Day 26- The night battles (belated)

I crashed at eleven thirty. I woke up at two and sleep seems to be gone. Is it my roiling stomach? The steroids I'm on to breathe? The night battles? I don't know. Maybe all of them. Maybe it's my broken promise to you. I did not post today. I did not come today. Having no privacy is a more acute condition in my little apartment on the weekend. I'm not the only sick person here today. Today was full of movement, neighbors, cat fights, sick people and need. Tonight the shower was a popular place. No doors to hide behind. Inside or out.

I've stripped the internal rooms down. Cut out all the secrets and hung them up to dry like meats in a butcher shop. I've challenged the shadows and the ghosts are not pleased with me. The terror has eased some but is still present like my heart beat. There is something about the night that makes it harder to breathe around even when my lungs don't hurt. Even when I'm well. It's lonely here in my chair. I just walked outside (which I've been doing all my life, walking outside in the middle of the night) in a neighborhood that doesn't welcome such wanderings. I've always insisted on it. I've always demanded my right to be outside in the middle of the night in any neighborhood. When I was young and finally off the street, I lived on Market Street  in  a terrible little hotel, full of rats and roaches and gun shots, I used to be so afraid to use the filthy communal bathroom I'd pee in my little sink in the room. But then there were the nights like this when I would put on my jeans and get a jacket and walk anyway up to the Castro. Daring the world. Taking my space in it. I lived in worse neighborhoods and walked them too.

Lots of close calls on those nights. Because we know don't we, we women ? We know better than to walk around in the middle of the night alone in any neighborhood. Doesn't that mean we want whatever comes? Doesn't that mean we are asking for it? Won't everyone, ourselves included, just shake their heads and say what was she thinking?

Does it matter that these are the places that we need to take for ourselves? It doesn't. It doesn't matter how many take back the nights we have- no one will ever think it wise or sensible for a woman to walk the street between the hours of two and four. But we get to. I get to. Sometimes I still need to prove it to myself. That I'm free. That I can shake off the night battle that is raging in my brain, old fingers pawing through my belly, looking for scraps, old hands stroking my soul, looking for anything not locked down to steal. There's something about bare feet on the night time sidewalk that is so kind to me.

There was a time when I just stopped being afraid or maybe just caring. A time when I insisted on taking my world for me. And I had a lot of close calls. I found a lot of trouble. Once, when I was 19, in this same town, I had a bunch of young men chasing me down Shattuck at three in the morning, shouting rape her, rape her. I got away. I always managed to get away. At least from the strangers. I had partners who raped me but that was different. I chose those beds to sleep in. When I was little I never chose that crib, that bed and I never managed to get away. There was no getting away.

***

I was curious about what today's masturbation practice would feel like. Because I have rage at the center of me. Anger is lose in my body and it feels like a dangerous place to be. I wondered how I would touch myself and where I would land. I had this vision of myself pacing all the corners of the spaces I live in, inside and out, on patrol. A shotgun in my hand, waiting for them to get here. The ghosts. Because they aren't happy with me. I can feel reproach and muttered threats from where they lie tossing in their restless sleep. I like to think it's because it's hot there. Oh not a traditional hell perhaps but someplace that makes sense for these child eaters, flesh traders, sex takers, soul stealers to land when they die. I don't know what that would look like but most days I like to think it's unpleasant. I am not the forgiving type. I don't think anger keeps me from healing. I think anger keeps me sane. Reminds me that it wasn't my fault even though I often want to think that. I didn't walk the night when I was little but I wanted to. I couldn't grow up fast enough to fight. Just as well. It would have been the end of me.

I pictured myself standing sentry over me. Keeping watch. Firing the warning shots. I imagined myself coming with bullets between my teeth and a knife next to me, ready. I imagined myself coming hard in my own red  hot angry fingers, tearing out the orgasm that belongs to me. It felt violent. It felt like it had to be. It felt heated through with sex starved hungry ghosting rage that was my own. It felt like the wailing of all the children and the howling of wolves. It felt like angry need. And underneath, perhaps, fear.

