Rawr!

Did I stalk you like a tiger, with no thought for your own inner being?

It didn't feel that way at the time. Never did it feel like a conquest borne of right or entitlement. It was a pleading with you to share all you had to share with me, a deep longing to visit inside your whole self, to experience your being. To try to understand what made you tick, to intertwine my energy with yours, not to steal yours, or secrete it away inside me, but to feel it, the ebb and flow. To rush through your arteries as your blood did, to build up in your groin as semen does when your balls draw up in that moment before orgasm, when everything is open to the world, before the doors begin to close again.

I was so fascinated by you, I wanted to be closer and closer still. I wanted you inside me in hopes that I might glimpse what was inside of you. Never to conquer, or to possess, but to simply be at one. Was this a selfish desire? Did it come at the risk of something of yours? I never wanted to be a risk. I have yet to find my balance, but I do not consider myself a danger to others. Is this naive? Do I fail to recognize the power I might have? I have never felt any power in me but that to banish and drive away. I'm good at driving away, it would seem.

How sobering to find that I may indeed be a destroyer.

Plants fail to thrive around me. People complain of my coldness, how I seem to calculate and run reckless with the delicate humans with whom I come in contact. I am perceived as indestructible, yet chaotic, dangerous and yes, sometimes predatory. None of it feels right.

I don't lurk in the bushes, lying in wait for moments of weakness to exploit.

I try to hide myself, tuck my humanity deep iniside, for what? So that the predators cannot prey on me.

What is it they say? About how what we see most often when we look at others is merely a reflection of ourselves, distorted by that which we cannot fathom? Do I see predators and destroyers everywhere because I myself am one?

I feel threatened by the friendships built by those I feel attempted my destruction. One such person told me that I always landed on my feet, that my life was charmed. It wasn't meant as a compliment. Despite a dearth of complimentary things to say about my friends at the time, I feel as though this same person now stalks them, wanting to win them over to a side of a battle I don't want to be in.

In the past, these people were a symbol of my descent into the animalistic, the hedonistic and predatory. Now they are friends to be won, why do I feel threatened by this? Why do I imagine a battle here at all? I don't imagine myself a warrior, and yet I see battles. Might they be giants, disguised as windmills? If I see that they are only windmills, then why do I continue to be afraid of them?

I want my friends to be mine, without chance of their swaying by the rumours and incharitable comments which alienated past friends. But perhaps my friends need warnings that I am not what I appear. Perhaps I am not.

I wish I knew.

Blood Sugar Sex Magick

Since before my sexuality came to the surface, I've felt a certain affinity to the idea of sex organs as power centres.

As I grew into a sexual being, I strove to draw from my partner the tremendous energy that I could feel, vibrating there, barely contained within the lingam. Call it gnosis if you will, but the combining of two entities to share energy and gain a power that neither could ever acheive alone is the primary goal of all my sexual exploits. There's just a lot more to sex than the old in-out.


I once had sex in a temple.
I have never experienced anything quite like it before or since.

Despite my general scepticism of people claiming communion with the gods, there was something to be said for the energy which flowed through the room, through our bodies, from one spirit to another and back again.



At times, the energy mingled freely, building and compounding, stretching towards a moment of oneness. At times we struggled for control of that energy, giving one moment, then taking the next, grasping not just at flesh but at one another's essence and self.

The magician had gathered there the gods of whom he requested favourable attentions. I had listened closely as he called for the attendance within the carefully struck circle of things both fearful and wonderful. My job was simple: to generate energy. I never enquired as to what purpose the energy would serve. I trusted that his purposes were not counter to my interests.

Candles flickered when I arched my neck, the light that came through my eyelids faltering a moment, reminding me not to keep that energy for myself but to surrender it to the greater cause.

Warmth burst not just from sex organs but from every extremity. My fingers trembled slightly as I wove them into his, briefly touching fingertip to fingertip, aware of ten circuits completing, of a connection less superficial than our skin betrayed. Lips barely touching but buzzing as though they'd been busy for hours. Aligning foreheads, noses, lips, chins, breasts, abdomens, pelvises, each point of contact hyper-sensitive.

