The sun lifts its light to the horizon. The dark profile of evergreen trees stark against the pale light. It is daybreak and I am thinking of you. I am thinking about how to keep you in my pussy and out of my heart. Let’s face it, one of them needs you. But the other? The other does not.
It creates an interesting dichotomy. The desire to touch your skin, make your blood race, work you hard until I can taste the sweat on your body. Coupled with the desire to remain disengaged, friendly but not emotional. A state of warm ambivalence. An act of acrobatics I am likely not qualified for. A tight rope walk I have failed in the past and yet here I am again, stepping out onto the rope.
Make no mistake – there will be no falling this time. This time, if I start to wobble, I walk away.
Ultimately, my darling, you are my fuck toy. I will touch your face softly, gaze at you with my sultry eyes while my mouth surrounds your cock, smile at you with a deceptive tenderness that you may read as feelings. But you will be wrong. The smile of tenderness is nothing more than an expression of gratitude for the pleasure you give. Your needs do not matter to me. My hungry pussy is what matters.
You will feed the beast. You will offer me your body and I will devour your offering. I will bend for you, moan and cum for you. I will let you redden my flesh with your toys. The pain is a reminder.
We will laugh, talk about our pasts, work, ex-spouses, children, tell stories, find common ground we didn’t know we had. I may forget the time, but not the objective: you are not allowed in. In the end, I will walk that tight rope to the other side – where another rope will be waiting to challenge me.
You are my dildo.
My fuck toy.
End of story.
The art of letting go.
Why is it that I find it so much easier to let go of the ledge and fall into the void they call love, and so goddamned difficult to let go of that swirling ghost ride when it is over?
It’s a good question. One I do not have the answer to.
I had thoughts today. Dark, dangerous, impulsive thoughts. Thoughts that, while they swirled through my mind in an angry I buzz, revealed to me the fact that I have still not let go. I have not disengaged where I really need to most. Where it matters most.
And I need to.
In boating, there is always one last rope that you must cast off before you are free of the dock. My rope is still tethered to the dock, my boat bobbing in the water, waiting to ride the currents. If only I could cast off that line, I could be free to begin the journey I am meant to travel.
It creates a sense of frustration, a feeling of impotent rage. The struggling within myself to accept what is not going to change, to accept the things that have changed, and to accept that the twists and turns of fate have brought me here, to this point of being that feels so unfamiliar to me. My life itself feels unfamiliar to me. Like I have put brand new shoes on the wrong feet and I am running in a marathon, trying to figure out why I am struggling and everyone else is breezing past me. The answer is so clear. Let go. Let go of the anger. Let go of the pain. Let go of the people who didn’t value me enough to stay present in my life. Let go of the transients that were just passing through. Just let fucking go.
Let go of the emotions that are stuffed down so deep inside my immune system is fighting against itself. Let go of the hurt and the doubt. Let go of the blackness that is swirling around me, sucking me into a vortex of darkness. Let go of the guilt. Let go of the blame. Let go of the versions of myself that are not true to who I am. Stop trying to be the fantasy and just be me. Let go of the past so I can see the woman staring back at me in the mirror clearly. Maybe for the first time in my life.
I need to swap those running shoes, grab that bitch of a rope and cast off. Let this journey begin before my time runs out.