***

So it's four in the morning. I don't know if I will sleep again tonight. I am aware of my body that feels heavy and tired and exhilarated by the night walk. I want to go back out in my bare feet and legs and skirt and taste the night with my mouth, and my cunt, and know that I can. I might yet. I tell you I'd come for you if I could. I'd come for me. I'd come for all of us, brazen and open and eating up the night because it belongs to us even when they take it away. It belongs to us no matter how many times we are beaten, raped and told it doesn't. Told we should have stayed home. Told we should have worn pants. Had shorter hair, longer hair, had no facial hair. Worn a bra. Not worn lacy panties.Not dressed like a boy. No matter how many times we are told we deserve it because were are girls, children, adolescents or women or queer, or trans, or any other kind of easy looking meal to the ones who do that messy, wet night work, the sidewalk is ours too.

I'd like to come for you but I won't tonight. I might pee on the grass or gutter and mark my territory. Why not? I might find a place to sit outside with a notebook and a cup of tea and wait for dawn. I'll sit on the cool sidewalk tucked away from the street, cross legged and write. I'll rest under the open sky because my ceiling feels too close to me. I'll be waiting there for the sky to light up. Right now the sky is smoggy looking, thick and orange gray. But the air tastes sweet.

I hope this coming day is good to you.

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 14, Tender and the Clit

Sometimes music takes me places I didn't plan on going. Tonight Rihanna came singing out of the radio and I went from drinking my tea and just longing for bed to walking around the apartment singing along, my hips moving. loosening me into something softer, less exhausted. I was still sick but I started thinking in music notes, turning the lights off, moving slowly with the beat, getting dreamy and easy.

I love fucking to music. Sometimes I sing as my hands find my way into you, first one then the other, in time to the beat, singing along, your little moans a harmony and I am musical joy in motion.
I am open throated,  singing, open cunt dripping, lapping up the movement, the beat
of the music
syncopation
always moves me always gets me there.

 I took a hot shower, let the water make everything that aches feel a bit better, listening to the music and singing along. I put on a Kimono that was kind to my achy skin; sat down and listened to the music and moved in on my clit but with a less furious attention than normal. I found myself breathing all the way in, being fully present and talking to my clit in whispers
like two girls at a sleepover
and she bloomed under the attention
she liked the music
she liked my singing
she liked the way I crooned to her
that it was alright
that she was alright
that this was just for her- this touch
that she didn't have to
or not have to
do anything for anyone
I heard my own words in the dark sounding like
it's allowed
you are allowed
it's alright, it's alright
you can have this just for your own.

It was a long time
full of music and movement and
muscles slowly moving, tightening and releasing
just like my voice
harmonizing but we couldn't get there
she and I
even being best friends like this
telling each other secrets
in the dark.

We couldn't get there without being held down
on a bed or an old fashioned large desk
or the floor
we couldn't get there without someone else
standing over us
someone strong and mean
and punishing
We couldn't get there even with all of that unexpected
tender- I was as tender as I've ever been with any part of myself
inside or out

We had to have the hard push
the mean talk
the pushing and pulling
the forcing of old things into new shapes
that fit all around clit
till she is driven
faster and faster
and then I'm not singing
but she is
a tired song
but she comes- I come
we ride it down till the end
till there is nothing left
and I am sad
but not done fighting yet.

She liked that tender foreplay
she liked me calling her out
giving her a moment
to shine on her own
to be what she wants
to just be what she wants
just to be
she liked that.

We are not done yet. 

Day 13- Words

So most of this was typed in last night when I fell asleep. Sitting up. Twice. So I fell over and slept. Woke up with a sore throat and achy and tired. But here we are. 

It went like this: 
Words
Wet
Warm
Heated
Words- familiar story
I could just close my eyes and listen

Stainless steel smooth vibrator on buzz
inside
and out again
inside and out again
waking me up with that coolness that metalness that I so love.

