Me, Undone

She wants to fuck me as an act of mercy. To lay me out like a meditation. She wants to push inside of me as a spiritual practice. She is the priestess come to baptise me in shared flood waters. To excise the demons with her hands 'round my waist. She brings her tongue up to my ear to whisper sweet supplications. Incantations. Bless me for I have...over and over. Behind the altar. In my white dress. She performs a healing. Her mouth to my mouth. I gasp for air brought back into my lungs again.

After 55 days, I am no longer sexless in the city! The terrible, self-imposed drought is over! My mood: pensive. That night. The first night. I peered into the darkness to see a crack forming down her spine, and light pouring forth. Instead of looking away, as I have so often done, I held her in my gaze. Something inside of me caught fire. I met her, this woman, the day after I decided to cease frivolous communications and superficial sexual encounters of little consequence. She is self-possessed and fully owned. This connection is weighty. Heady. Scary, indeed. I'm petitioning the universe to give me the strength to hold her tight. Keep my primal self at bay.

Forget about the 30 day blog challenge for now. I've got more pressing concerns in my life.  For one thing, I haven't had sex in 33 days. I'm ready to scrape my eye out with an ice pick. This is senseless! My body is on fire.  I think about sex at least every hour, on the hour.  And I wonder,  can the man standing on the corner smell me? Can the woman glancing at me taste it? My skin is porcelain delicate and hypersensitive. If anyone should brush up against me on the street, in the grocery aisle,  I just might spontaneously orgasm. And nothing, nothing else will satisfy this hunger except the touch of  a woman.  Not self,  not thought, not mediation or yoga. Please. Hurry. Come. Discipline me.

Dominant Dominique dumped me after I told her I still wanted to date other people. I panicked, begged to get her back, sending emails stringed with stars and roses. Her response, a three line professional email that read, “ You are a great person, but it is clear to me we are on two different pages. I prefer to cease all contact.” I almost lost my fucking mind.  My desperation, my sadness, wasn’t for her. I know this now. The wounds were my comeuppance for my carelessness with others. For days, I’ve been frequented by images, the energies of women come and gone, conversations and warm tears, broken bodies in my bed, my mouth on breasts, lips, between legs, and hands on my arms as I gather my possessions to leave. I've spiraled in to nights and days heavy with fits of paralyzing sadness. What have I done? What have I done? I am a thief in crimson lipstick.  I am purging. Slowing down. Thinking over. Closing my legs. I am tired. I want more than I’ve allowed. No ...

There are two women in my life now; they are diametrically opposed. They never converge, not even in dark alleyways on lazy shiftless nights.  I instruct Jessica (not her real name),  a petite, fiery brunette with green eyes, to buy lace panties and bra to wear for me.  She asks me what else I want from her. She does anything I demand and waits patiently for my permission. On the weekends, there is Dominique (not her real name)- a tall, thick, smoked brown business executive. She calls me her princess, refuses to let me pay for dinner, or drive. She tells me exactly what I should do, and I happily oblige. I'm experiencing some cognitive dissonance. Do I spank or lie still?  Grab hair or go to my knees? I can handle this, I tell myself. The tugging. The splitting of time. The role switching. The demands for my undivided attention. I cannot choose one or the other, for neither is complete. Then the realization hits like bricks, I've subconsciously conjured ...

There is a woman cooking in my kitchen after a night in my bed. All I can think of sitting here is how much I want her to go home. Our "meeting" has not made me feel any closer to her. Conversely, I've lost all interest. My eyes went black and I shut her out. I'm sorry. This is a heart crime. Should I propose celibacy? No, I would only be lying to myself. Celibacy until I develop an emotional connection? Maybe. From now on, I'm going to love you before I fuck you  let you stay the night. Feed me pixie dust and stars. Peter pan and tinker bell. In the meantime, I have to figure out how to handle this situation. I never want to be here, at this time, doing this all too familiar dance.

She said sign your name on the dotted line, the lights went out, and nikki, started to grind...

My significant other has a very specific birthday request—sex everyday for a month. I am willing to give it a whirl but I am sure that there will be a sobering lesson at the end of this journey for the both of us. Sex is like chocolate cake. Chocolate cake once or twice and week is oral pleasure—chocolate cake everyday for a month, not so much. I am afraid that I will miss out on the intricacies of the connection by having sex just to have sex. I don’t want to lose the tiny seconds of silence that come immediately after the sweet convulsion. I want the anticipation, the shivers…traversing the unknown. I want some kind of sacredness—sex should not be like watching television, eating or dressing everyday. It is not a routine test. I am comfortable with my sexuality. It is a garment I wear with ease. However, I don’t believe that you need to have sex or think about sex to be sexy. Sexy is not something that you do, it is who you are. There are tons of people who have sex and are not sexy....

Most people find it hard to believe that I lost my virginity on my wedding night; I was twenty –three years old. I waited so long not for lack of opportunity—one only knows how many relationships these clinched thighs destroyed—but out of fear. Years later, I have come to believe that it was not fear of the other that preserved my virtue, but fear of my very self. This part of my life has been thrown back into the air quite recently. I am still trying to piece together a conversation that I had with a friend a few weeks ago. I met him my first day of school. Our connection was instant. He was attractive, witty and cynical—I certainly thought that he would be a good friend--that is until he saw my wedding ring. He backed off slowly, I understood—I was no longer my own but a possession. Over the years we spoke occasionally, our furtive exchanges tinged with chemistry and attraction. And when I finally left my husband he was there, ready to offer comfort and support. In the summer, we spe...