Happy HNT! A brief glimpse of my ever studious examination … of algae. Taken at Little Cayman Island.
Not very “half-nekkid,” but the best I can do right now. A more “normal” photo, in any case, which is always nice for a change. Yes?
Godforsaken. You say it low, against the wind pulling at your hair, and yet it sounds like a shriek. I edge away from the tension in your voice, yet am somehow drawn to your side again, by magnetic pathways I don’t understand.
Godforsaken. You laugh, short and barking, wide-eyed and wild.
Do you believe? He’s right there. Right up there. Looming overhead…everywhere, everywhere! Pointing up at the grey sky threatening rain. The sky that today feels like a wool blanket, slowly suffocating, pressing down. The air tastes electric; like blood. I am surprised my hair is not standing on end, even more so that yours does not, a mad-scientist ‘fro to match your maniacal eyes and feral grin.
But even my nervousness is laced with your burning, contagious energy, bubbling underneath, threatening to burst through. My heartbeat quickens as I catch a whiff of rain. The wind whips between us, lashes at our hair. I devour the air viciously into my lungs. As if I were drowning.
I can see it in your eyes. Your lust, your passion, your unquenchable thirst. In your eyes I see you running, leaping through pine needles and loam, naked and free. Screaming up at your God, a throat-ripping scream merging your rage and exaltation.
I look down. Your limbs are trembling.
I realize mine are, too.
I look back up, into your crazed eyes. I see myself reflected there, grinning wildly.
My cousin is nearing the last month of her pregnancy. It’s a little boy, and this is the latest discussion:
To circumcize, or not to circumcize?
It is quite interesting to listen to. From maternal worries of her son’s future love life, to my own mother’s worries of infection. The verdict seems to be leaning towards leaving him as nature gifted him, and let him decide on his own.
Who would want to make that decision??
Anyway, I think this is worth opening up to you, although I know it’s been hashed out before. Pros and cons of both? Differences in sensation, or performance?
And has anyone decided on circumcision on their own?
Three fingers inside. Body bent, knees rubbing on the carpet, the other hand slippery between my thighs.
So stretched; half painful, half blissful.
‘Imagine, imagine if it were a cock instead,’ a part of my mind pondered, but then I was coming and thinking was no longer possible or important. Some incoherent stream of syllables escaped my mouth as I spasmed against my two hands. One still inside, crushed by clenching muscles but still moving, in and out. The other frantic against my clitoris, rubbing even as my hips jerked away from the sensation.
A couple nights ago, I was thinking of languages. I was remembering talking to my mom in Chinese while we were at Border’s, and how in all likelihood those around us couldn’t understand what I was saying. It still seems wondrous and amazing to me, how a certain set of sounds can be complete gibberish to one person, and a fully intelligible train of thought to another. Language remains a subject that continually feeds my curiosity. These sounds that evoke, express, connect, and bind…when you think of all that language does, communication becomes such a less important function. It is what allows us to connect to the world, giving titles to objects, actions, events, expressions. Language has culture, quirks, personality, complexity, both logic and emotion.
Fascination. I love it.
I’ve had a sudden surge of memories. Reminders, at once vague and sharp, hints of dreams I had when I was much younger, unfocused images…all seeming to come together now. The parts that make up the whole. I don’t know why, beginning at such a young age, I craved the feeling of helplessness…of getting sucked into dark alleyways and the trouble that awaited within. Why I would become aroused (though I didn’t know what it was I was feeling then) by images of being captured by villains or monsters.
The greyscale images still evoke the same emotions and reactions, now more subdued by time. Sounds, as well. I was reminded of how strongly I reacted, the first time I heard “Torn,” sung by Natalie Imbruglia, on the radio. The melody, the words, and most especially these words:
I’m all out of faith
This is how I feel
I’m cold and I’m ashamed
bound and broken on the floor
Writing of basements, in another, private entry, has reminded me of my own childhood one: a dank, grey, unfinished basement which has since become carpeted, painted pale orange, and furnished. No more little mountains of boxes packed haphazardly…no more dangling spiderwebs that, inevitably catching in my hair and face, caused tremors along my skin. That basement was both playpen and dungeon. Toys were abundant, and my best friend and I spent endless hours finding treasures there. And yet, there was always an underlying dread, that primal fear of darkness and the unknown, that pervaded our senses. It was always with an internal sigh of relief that we ran up the stairs, reemerging into the sunlit world.