Wr1tt3n0ne

Bunches and bunches
2018-01-18 00:28:17 (UTC)

The Weather of My Soul

The secrets we keep about ourselves have a temperature, and feeling that is beyond internal and seems to well up from within.


The sensuality of sexuality haunts me. In my youth, when I first discovered wanting and the burning yearning of the mid to late teen years. It was hot, sweaty, dusty and dark. So f*cking warm, always so that it burned almost as much outside as inside me for the intense passion. Everything moist or wet, pain playing right nuzzled up close to desire adding just the slightest edge to the naivety that was my young lust. Like a bit of teeth raking this or that, the tiny pleasures of being nibbled upon, everything seemed to happen on an exhale.

Later on, it was cooled by the air, always lightly windy, a fan or the a/c on, a touch chilling and firming. It was cold as heitened awareness. The teeth a little firmer on the lip and the fingernails devouring the flesh beneath them sweetly. It was the cooler head of knowing and anticipation. Clear headed and firm, everything now an inhale and a smile.

Still later it was cold, blanketing and frigid. The serene quiet of snow and ice, it was bracing like a slap, sharp and throbbing before coming under the sweet cresting sea of pleasure. Pain was fierce but measured, and there was nothing fully free of it. I drank longingly of the dull and the sharp and pain etched its way into me as the cold played upon the glass. I delighted in becoming a sexual object. It was liberating and suited my personality beautifully. My sexuality was being run through the kiln and hardening, not so soft, not so accommodating, love was battle and I reign victorious.

Passion has now circled back, back to the dark, the exhaled breath playing upon skin, teeth sharp and yet yielding so that the pleasure crests side by side with the pain. It is now artistry. Sometimes my work is trash and fumble into hysterics having so missed the right moment and veered into the ludicrous. Sometimes it is too warm and soft and lulls me off to sleep, almost. Occasionally, the pain is misplaced and too like stubbing your toe to be in the least sensual. Still I burn and yearn for the ambrosia of sex until I near die from thirst, either served hot or cold. I want it, always; no matter what is the weather of my soul.




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