It was opening up,
I was opening up letting thighs fall, butterflied on the bed.
It was swallowing metal,
Cunt was  swallowing metal,
swallowing words across the miles
it was breathing them in and keeping their hard on secrets tucked into my belly
it was breathing out into moan and sigh.

It was nipples in the air
under my fingers
speaking their own language
telling tales and tall stories
that cunt believed
without question.

Story time for the body
for the girl
for the slut
for the woman
these are all me, I am all them
and all of us were communing with words,
careening off some of them
like leather
belt
strike
like pool table
like bound
like pain
and blood
and coming

Story time for my cunt
words make her blush
and beg
without undue shyness
she wants what she wants
and wants it with a quickness.

Moving that cool pink metal buzz
in and out
out and in
made the rocking come
the moans and sighs
the sounds that tell me everything
I ever needed to know about this body

I keep brazen words, dirty words, tucked in my cheek like warm chocolate
slowly melting
until yes
one
two
three
orgasms
and clit was along for the ride
but shuffled sideways
these were whole cunt squeezed, spasms, some big, some small
leaving clit hungry but it's not my fault that clit
is so demanding
everything needs to be perfect, just so before I can slip into her
with my brain humming on just the right frequency so as not to cross
wires with the humming of the vibrator.
So clit is pissy now. Annoyed with me
accusatory. I tell her later- there's always later.

***

I am made of words. I always was. Words taught me how to slip by the sharp blades swinging down, duck under the weight of ugly need and secret myself away, hidden so deeply they never found me- not all of me- not the essence of me. I am made of words. Vowels and consonants form the bones, alphabet soup sings  in the spinal fluid. It was words that taught me how to touch myself. At 21 I followed simple directions in a borrowed copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves and at the end of those directions- orgasm showed up. I was mind blown. I found that if I did it again, touched myself, fingers to clit, moving in circles, slow at first then speeding up that I could take myself on a wild ride that spit me out shaky and surprised and wet and happy.

I make meaning of the world through words. I find this body's center again by naming my own losses, one by one by one. I follow the bread crumbs spelling out the way in and there I am again, waiting. I write words to make sense of me, to make me make sense, to be less crazy. I find certainty, faith, the wide open sky and wide open me when I put pen to page.

Tonight I listened to words. Was read to like a little kid and this was comfort. This was soft and nested and tucked in tight. This opened up the sky for me, took the roof right off the building. This was home.

Day 9- I Feel Myself (a little inspiration)

From I Feel Myself 

Finding positive masturbation references on the web is grim work. I finally found a site through Jane's Guide. It's called I Feel Myself and it's content is all women masturbating. The site describes itself as beautiful and tasteful but that doesn't mean it's not hot. I'd join in a heartbeat if I could afford to and if anyone wants to buy me a month I wouldn't say no. :)

I recommend it, just like Jane's Guide and even if you just watch the free trailer it's a warm up for sure, a different way for me, to see masturbation, watching women who are joyful about touching themselves. There's seems to be nothing fake going on here, there's no director at work though there is a polish to the finished product. It's just women masturbating and coming, and it's clear they are all about the business of self pleasure.

***
I feel myself
watching
wistful
wanting
feeling an admiration for the open
the playful, the serious grind.

Slowly, there is
blood traveling downward,
a thickening of tissue, wet pooling.
a sharpness as my clit gets hard,
waking me up
cunt has a purpose
has a mission.

I am slick and smooth
liquid and heavy
the chatter in my head dies
down
I am weighted, steadied by my own
desire,
always a mystery to me,
but I am coming in
to meet it, anyway.


I land here with you, with words on the page, with damp panties and thighs that are working on an ache. Something about these women, in video, in words, in this wide open bloom of everything, desire and pain, longing and shame moves me into my center. Down in the hush. Looking for catus to break open and suck the aloe out off and swallow to heal these old dry cracks from years of disuse. Not the disuse of this body by me, but the abandonment of my desire, for me.

