Anything and Everything

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I come from humble beginnings, filled with divorce after divorce, many moves, and uncertainty. I learned very early that the one person I could always count on was me. So I did. I didn’t need anyone for anything.

I’ve been married now for 19 years, and we’ve been together 24. Life hasn’t been easy, nor did I ever expect it to be. Nothing easy is worth much. Investment cultivates happiness, not ease. I’m invested; we’re invested. This is it for me. I know this to my marrow. And the biggest reason I do, is because I also know to my marrow that there’s another person in this world I can trust with anything. With everything. There is another person in this world on which I can count as much as I’ve ever counted on myself. More than. I don’t ever have to feel alone again.

My soul needs this man. Together, we can weather anything. Everything.

That is the most powerfully freeing feeling in this universe, I believe.

-image via Tumblr

My Surrender

I am no mindless fucktoy
kneeling at the feet of any commanding boy

I am no opinionless subvert
reciting ‘Yes, Sir’s’, wearing plaid skirts

I am no boundless subservient 
doing anything I’m told, devoid of dissent

I am no willing doormat
bowing down, to be looked down at

I am a strong, educated equal
bringing just as much to the relationship table

I am a soft woman, insightful and self-aware
I know where I’m going and I know how to get there

I earned my inner wisdom with blood, sweat, and tears,
and I won’t allow that to be belittled, manhandled by fear

For, I am submissive,
and I choose to follow him

I willingly offer surrender,
because his love is both fierce and tender

I give myself to him,
because my happiness is his seraphim

He values my voice,
so I surrender my choice

He knows what I need,
because he’s asked, not decreed
and he’s been by my side for 24 crazy years, 
sharing in all of the blood, sweat, and tears

I surrender to this man, 
who owns every inch of my heart,
but he doesn’t make me whole, 
that’s my responsibility, my equal part

-image via Tumblr, source unknown

The Middle of It

For more than three years, I’ve had the opportunity to journal and share creatively here, and it has been an unbelievable experience. I’ve grown, connected, and found the creative voice I thought I’d lost. I’m so grateful.

Over the past year or so, I have journaled less and less here. Along this journey of knowing myself and allowing myself to be known, it helped me to unravel and sort, to exercise vulnerability in more complex ways, to connect with others who shared a similar journey, and exercise my creativity. It helped me to connect dots and dive deeper. It unleashed creativity.

The thing is, after a while, I began to feel like I was circling human experience instead of engaging in it.  It sometimes felt like I was gathering information and looking for material, just a visitor in the present moment.

I’m also a deep thinker, so if I wasn’t gathering information, I was often deep in thought. I have this deep need to understand, to know in order to be known, and it’s easy for me to get lost searching for revelations that bring me to new places. All the while, people are pulling at me, beckoning me back to the surface. I would sometimes find myself getting irritated, thinking….leave me alone! I am comfortable down here. “I cannot pay attention to you, because I’m too busy thinking about you.” How ass-backward is that?

I found that I’d often been either hovering above my life or diving deep beneath it.

The purpose of my life is connection. To love with every ounce of my being. Of this I’m certain. But what I’ve come to understand is that love isn’t just a feeling or a thought or a way of being. Love is a place. It’s a place between two present people. A sacred place created when two people decide it’s safe enough to let their real selves surface and touch each other. To invite the other in to dive, until it’s all transparent. Love is an experienced place. But the cost of constantly hovering and diving, of being someone who thinks about love and analyzes love, is that I cannot be in love. I miss out too often on being IN that place.

I have needed to try to find a balance of it all. I have needed to live this awakening, and not so much create it on virtual paper. I have needed to let it be what it is, and let it become, without forcing my feelings into art, or shoving my life into a storyline. I have needed my journaling to be in the form of direct communication with those who wish and need to hear it. To be IN love.

