Day 19- fractal push

Slavkox Deviant Art 

I want to tell you what it's like to be the girl on the ceiling and the girl on the floor at the same time. How I am both pushed and pushing, taken and taking, torn and tearing into me. It's like trying to tell a secret in a canyon that echoes back on you till you can't tell the original sound from the reflecting sounds.

This is some kind of crazy making-  The writing. The doing. The telling. This is some kind of crazy feeling being me and me and me, time traveler, my own ghost haunting me. The mirrors are all cracking around me from the weight of this bending of physics and gravity.

It should be straight forward and hot. It would be great if it were hot wouldn't it?

And it should be hot, this reaching in between my legs, finding that little slip of clit and feeling it get bigger and slicker under my hands, the movement, the slip becoming a hook, becoming sharp and hard and ready, the fantasy should be you, against an alley wall leaning back, waiting and me on my knees before you, my mouth watering for your cock, your cunt. That should be enough. The fantasy should be me, standing against the alley wall, feeling that brick bite into my back feeling your teeth bite around my fingers as I force them into your mouth and push you back and down and move in on you, move into you.

It should be quick hot, hard, wet, slip slide to the building of tension, of squeezing in and breathing out, all the air in the room circling the girl in the spray of her own cunt washing up on the shore of her disbelief, taking her down, in and out again and again.

It would be
if I were just
one person in just one time just in the now.

But I am kaleidoscopic creature
wet and heated through and hard and sharp
I am full grown and on top
I am tiny and being eaten bite by tasty bite
I am on the ceiling looking down
I am here and opening breathing tasting
myself, the memories in the air
the sound of the end of everything
the loss of fine tuned control
I am a lizard, a fossil, a dead thing
lying still on the floor.

I am a wild thing keening
looking for home
in between my own yielded thighs
stretching out and out
opening up more and more
I am searching with two wet  hands and all
of my short fingers
for the truth
in scale and rock on the insides
of my cunt
I am finding my truth
in dead shell and hieroglyph
in salty certainty and almost there

and I do come in the end
a  half hour in, sweating from the effort,
the day
the fever
the buzz
I have used fingers and tools
mind and prayers
I have used you and me
in every permutation
and in the end it was done
with such severity I cramped all day
my cunt needing more, the dark things had their way
won me the coming hard wrung, worn out.

I want to tell you about this strange triumph I know in this: that I can open my thighs at all- ever.
For anyone, for you, for me. I want to tell you how strange and amazing this simple thing is.
I want you to understand what it's like to be me because I want to look into your eyes and see myself
fractal and whole all at once.
I want to see you see me.
I am looking for a blessing on this, my way.

Day 12- Dry Woman

Dry woman has come to call. She's old and brown from the sun and has strong sandpaper hands and long bony fingers. Her hair is long and tangled and her laugh sounds like a pencil scratching on crisp, sharply crumbled up paper. Her voice is rasped from the wind and the sand that is always everywhere she walks, it's in her overalls and faded once blue t-shirt and it's in the folds and lines of her skin. It's in her throat. When she swallows it's an act of will because there is not enough moisture in her to make spit.

She is not happy or sad. She is just bone tired and dry. Her bare feet crack and bleed and she leaves messy footprints wherever she goes. She is always moving, never still and walks in the day and in the night. Dry woman is strong but can't ever stop thinking about the water she rarely finds. She dreams of tall icy blue glasses that she would drink down one after another until she'd had enough and then she'd sip and sit for awhile and rest.

She dreams of showers with water that never runs out. Dreams of washing away these years of  sad gritty dirt deposits she has stored on her, around her, in her. Sand is tucked between her shoulder blades, in the socket of her joints, in the place where her arms and legs bend, it's packed between her legs like a war triage dressing stuffed in an open wound.

***

I'm used to an easy wet. I'm used to it coming up when I whistle or I see an image, have a thought or hear a certain whisper. Today there is no wet except in my tea cup. I am bone dry and tired. Being present with this masturbation practice and having the privacy to stretch out in it means that the secrets crawl out of their hidey holes. Means that I am unable to slip quick come fast in this moment because I don't have to. There is nobody here but me and me. There is no constraint on how much time I have. There is no need to rush.

All this spaciousness has me trapped with all my messy truths. I couldn't get wet today. It was dry, papery, buzzing to a ticker tape of old ugly silent movies racing in double time, showing in 3 D. The stuff I keep in the red trunk in the garage, underneath the rakes and gardening gloves. The stuff that is always sure to get me off.

 I came from a distance, sad because I've tasted other ways of coming, up close or actually inside my body, all the way. I want it to be like that now. I want to have figured out the puzzle and won the prize- won me back, my body back, my cunt back and I want to flush shame down the toilet. I want all of my orgasms to be in my own hands, my real hands that belong to me. I want to be able to shout about them joyfully, share them with you with a sense of abundance, not this place of deficit, of old dried up faded fortune cookie fortunes piled up on the floor. I want to bring good wet, drippy news of triumph. I want to be someone else today.