Colours danced in my periphery and my senses challenged the integrity of that which they perceived. The walls of the temple seemed to shimmer and shift outside the bounds of our circle, imitating the wavering of the air above a flame. The energy that built around us consumed me, feeding off me as I fed off it. With one deep intake of breath from the organism we had created, the energy dissipated all at once, channelled into whatever place it was being sent and we returned to our individual selves, breathless and wet from exertion, but oddly alert and energetic.

I was high for days afterwards. My head floating, but not in the clouds, instead clear and sharp-witted. Everything I saw gleamed with a newness, an aura of power that I felt I could just reach out and grasp.

My mood has never before or since been so consistantly good for so long. I hope I adequately thanked the gods for that. Remind me to pour a bit of my next drink out, as a particular thanks.


And maybe a shooter for the Mage.

Round Peg, round hole?

"You're not helping matters any by being all complex and multifaceted you know. My life is much easier when I can fit round peg you into the round hole."

-Elasticlad to me upon recieving my advice on his newest relationship crisis.

I've never been a round peg in my life. I've never fit in. Sometimes I wish that I could disregard the meaninglessness of small talk and join in a group. Just slide in there and just "fit". Be someone who is called up and invited places. Be someone who men want to hang out with after the boinking is done. To NOT be the person about whom it's asked "well, is so and so going to be there?" I mean, ouch.



When I turned 10, I threw a birthday party and noone showed up.
It happened again when I turned 14.
Clearly, I was hard to like.

By the time I reached 18 or 19 I thought I'd finally found a good group. People who hugged me and told me they were happy to see me and joked with me. I guess it was just all the E. As soon as I got pregnant they were gone like a puff of smoke.


I thought I had another group. Supportive, kind people. People who'd made it through the baby years, or people I'd met since. As soon as Dorian and I split. Another puff of smoke.





Sometimes I feel as though people are just waiting for that out. Like the patient whose therapist keeps looking at their watch. Just a few more minutes left in your session. Just a few more minutes left in my friendship.





Fact is, I don't do well in groups.
I get nervous, I say the wrong things, or I say the right things in the wrongest possible way. Recently I tried tell a new friend that I thought her husband was an interesting guy. It came out sounding like I was interested in pursuing her husband. This is typical.

When I observe a group, trying to suss out its dynamic, all I see are various primal behaviours. People leaping up and down and making the biggest stir for attention. They all seem to be born with it. This primate socialization. Sometimes I find it cause for pity, other times, awe.



I don't wish to act on my baser instincts. I try not to; though possessing them, I often fail. Problem is, without those baser instincts to work on, I feel simply out of place. I don't belong here, I don't belong there. I just can't seem to get it right.

I try on various group experiences and they all feel like a variation on high school to me. The ultimate test of social conformity. The one where I always come up lacking.

These ones are so desperate for ANYONE's attention that they'll do anything for it. I don't fit there, though I often find myself drawn into other folks pleas for validation.

These ones have their hierarchy already figured out and require a big impact to shake it up enough to reform it to fit another person. I'm not a "get out there and wow them" kind of person. I don't fit there.

I do it to myself, and that's what really hurts.

Barbara Imperiled

The piercing shrieks of her companion grew fainter as the icy cold water rushed over her head, carrying her further and further down the river.

The torrential rain had only recently subsided and she was dashed against rocks as drainage from the nearby mountain pressed the waterway into action. Struggling, she nearly reached shore and the hands of another of her hiking team reached out, almost grasping her. Hysterical, the youngest member of the tribe collapsed into sobs as her dear friend, unable to free herself from the current, quickly approached a waterfall twice the height of the helpless Barbara.

The water was so cold, she thought idly, as the sounds of rescue efforts faded from her consciousness.

The wounds sustained from the dingo attack earlier in the trip numbed. It was the first time she'd been able to forget the dog's huge teeth wrapped around her feet as her companions attempted to overpower the beast.


What was that about every cloud's lining?

She couldn't remember.

Her eyes gazed, unfocused towards the black storm clouds above.

At least she couldn't get any wetter.

She had resigned herself to the will of the river when large, strong hands grasped and lifted her, it seemed without effort, out of the water. She was returned to her friends, somewhat the worse for wear, her crown of golden hair streaming down her naked body.


Once she was dried, she resumed the hike, which had become more a death march to her, but in which she had no choice, if she wished to ever see home again.