I want to be fully present in my hands that become your hands that become my hands. I am pining for the wet that becomes you crouched over me, coming or just letting loose. It never matters to me what the exact composition of the wet is- I just know I need it. Salty coffee scented wet or sharper more pungent, it doesn't matter it makes me spasm in response every single time.

What is it about this liquid that must be answered by me.
It's a call and response and I love those no hands orgasms that rip through me, grabbing me and shaking me hard and wringing me out. That's another kind of orgasm. How many kinds are there I wonder? How many different ways to come.

Today is a little dreamy. The hard edges sandpapered down by these wet, round images, by reading the words of women doing this same work of self sex, discovery, reclaiming. The old dark things are displaced by the sound of all these naked women coming, without shame or if they have shame they own it.

I am inspired until I am undone.

Day-2 Two Dollars and Change

Sleep deprivation is not new to me. I slept rarely as a child. Night time was waiting time. Waiting for bad things to come in on tip toe, the slow quiet turn of the door nob and never knowing which parent it would be, or what strange secret story was about to unfold but knowing it was coming and knowing it would be bad. There was waiting before the door opened and waiting afterwards for the sky to light up, to count the moments to my freedom. To getting outside to play or go to school.

I had babies and they weren't sleepers, either of them. With my first it was 5 years before he slept through the night, with my daughter, 3. The only sleep pattern I ever had for as long as I can remember is an hour or two only to be startled awake, by a memory, or a ghost scent that didn't belong, or a child crying, or now when children are grown, by my old cranky Siamese cat. 

Sleep is free but beds aren't so for several years now I've slept every night upright in this chair I've come to hate, and my cat will walk down my body as if it were a stair way till he finds his nest, in the middle of my chest, or on my belly or across my legs. He woke me at two this morning insistantly talking, as only Siamese do until I understood that his fancy white tea cup was dry. He won't drink out of anything else. So I groggily stumbled to the kitchen, my mind already all the way awake, my body still sleeping and I thought about the things we need to be good humans. Food and water and air and sleep and a flat place to sleep on. 

It was hard to get back to sleep and I never did really, my mind kept churning over this notion of the things we need to survive and what happens when we don't have enough of them. How the lack of things, a bed, a quiet, unhaunted mind, enough food, a door, some sense of alone and quiet, privacy can come between us and our sex. 

It struck me as strange that I would be having a class conversation with myself in the middle of the night with the morning looming in my head, a morning that would contain this new masturbation practice, this planned and intentional, intimate meeting of myself and the irony that how much money you have can get in the way of your own two strong hands and your pussy which is waiting, full of open anticipation for something that has been promised. Time and attention. And so my gait, every time I got back up to pee, to get water for myself since I couldn't sleep was heavy because of this heated,urgent warmth, this heaviness of expectation between my legs. 

I had strange dreams of the two dollar bills and a handful of change on my desk being laid out on a roulette table that was crowded with beautiful women in tight short shiny dresses and sweet cleevage and queer dealers who were brown eyed butches or hazel eyed transmen who looked at my change with pity. The wheel would spin and I would wait to see if I would win- and the prize was not a stack of smooth, round blue chips but an orgasm. My own orgasm. Awake I look at the my two dollars and change- all that stands between me and money that will arrive tomorrow. I look at my space which is stuffed with books and paper and baskets of photographs I haven't put up yet because I keep arranging this space trying to find a better way to breathe, enough room to move, a way to make this, little cut off piece of living room that I share with my daughter, truly my own. 

I woke without winning for the last time at five. Fed the cat. Went out into the cold morning grateful for all that outside space and dreamed of a hammock strung between two trees, a place I could swing in, alone, in the outside world, a place where I could touch myself without listening for footsteps, the sound of another person sleeping four feet away, the opening of a door of the one bedroom which will indicate that I have company. 

I go back inside and feel this heaviness and this drop between my legs as if it were the very center of me, of the world. I feel like I'm sitting there in the dark, close enough to touch my own cervix, my mouth lips and my pussy lips feel the same. The opening I feel is like my chest expanding on the in breath, the little spasm of anticipation is like the exhale. The world has been reduced to this small part of my body that is puffed up and ready to rule the world. I have made a promise and it's time to pay up, and I'm allowed sweat equity. 

