The aftermath of rain in a developed world has always held an intriguing atmosphere for me. I say that because of the beguiling properties of rain-drenched cement and asphalt, a quality so much harder to find in the natural places of the world. Walking throught campus, eyes down and umbrella up, I watched a paled, reflected sky pass under my feet. It is an almost disconcerting vertigo, but even more so, it fills me with a powerful sensation I can’t quite place. There is the nostalgia that seems to come with this season; a quiet sadness at the grey world reflected; but also a serenity, a stillness of water at its place of least resistance.
I dreamt last night that we were in bed, with him on top of me. There were few visuals besides the tilting changes in perspective from time to time. My eyes were closed, our bodies were pressed close, grinding, groping, rubbing. I could not stand it any longer and reached down, seeing/feeling his coarse jeans, his Carhartts, sliding my fingers towards his belt, his zipper. I felt the bulge, the heat, groaned into his hair, or his lips, I don’t remember. I only recall the frantic fumbling, the sigh of satisfaction and lust at freeing his cock, of caressing it with my palm as I guided it between my legs.
And there, he whispered throatily in my ear: “Perhaps it’s time we go to dinner.“
My dream-self groaned, a monumental rumbling of disappointment as I vainly tried to rub against him, incite him more. It was no use. He lifted himself off of me, stood up.
And then I saw him cupping his hand between my legs, and saw his embarassed grin, and realized I was bleeding. Oh lord. Even my dream-self could see the humor here, as well as realize the connection to reality. The scenario was made more hilarious as he dashed out and back in with sopping wet paper towels, dripping both water and blood.
Ok, in hindsight, dripping blood is never funny. But luckily the copious amounts of flowing blood were dream fodder only, and not representative in any way of my actual period.
In any case, that was only one segment, as always, of my whole dream state (I seem to be in a dream-writing stage, or rather on a particular dreamscape fiasco), which involved taking freshmen on a hiking trip to a wilderness broken by cement staircases, and seminar rooms among the canopy, and a train station-like terrace. The odd thing is, I feel as if I’ve had a similar dream in the same landscape before.
I have been pondering this for awhile.
I’ve come approximately 10 times in the past 3 days. Not all my doing, as paradoxical as that sounds, since I have been by myself every time. Or perhaps perfectly normal, depending.
But that is besides the point. I had one of those body and mind freezing orgasms. I’m sure you know what I mean. Where time stops, the groin seems impossibly hot and is getting hotter, where breathing just doesn’t seem that important anymore.
Yeah, one of those.
And in the shuddering aftermath, as I lay curled in a half-fetal ball and basking in the endorphins, I wondered about breath play.
Erotic asphyxiation has always been one of my few hard limits. It is his as well.
But I wonder if that is softening now for me. I have experimented with breath control – how fast, how shallow or deep, my breaths are – to see how it affects masturbation and climax. This was after reading about how the manner of breathing can vastly change those sensations.
There is no denying the danger inherent in such an activity like breath play. Maybe that’s what intrigues me.
Or maybe I’m just a thrill-seeker, looking for the next biggest high.
An endorphin junkie.
I had interesting dreams last night.
In one segment (they always come in segments, scenes broken and linked awkwardly back together, all jumbled), he was teaching me how to fuck him. Not just that, but teaching me how to best fuck him for my own enjoyment. While he never said anything, or at best sounded like the adults of the Peanuts cartoon, I interpreted everything clearly in my mind. He entered me, doggy-style, both of us in a giant bathtub, and then pulled out, making gestures and incoherent noises that I determined to mean, “You have to hump up like this, so my cock will hit your G-spot.”
Then, for awhile, I was trying to stop a leaking ceiling in my dorm from dripping onto the floor, but I couldn’t find any container to put under the drips.
Then it was back to the two of us, in the same position as before, except the bathtub had converted to his truck, the seats and controls of which could be moved far back, giving us just as much room as the giant tub.
For these scenes, I’m always simultaneously a passive, third-person observer as well as myself, in the body I’m watching participate, act, move, and talk. It’s strange that it should seem so normal, almost expected, in the dream world. Would that it were possible in the real one.
There was also a vague recollection of being fucked doggystyle (no specific person this time), and I watched from the viewpoint of the man, seeing two arms reach out to tug fistfuls of my hair in a reinlike manner. I remember wanting it harder, rougher. But he did not comply.
Another term. I’m going into this fall term both with feelings of trepidation and immense excitement. Excitement for the subjects themselves; trepidation that I won’t be able to put full effort into any one course.
A painting class, a 3-D modeling class, a linguistics class, and an independent study.
At any school that runs on the semester system rather than the quarter system, 4 classes seems – normal at best, maybe even paltry compared to students’ 4, 5, 6 course loads. But at 9 weeks or so a term, information is jam-packed into each class, there is no room for slacking or falling behind.
This term, I can’t get sick. God help me if I do. I am popping multivitamins and drinking plenty of water, trying to exercise more…
Between my 2 jobs and my classes, I have developed an increasing paranoia of my time-management. Nothing is good enough, efficient enough, fast enough. I still haven’t learned to pace myself. It’s still all or nothing. But I can’t afford to keep doing that.
Well, enough whining for now. If anything suffers, it will be my independent study. But hopefully my professor will help keep me on my toes.
Perhaps something more palatable to write about will surface later. For now … more modeling.
I want Your cum. I want its taste lingering on my tongue, in my throat. I want its milky clear smoothness on my skin. Rubbed into my skin, deep into my pores so that it becomes a part of me. I want Your semen gleaming in my hair. I want to wear Your deep, male musk as my perfume. Inhale your scent and, with evey breath, I am brought back to each and every scene; each and every thrust, lick, kiss, groan, gasp, and strangled moan. And deep inside, in the core of my being, I know this is undeniably right. This is my place. On my knees, wearing Your mark of ownership. It is my place to worship, and to serve.
Devotion. Trust. Honesty. Service. Love. The tenets I have discovered and turned to. They, and You, fill and fulfill my life. I give unconditionally of myself, and in doing so complete myself.
But where are You?
I must be going crazy, yes?
It was a beautiful day today. Cool, steady breeze, strong sun, blue skies with scattered cumulus clouds. Don’t I sound like a weatherman.
I have been exploring the realm of YouTube in my spare time, and have just watched a series of Spiderman animated cartoons on the creation of Venom. And then I watched the Spiderman 3 trailer. Wow, after watching the cartoons and now knowing the story, I must say I’m excited for the movie! But I’ve always been a sucker for the wall-crawler; I remember reading the comic strip in a Sunday comic book that came with the paper as a child, before my parents cancelled the subscription.
I’ve lost my train of thought (again). Facebook threatens to suck my life away like an MMORPG, except much less fulfilling … comparatively.
I have also been fighting chronic stomach pains, of which I’m not certain of the source. All I know is that they’re painful, and prevent me from a complete good night’s rest. I’m sure the limited food options available on campus over interim are at least partly responsible. Meals at the only dining facility open right now leave me feeling so heavy and bloated … I’m not sure if it’s worth having these interim meals paid for.
I am not very good at keeping a sex-related blog, am I? Not much fodder available for the genre at the moment, unfortunately…