Unable to move her legs any further, she fell behind. She could hear the cheerful laughter of her companions as they settled into their evening camp. The trip had been hard on her, but they were revived with a new lust for life, pumped up with the adreneline of the rescue.

Every second felt like an hour as she fell, motionless, into the wet grass. The night fell and with each camper retiring to their respective shelters, Barbara was left forgotten and shivering. She closed her eyes and waited for the trip to be over. She wondered if the light at the end of the tunnel would at least warm her frigid form. She was barely aware of hands lifting her and bringing her to the warmth and light of a giant bonfire. Relieved to experience the warmth but unable to thank her rescuer, she drifted off into a wary unconsciousness. As she fell into a fitful sleep, wondering vaguely what challenges would face her tomorrow and the following, seemingly endless days ahead, she heard her rescuer speak:







"Hey Sarah, I found this doll in the middle of the field, thought I'd grab it before the dog got it again. It's your daughter's, right?"

composed

Women who adore the men they know are bad for them.
Women who want to say things until their hearts and breath are arrested by one flash of beautiful eyes, one room brightening smile, one set of kind words.

I've been there.
Boy, have I been there.

So desperately gone that forgiveness of factual manipulation comes before he even knows I've been made aware of it.

So completely enamoured with a shining set of eyes, and the soft parting of full, round lips that it's easy to believe. Even if the belief ebbs in his absence.

So fully in need of kind words, of sexual validation that morals almost become malleable.

So fascinated by mind and soul that I'll take anything offered, just to be close to him.




And so crushed when each and every one of these relationships or non-relationships falls to it's inevitable demise. So discouraged to be reminded that I knew I didn't measure up. I knew it could never work. I knew I was trading a moment of oblivious pleasure for a tiny shard of my own self worth.

I traded that self worth willingly. Gave it away to the highest bidder for the intoxication of exploration, of doors opened and paths explored. For the heady feeling of acceptance and belonging. For the privilege of my skin against his, my lips on his cock, my hands on his body and the blood coursing through my veins, charged with sexual hormones.

Sometimes I dream of the taste of your skin.

Whacking Day

Erin go bragh

Comfortably? Numb.

"Has he been treated for these issues?"

I'm sick of doctors. I'm tired of their waiting rooms, with tattered children's books of questionable intellectual merit and greying mismatched toys. I'm sick of explaining again and again my son's medical history, intellectual and social development, recapping his entire life within 15 minutes, praying that I haven't left out anything significant.

"Why don't you shine a tiny light into his ears? I don't think he's cured yet, maybe that will help" I want to shout, dripping sarcasm all over the inoffensive tan carpets, splattering my increasing cynicism on the walls, laden with proof of their certified competancy.

Nothing ever gets done.

"It's best to catch these things early"
Early. When he's screamed for 20 hours straight for the 6th week in a row and he's only 7 weeks old? Not that early. How about when he's barely walking and retaining his bowels and goes into fits of pure terror when you go through an automatic door or take an escalator? Not then either. You mean like, when he's 3 years old and throwing temper tantrums that convincingly mirror demonic possession? Clearly not. Howabout when a concerned mother brings their 5 year old to you, because noone can understand what he's saying most of the time, he won't make eye contact and has stepped up the tantrums to such a degree that her face is perpetually bruised. Nope. When he has a debilitating migraine at seven, we'll shine lights in his ears. We'll ask if he's ever been treated, we'll pretend to care.

"Yep, that's a migraine alright." Thanks, you overpaid goober. Clearly I need to put a pencil grip on his pencil, stock up on ibuprofen and hope he adjusts.

I'm tired of it.
I'm fucking numb.
I don't remember the names of all the doctors who have heard these reports. There's been too fucking many of them. Who cares what THEY thought? I'm asking YOU. What do YOU think? None of them seem to think anything at all. They all want to know what other doctors have said. Every. Last. One. Of. Them. Why yes, that does include the first.

"Let me write you a referral. This neurologist is highly lauded. This psychologist used to work for the board of education. This pediatrician specializes in that. It's a long way to go, but it's worth it."

"Now, Basil, I'm going to shine this little light into your ears. It won't hurt, I'm just taking a look."