When the last person has left my one bedroom apartment I put the television on something I don't care about because it's too early to play music. Sound carries in these apartments. I decide to take more time today. My masturbation started without me in the middle of the night. I've been wet since dawn and there is an ache now, a demand and a please but the please is in the voice of one who is being polite only because nothing else has worked. 

I do my best to get comfortable in my chair, slinging one leg over it's nubby textured, once cream colored,  arm, and stretch a little, move into opening I breathe in and out in this dark world that is opening more and more, from between my legs and I touch my way from the inside out first with tendrils of thought and then with fingers. I take the time to feel every sensation. Thick, heavy, hungry, open, slick, smooth, slippery wet. I feel that tension that builds bumping up against a womb that has been full of children in this lifetime, bumping up against places that have held too many wounds and yet, sometimes craves more. I do not fantasize. I refuse it. I do not remember. I do not read. I only feel.

I am surprised that this is working. That even contorted in the dreaded chair, covered by a light throw, I've forgotten about not having privacy, a bed, a door, a clean untarnished mind. I am just in, all the way in. I am wet and the tension is building and I know if I had enough time- if I wasn't worried about my daughter coming in or a neighbor coming by, or the UPS man knocking or the landlord ringing the door bell I could actually get there with my fingers, which is always harder for me than with the vibrator. Always takes more time, sometimes will fail. I'm still thinking maybe yes, maybe I will use my fingers, pointer and middle rubbing not too gently on the middle of my clit, occasionally dipping in for more wet- wet that if I continue, without the buzz of mechanical machinery- I will be able to hear. And I can hear my breath and little happy sounds in my throat, I can feel the possibility blooming and then while my head is tipped back aginst the backof the chair and my hand is busy finding it's way and my legs are opening more in this dreaded cage of a chair, the cat casually walks down from window ledge to the back of the chair, over my shoulder down my belly and because I freeze and then yell, he moves down in a huff to sit at on the ottoman and stare at me unblinkingly. 

Then I laugh. 

It's hopeless I think. And then I remember how close I was to finding my way in, to finding my way through in the quiet, without buzz, without doorbells ringing, without visual aids, or words, or bad lifetime movie edited old sick smelling fantasy and I laugh again. I somehow know if I had a bed, and a door and the space to stretch out, if I had room to lock the cat out, I could find a way to coming on my own, with my own good hands, my own good fantasies, dirty or not, full of the clinking of chains or the thick sound of leather just as it strikes but they would be my own dirty, my own twisty heat, not tainted, just mine. 

And then I look at the clock which says 8:00 now and know that my daughter might come home, that the doorbell will ring any minute and I reach for my vibrator and let the buzz take me there and the surprise is that the fantasy, the one I don't want comes up but that time before has gotten me something richer than the average quick buzz orgasm. It's big. It's full and round and says yes. It makes my throat rumble, it makes my eyes wet and my cunt contract in a very big way, a promising way that says this ride is going to be good so hold on and it was. It was full of all of that dedicated attention, full of my own good hands attentive work and listening, full of sweet hard clenching down and the spasms that build up into a secondary, different kind of orgasm, an echoing orgasm that makes me smile and laugh and cry all at once, my thank you emerges in a soft happy sigh and my body rests in all of that until the cat comes back form his exile in the kitchen to walk up me and sit on the arm that did all of that hard work where he ignores me and curls up to sleep. 

I let him for a minute. Think about how I need that same arm for typing and move him to the foot of the chair and start typing and even now my inner thighs feel stretched and happy, my cunt is still heavy but with sleepy delight and the promise of more if I can find a space, a bit more of alone I could have more. Even though I only have two dollars and change, no bed, no door and no real space to call my own. My room of my own is between my legs and doesn't care where it gets off, just that it gets off.