“HERE . . . I brought you something, but you MIGHT not want it and that’s okay.”
She handed me a little greyish pouch with some black things sticking out of it. The pouch felt scrumptious, and I realized the little black things sticking out of it were GLOVE FINGERS! And the pouch was just the cuffs of the gloves turned inside out around the tips!!
I pretty much lost my shit in front of everyone, I was so excited . . . perfectly tailored tiny buttery black leather gloves. From when she was in HIGH SCHOOL. In the fifties!! In perfect condition. I put them on and they’re only a tiny bit too big . . . just enough to make delicious wrinkles. I made fists and admired the way my knuckles look stretching out the black leather, making shine pop out on each little knuckle-bump. I put my palm to my face and breathed in, and wanted to push my fingertips into my face and smother myself, just for a little while. Feel the leather on my lips. I held my own hand and felt the heat slowly seeping from one hand into the other through the leather. I loved them so much I had to take them off to concentrate on what anybody was saying, sure I wouldn’t be able to overcome the intense sensual and sexual stimulation from the gloves and be able to actually HEAR anything.
But I did hear. I am learning so much about love. And fear. And who I love and why. And how to love. But maybe not as fast as other people. All I know is some people are very wise and I’m blessed to know them and be loved and comforted and guided by them.
I couldn’t come. Even though I came half a dozen times watching the video of him and his new girlfriend. Even though I was happy and looking forward to seeing him . . . until after another one of those consciousness-changing meetings again and he was here and I put myself and my body and most of my feelings in a dark unmarked detached waiting room. So of course I can’t come all withdrawn and defensive like that (and going through Seroquel withdrawal), but at least I can get fucked hard. And of course he thinks I’m coming, but I have to break it to him when he asks for confirmation: uhmmmmm, NO. “Not when your legs were shaking?” No. “I thought I was doing good.” It *was* good! It felt great on my g-spot!
It is not your dick that failed me. The dick that’s still inside me, making me want to do something I’ve never (or rarely or at least can’t specifically recall) felt compelled to do with anybody which is to eat cum out of my pussy. HIS cum. I’m on my knees backed up against him with my hand cupping my pussy, ready to catch it as we move those parts away from each other just enough for hot cum to pour out of me into my palm. Fluid . . . consistent flowing viscosity, no thick globs ever. It’s a sacrament of loss, pressing my gasping open mouth into my tiny slimy hand, the most connected I’ve felt to him all night long. Eyes closed, tongue lapping at my own hand, breathing in a fucking beautiful flavor that I turn around and kiss all over him. Like sweet wet butter-polished wood burning at body temperature in the back of my mouth and throat. Trying to get the most out of the last little bit of something I will never have my fill of. Into his mouth, smearing it on his chin, allowing myself to love the fuck out of his face again, pressing cum from my hand onto his shoulder and wishing I could see more of it glazing his face. I eat another handful . . . it’s that fucking good to me and writing this feels like a middle-aged gross fetlifey webwhore cliche. But it’s painfully true and I mean it. I never thought I’d honestly be talking about how much I love the taste of someone’s jizz and truly believing blogging about it is romantic. I want to be intoxicated by cum together. On our faces and kiss-eating it from each other’s mouth and shiny cheeks and chin.
Today I was late, but it was perfect timing so I only had to try not to cry in front of people for half an hour. But my nose did leak teary-snot which I did wipe off with my hands so at the end I warned the ladies not to hold them. And the ladies so gently smiled on both sides of me, one firmly gripping my left arm, another resting her hand on my right. And I couldn’t say the words, only feel the warmth of their hands penetrating through my thick black coat and grey dress, knowing that warmth flowed from their hearts, through their outstretched arms connected to all the other ladies and their hearts in the circle.
Sometimes you pray for things even though you don’t believe in God. I prayed her for him, and my prayers were granted. Not by “God”, but by the good in him (and not like I truly MADE something happen/have some special power or some bullshit . . . I just recognized what he really wants and what would make him happy, and chose to concentrate on wanting that instead of wanting things/everything for myself). Because of seeing what’s good and worthy in someone else — because of loving him a lot and wanting the happy things and love (and not bad things) to happen to him and hoping that the best would prevail in his life.
I am not the best. And he can’t do what’s best for me right now, either, but I do think he’s trying HIS best.
I knew it, and I know it, and I’m happy for it. They made and are making the best happen with each other. Now I need to pray for (more of) the best in and for myself. For my wife. For a garden someday. To just get through each day without inflicting pain on myself or others. To do work that feeds us and I can feel proud of at the end of the day. For fearless sleep. For gratitude for every bite. For my love to be believed. For my intense easy loves to make pleasure and beauty and magic thrive. For what’s hard for normal people to understand about me (continue to) be where I find God, and where other people find God in me. For everyone to have at least one sweet dream that comes to life. To be more brave about what and how I share and choosing the simple things I know are most important (even if they’re not what are most important to other people). To keep getting the amounts of love and help I’ve been privileged with so far, and for it to help me make a difference.