It’s rarely just one. Sometimes, sure, we’ll focus. When we’re trying to make touch with our body, to meditate and take presence in our life, appreciate our flesh to avail and our time to burn, we’ll single out the one cock, in the one hole.
Or when we sketch out a cute story. The more you juggle, the harder it is to really feel and understand the one idea, the one sensation, the one modality of being. It’s all about that connection, with myself, with reality, with this life and being I still hardly believe I get to inhabit. How can I possibly be me?
But, I am scattered. It’s too much, it’s too strong, and my ADHD will only allow so much of one thought, however good or important it may be. And as sticky as these thoughts may be, they aren’t truly lurid. They are good, and they are important. They are a viscous thread to my baffled and nascent humanity. I may never have real physical sex again, and I certainly am in no rush toward it, but I am in fact a person. I know this now. I feel this now. In my brain and in my heart and in my grasping hands.
Where it does little good to grasp is my own penis. I love it dearly, but it is of no real use here. I don’t need it, and I don’t want it for this. It may play some small role in the end, but I avoid it best I can. The goal is to reach where it serves as mere pretty decoration.
The mind races, and insists there’s so much going to waste here. You have another gaping hole right there, girl, and two hands. Make use of them, at least in your mind. Be complete at last. In this moment that could last forever, except for it never really happening at all.
Well, part of it happened, sometimes. The part with me, on my back or my knees or crouched over a relevant plaything. The feelings in my body, the sentiments voiced. Not so much the shame these days. Not now that I know me, to the extent I have now discovered. Not as a bottom.
Sometimes they’re together. Sometimes they’re sequential. One after another. As one finishes, and delivers its load in or on some choice part of me, the next swoops in, just as kind but just as assertive. Just as eager. Just as energetic. Just as finite in the face of my power. As they ram my g-spot I ooze and I flap, and the smack against my perineum makes me twitch all the more.
There’s no refractory period like this, same as there’s no shame, or some ghost of a fragment from what slamming my own cock ever brought about. That never brought happiness. It’s a funny thing that my own semen, the sort that I no longer make, caused me nothing but shame, that even now to think of it fills me with disgust, when that of the hypothetical other brings out of me such joy and calm, and fulfillment. It’s not the same when it’s a gift.
My own contribution, as an ornament it’s a dick, and what a marvelous dick it is. But as a tool, as part of my inextricable sexual role, the haziness of all our words settles in. They’re all the same parts. They’re amongst the last to specialize. Even then they’re analogous. Clit, dick, what’s the difference. Same organ; different perspective. Different set of assumptions. I’m a girl. It’s not doing anything; I don’t want it to. Sure, maybe it can take a little touch. There are many things to stimulate. But its role is, must be, passive. So, words.
It’s a big beautiful clit, it’s a big beautiful dick. It is what it is. There’s no shame either way, though some times, some days, some stories, some positions may tilt at a habit. It’s only there to be pretty, so regard it as seems best.
It’s funny that I’m now the focus of my own mental life. I’m so used to dreaming in the third person. If I do play a part, it’s rarely my own. It’s some other character, who feels more like they belong in the story my brain chooses to tell me. But now, it all centers on Azure.
It’s all about roles, isn’t it. Roles, relationships; the dynamics between me and me, between me and the other, between me and the world. The other; so many kinds of other. Which is the other who enters my body, and why does that speak to me so fondly? Why does it affirm my self?
I am the person whose body is offered, who receives, who appreciates. I don’t seek it out, I don’t impose or intrude or insinuate myself into another. The thought is close to horror, for me. I don’t want that for myself. I will not assert my being unto an Other if I can avoid it. By that measure, the act, the performance in that assertion, it fills me with such shame and uncertainty and unwanted pressure. It’s wrong. For me, it’s wrong. Deeply, innately, horribly, painfully. It makes me die, every time. I cede my very life, my thesis of self. It is murder. There is in this some basic understanding of me, some basic theory of life, right and wrong. I am not built to assert, on any level of my person. I am built to perceive. To understand. To accept, interpret, to process. To love. This openness of spirit and of body, to me, is love.
And as I learn to appreciate, to let the feelings in, so I learn to receive in so very many ways. As voracious as my mind and my heart and my spirit, as eager to integrate it all and make me a better whole of it, so aligns my body. Only now am I becoming a complete theory. Which is of course where this remains. It will ever be a theory. Beyond my own manners and methods and what tools I may employ, there will not be an other. Which is in turn my freedom. The freedom to not, to know that I am my own at last. I will never be had again, in that way.
All while my head swims with the projections of senses, too visceral, too intense ever to live out in full. My brain, the signals are too strong. Give someone else the input, and make that input physical, and they burn out and overload and kill me again. I love me too much now.
I will take care of me. I will maintain me. This is my core relationship. I will learn to trust me, as I have never trusted anyone.. This is how I heal. This is how I become human.
Specifically this human with an impossible yet nourishing thirst for cock. The thirst is enough.