The hollow wanting space

Maybe we write because no one is listening, a friend said to me recently.
Maybe we write to listen to ourselves.

No one is listening and right now, no one is telling me what to do. The structure around me feels insufficiently material to withstand the forces that are pressing upon it. I float and expand. Tiredness overwhelms me.

I need physical touch or I begin to disappear. I need to feel the warmth of skin on skin and know the way it smells. And for that smell to become an instant touchstone of calm when I inhale it. Bodies are more than a stimulus for sexual and erotic sensations; they are necessary to me. Like water, and food, and air. If it’s possible, I need to be pressed down hard by the weight of a body on all my limbs, and held in place until my breathing gets gentle and slow.

I have done wild things to fulfil this need in my life. I will abandon all sense and control to satisfy my deep longing for a body next to me. But I prefer a body that I’ve taken time to get to know so sometimes I am left without, in the hollow wanting space, the empty aching of my limbs.

Pain is just another form of resistance. Touch is resistance. Resistance becomes the way to experience the world even as I submit. The resistance is the knife edge where I know that I’m alive. Without it I would sink into the void. It can be beautiful there, outside of the body, in the vast expanse of the Cosmos (pick your own belief-system here, I’m not dogmatic). But I always come back to this existence, and to the resistance.

He says that he has bought a bar of soap today to deal with my Potty Mouth. I feel my resistance to this. I told him I would bite his fingers and he laughed. Silly little sub! His fingers will go nowhere near. I will be doing it myself. Does he have the power to make me go that far? There is so much I don’t know yet and I’m nervous about it all. Without the relentless drive of last week’s hyper-orgasms, I start to wonder why I’m here.

The house is quiet. The wine’s run out and there’s no money till tomorrow so perhaps I’ll sleep. I’ll pile duvets and blankets high on my bed to trigger the reassurance I need from being compressed, their weight on me. The gently fading pain of yesterday’s tattoo a comforting reminder that I’m still real and present in my skin.


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