After Rope Bondage

To my dear friend, the gentleman who physically introduced me to the art of Japanese rope bondage...

i'm sorry to hear you haven't been feeling well; was wondering where you'd been. would love to call, and am out of a telephone again. i'll be largely restricted to email again for a bit, until i can get a gang of bikers to fuck up the geniuses in the phone company's accounts receivable department.
ahem.
otherwise, i would love to hang out again soon, as well. i had great fun saturday and am anxious to do it again. having done it once, i have a little better feel for what would grease my brain-and soul-wheels a bit better next time. i was totally right in needing c~ there, though i was having difficulty properly articulating the reality of why. quickly (for myself as well as you):

i (consciously) take a long goddamned time to think about stuff. i have worked all my tiny life on maintaining control over my actions, reactions, on forcing myself to slow down and make decisions based on logic and love, not on guilt or obligation. i learned how to shut off my sex drive for the same reasons (largely). the only time i allow these controls to relax (and then never fully) is in the presence of another being that i'm veritably sure i can trust implicitly. lord almighty, but those are few and far between! very generally, i only cry in front of my cat, only cut the reins on my modifier tongue with this particular group, only remove the bit from my libido's foaming mouth with that one. you get the idea.

during tying, as soon as my brain realized i was losing control of my equestrian lustmonkeys, that i was not only not in absolute control of my sensual faculties but might also completely lose control over them at some point, my mental maintenance team just went through and threw the breakers to my muladhara root chakra; just shut the fucker down. i've found that it either (A) takes and act of god to reopen those, or (B) takes a lot of naughty positive personal history and a fuck of a lot of maintenance to keep them open in the first place.

like when a~ was playing with my nipples? a~ whom i adore and have only known a few months? i knew it was happening; i didn't feel much of anything. felt my brain step back, get out its endless pens and paper, and begin madly scribbling notes for future reference. behold my inner clinician, my inner documentarian. i've got notes on how best to kill and clean most birds, on the dynamics (mental, emotional, physical, sensual) of beatings, of rape, of incest; notes on the insidiousness of brainwashing and its association with all religion. every tiny trauma in my life has been documented as thoroughly as possible so that i can turn this shit around and use it as my own personal arsenal. i was trained to be a first-class martyr, but i got no time to be a fucking victim. save that shit for the willfully ignorant. i got sleepers to awaken. i've got living to be eating.

lookit my instincts! all coping with trauma before it even gets a chance to beset me!

i don't feel at all ready to do piercing suspensions yet; am pushing myself through cogitation around it, though. i hate the idea of being afraid of anything and yet have had to admit that i am. it's only amatter of time and patience before i get over it. this isn't any sort of diva rock star nonsense here, just a lustful, focused, absolutely willful pushing of my own evolution. "the goat and cat are waking..."

i live for freefall.
my every waking moment yearns to strain, chest out and pounding,
toward a wide-open apex of experience.

i live for mad veined straining toward a single suspended breath,
an expanded moment of empty,
a shaved single second to sit in time's lap
quiet
open

...slow hungry grinning...

and dive, dive, DIVE toward
~forward~
~the big moving, the swift flying~
(cause, baby, it ain't about the destination)

i live for that subsequent rush of turbulent atmosphere,
the joyfully furious whipping of death's cloak
~undulating, ululating, uncontrolled~
close behind my left shoulder.

i breathe for these high-speed, high-octane, high-drama
dates with the prankster twins of gravity and destiny!
i want speed,want danger,want to dance
close
sweaty
libidinous
with death herself;
rest my fingers on her hip curves,
feel her palm against my neck;
i want to push a fevered cunt against her
and look her grinning in the eye.

~ i reveal what i value by what i am willing to risk. ~

sometimes i just get too full of words and images; or passion feels too full, hot-heaving and squirming. gotta spill now and again. check my overflow to open up my influx. scrape the sweat of verbage from my belly and use that shit like high-quality lube. the 'talking to the bighead' stuff i was doing while hanging? that was once a litany of favorite words (lecherous, libidinous, lusty, lewd, lascivious, ululate, tinntinnabulate, pugnacious and viscous, my philologic puissance found its soapbox in pain). funny the ways we choose to evolve, out of necessity real or imagined.

i've got a cooking date with jesus tonight, so i've got to go furiously plan and obsess over flavor combinations for a few hours. sometimes you can force genius...but it rarely tastes as good or stays as wet.

more tying and hanging!

fear my mighty ego for my verbosity will destroy tokyo!

waving and grinning, stroking my too-few bruises,

rum doxy

ps: let me know if i can do anything for your sick ass, okay? :)