As I have been trying, it has become easy to see that I have had many unrealistic expectations and fears regarding my writing, creativity, and presence online. I’m still not sure where it’s going or what I wish to do with it. But what I have come to feel is that my journaling and creative writing must happen when my spirit moves me to do so, and I will try not to put any other expectations on it. More than anything, I need to be awake and open to what my spirit is telling me, and follow where it’s leading me, in all aspects of my life. Right now, it’s telling me my life is not running material; it’s moments with people which are the most amazing gift. It is love.

And I want to stand right in the middle of it.

Tinder

in these social situations,
she especially loved their magic,
it was like he was holding her hand,
even when he was across the room,
helping her butterflies settle and her fidgeting
to wane

tonight, he’d chosen the black, backless dress,
the one that accentuated all her curves,
that made his eyes glow a littler brighter

hungrier

as she stood there conversing,
she felt his fingers gently graze the exposed flesh of her upper back,
their strength coming to rest upon her shoulder,
his thumb softly caressing the base of her neck as she spoke

she was suddenly thankful for the cool breeze
against her warming flesh,
as her words instinctively fell to the rhythm
of his thumb’s back-and-forth,
back-and-forth

until the warmth of his palm pressed flat,
gliding to where his thumb had been strumming,
fingers wrapping themselves around the
back of her neck,
gripping

owning

that’s when the words caught in her throat,
something between elation and need
bubbling up,
her belonging effervescent,
so readily flowing just beneath her surface these days,
but threatening to overflow in the moment,
contained only by the slight upturning
of the corners of her mouth,
her bashful anticipation reaching for him

her eyes flicked right to meet his,
and green met green the way steel
caresses flint,
flashing sparks

a foreshadowing of what was to come…

-Gif found via Tumblr, source unknown

I Awake…


I awake to vibrations of electric blue
Afloat in a sea of me and you

Where time is waves of thrashing heat
And space is endless as our bodies meet

Eyes still unfocused, yet clearly I see
My soul knows every inch of the flesh against me

Molding together like sinking feet into sand
Or aching clay resting in the palm of your hand

Pushing and pulling like the moon and the tide
As my body to your commands does eagerly abide

~photo credit truenomads.com, reworking of an older poem

Liquefied


storm’s eye entrusted
within your palm,
glowing fury extends,
momentarily calm

closing space,
meeting trepidous skin,
lightning flashing,
gooseflesh begins

circling orbs,
as breathing catches,
creating peaks,
heat stinging like matches

slowly and deliberately,
traveling lower,
crackling and buzzing,
gaining power

or maybe that was you,
the eye of the storm,
shooting streams of light
against my form

finally reaching
my pinnacle of need,
with back-arching, sheet-twisting, lip-biting greed

my body awake,
every molecule alive,
thrumming and humming
in overdrive

then you touch me,
pure energy on skin,
and I liquefy
into a thunderous din

Photo is mine

The Forest 

I’m lost in a forest of the tallest trees, inundated with wickedly bent, sinister trunks, and thicket so dense my feet can barely move, the air damp and heavy, sitting like rocks in my lungs.

Swiping and slashing, I claw at the overgrowth’s sharpness, aching to lift my legs and move, grasping for vines that might save me. Yet, I don’t want to be saved. I crave absolution. 

On tattered, tired, and bended knees, I offer you a ridged branch, begging for penance, desperate for your command, yearning for you to envelope me in the shelter of your palm. 

Help me be my vine.

And then I wonder, how heavy is that staff? Is the weight just too much?

You answer, you deliver. You take and give, give and take. With each strike, a little of you infiltrates me, suffocating the darkness, penetrating every fiber of muscle, saturating each porous bone, filling and filling until you seep up through every follicle and pore, spilling out and bending to my every contour, forming a shield upon my flesh that no thorn can puncture.

And now, I can weave my vine, with threads of you in the center, the strength in its core. 

Together we can conquer; we can see the forest though the trees. 

