to a practical example? You probably already caught the one I’m going to give you, if this isn’t the first post you’re reading; it’s just taken me a couple of weeks to come to grips with it. (Another reason behind being slow to post.) It was the thing with the floggers that really made me have to face it – remember? They didn’t hurt. And there you have it. Maybe it was obvious all along. It’s not just about submission with me, it’s also more about masochism than I’ve admitted to myself, before.
     So if you were one of the people who called bullshit on my whole It’s not about the pain spiel, here you go: You were right and I was wrong. It’s kind of a little bit about the pain. I can’t describe to you the internal turmoil I went through, trying to say that out loud to my husband. If you think it took me a long time to get to the fucking point here, you should have heard that. It was a monologue that was more pregnant silence than actual words, because I couldn’t get them to come out of my mouth. But I did it. I said it. Okay, okay, he had to fill in some of the words for me, but however it happened, it got said. And then (predictably) he Han Solo’d the shit out of me and said “I know.” Fucker. I love him so much it’s sometimes hard to breathe.
     So everything changes, and everything stays the same. He sent me online, tasked me with researching and finding a flogger that feels good because it hurts, and as a kind of symbolic acknowledgement of this next epoch in our long and storied relationship, I have changed my safeword for the first time, ever. I have a feeling I might need it.
     As for the writing, I have no idea where the fuck this thing is going. I’m trying to sit back and watch it happen, instead of pushing it toward somewhere I might assume – likely wrongly – that it will end up. I will put the words on the page, and then read them to find out what the hell they say. And on the side, I’ve started writing down the bag of tricks and blow job savvy compiled in my brain and referenced here. I’m thinking a little bit about an e-book. I don’t know if I’ll go through with it or not – I have a suspicion that anybody who might pay to read it probably already has a bag of tricks all their own. Still, I’ll write it and decide the rest later. Like with everything else, I’m curious to see how it evolves.

(It occurs to me that if you're a huge fan of something like dubstep, you should probably never, ever click on any of the songs I post...)


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