Stitched


On humble, bended knees, I wait
Eyes closed, listening for his gate

Slow, ascending footsteps near
I feel his presence more than hear

Butterflies flutter as my insides smile
Not unlike when I walked down the aisle

Leaning in, warm skin on skin
Arms around me, he begins

Light brown hue and earthy scent
Jute unraveled with intent

Where his fingers end, rope begins
The prickly strength a part of him

Diamond shape and knots are wound
Lastly, crotch rope tightly bound

Friction criss-crossed, his will spun
Earthly stitches weave us as one

Awakening spirit, whole self to life
I am His, more than his wife

~photo credit pearltree.com

Home

Behind the soft brown scarf, she could see nothing but blackness. The precise squeeze on her nipples and the pinpointed pinch on her clit were just the right amount of pain-pleasure to keep her on edge. Arms cuffed above her head and legs tied with the prickly jute, calf to thigh, she was completely exposed to him, in more than flesh. Butterflies swirling in her belly, she folded into her smallness, anticipating him.

Her hearing hyper-aware, she picked up on the slight tinking of the metal pulls being lifted, then the gritty slide of wood against wood as he opened the red wood drawer. She knew which drawer it was as soon as she heard its uneven slide – it was the drawer of impact implements, and her heart began to race.

As she lay there waiting, breathing already a bit labored, the mini clothespins on her nipples were quickly becoming the center of her world, so much so that she forgot about the impact until she felt the whoosh of air, followed by the first landing. His releasing of the clothespin from her clit had caused a surge of blissful agony, followed by an engorged ache which thumped to the beat of her heart. It was so sensitive, she could feel even the slightest shift in the air, so the crop’s swift strike brought about a guttural, almost panicky scream. Oh, God. She knew there’d be more. And more.

The strikes came, in a quick rhythm, one after the other while he watched her face contort and her back arch in love-hate of every single strike. In that moment, her entire being focused on the sound of the crop on her tender, swollen skin, on the delicious, rhythmic pain on her clit and the glorious pinching of her nipples. 

Landing harder and harder, the strikes came in rapid succession, until he stopped, abruptly, leaving a silence that was just as loud as noise.

In her stillness, she heard the click of a button and a simultaneous buzz – she knew that noise! Oh, God, she knew. 

Strike, buzz, strike, buzz. Over and over. Again and again. 

There was nothing else, only he and her, the pinch and the strike and the buzz.

Layers of pain-pleasure flowed, one on top of the other, like conflicting currents, flooding her brain. Feeling the overwhelming evidence of her arousal, cool against the heat of each landing, she could even hear her wetness with each strike of the crop and pressing of the buzz.

Desperate for release, the humming in her center flowed outward to her surface, consuming her. It was all she could taste, all she could smell. She felt like she needed it more than she needed to breathe. The coil he had wound so deeply in her core was so tight, it pulled at her skin. It clenched every muscle and clamped shut her eyelids. She was afraid of its impending intensity; she was afraid of letting it go. 

But, it wasn’t a choice.

Ripping and slicing through her entire body, her orgasm took over. It was viscous and glorious and painfully heavenly, causing her to writhe and struggle against the restraints. The grunting and moaning sounds coming from the back of her throat didn’t even sound like her.

When she finally began to float back to earth, he pushed inside her, grinding and slamming into the puffy ache, pain-pleasure rocketing her body right back to the same heightened state from which she thought she’d returned, and then beyond. And further. Until he’d taken all he wanted from her.

Removing the scarf, he looked her in the eyes. All she saw was his dominance reflecting her surrender. Infinite love.

She saw home.

-image found on Tumblr, source unknown; included in Matsurbation Monday, week 130

Tidal


Behind her clenched eyelids,
With arched back and tilted head,
In labored gasps and moans,
She’s immersed, being lead,
The blackness is no longer black,
And the sheets no longer thread

She is transformed into fluid,
A rippling depth of dark and light,
Please stop and please more,
Seemingly at odds, but not quite,
He the maestro of the current,
In their duality, they ignite

Skillfully she’s driven,
To her edge and back again,
As the moon pulls the tide,
And the tide pulls the sand,
Where want turns to need,
And need begs with fisted hands

Until his words open the dam,
And breaking waves over her flood,
In the surge of their tide,
And swell of their love,
His control and her surrender,
Equilibrium, they’re whole

-image credit iso500px.com, reworking of an older poem