poeticdesires

the life and musings of a kinky slut

Liar

~ erotica ~

“What are you willing to risk?”
“Everything.”
“Liar.”

I sat in his lap, my legs straddling his hips. My eyes stared into his, watching him lie to me.

I ground into his lap, seeing the expression change on his face: arrogance turned into confidence. I felt his hands on my waist, then flung them aside.

“That’s against the rules.”
“Are we playing a game?”
“Always. And right now, you’re losing.”
“What am I trying to win?”
“If you don’t know…”

I stood up from his seat.

“Wait. You, I’m trying to win you.”
“You’re getting closer.”

I stepped away. Opened his legs. Turned around. Sat down, back arched, ass against his crotch. Hands in my hair. Hips moving the way he likes.

In my periphery, I saw his vice gripped hands on the chair.

“I want you to say it.”
“I’ll say anything you want.”
“I know, but will you be lying?”

I leaned back. Rested my head against his face. Unbuttoned my shirt. Swept the fabric aside. He stared at my breasts in their pretty lace bra.

“You like this, don’t you?”
“You can feel I do.”

He wasn’t wrong. I ground his dick harder.

“When you wake up tomorrow, will you kiss me good morning?”
“In more places than one.”
“Will you make me cum?”
“Every time.”
“Will you forget my name when you leave?”
“That’s not possible.”

I stood up. Turned around. Sunk my stiletto into his thigh.

“I said don’t lie.”
“If you think I could ever forget you, you under estimate you’re impact.”

I smirked.

“You want to kiss me.”
“So much.”
“And fuck me.”
“God yes.”
“And?”
“Please, let me. I want to make you cum. And I want you to know I will always come back to you, if you’ll only let me.”

I sucked his cock while he watched. No touching allowed. No cuming either.

I grabbed his shirt and led him to my room. I let him fuck me til the first hints of morning hit my window.

He liked kissing me while he stroked deep and slow. I giggled when he told me to turn over. He fucked me from behind while pulling my hair. “Harder you beautiful bastard,” I screamed a few times as my headboard thumped the wall.

I fucked his face for what seemed like an hour. I came three times with his tongue on my clit. He wanted to go for four, but I pushed him off.

He made coffee. His goodbye kiss tasted bitter with the slightest hint of hazelnut. I shoved my hand into his pants. I wanted to feel his cock one more time before he left. As I stroked him, and he moaned into my ear, I said, “Now prove to me you’re not a liar.”

He left hard and wanting. And, like so many other liars, he never came back.


What He Needs

~ erotica ~

His head rests on my chest. His breathing, slowed by sleep, is my lullaby. Our naked bodies, salty and slick, don’t want to decouple.

He leaves in the morning. This truth keeps my lids from remaining shut, keeps my mind from quieting. I don’t know when I’ll see him again.

He has a key. I pray it is the one thing he never loses.

This time he gave me a few days warning. I bought the beer he likes and threw the extra ice packs in the freezer. Fluffed the pillows on the couch, and checked my supply of condoms.

He didn’t even bother with his usual routine. Just took my face in his hands, encircled his arms around my waist, and stumbled me into the bedroom.

His head was between my legs before any clothing was removed. I screamed his name and said ‘I’ve missed you’ as I came that first time.

He was rough, impatient. His pants were barely down the first time he entered me. The denim grated against my thighs. But him inside me was more than enough to push anyway any discomforts.

Once he collapsed after his first release, I pulled his clothes off. Folded them up neatly. Undressed myself.

Then I stroked his hair and kissed his face. I saw the strain melt some.

He grabbed my hips. Squeezed. Guided me on top of him. I rode slow. He matched my hips with his own. I reclined my head, my chest, and breathed in full.

He sat up. His lips found my nipples. I gasped. Then my hands found his hair and hugged his head to me.

Seated became lying on my back, became his deep strokes into me.

Kisses that lasted many breaths. Tongues that missed each other.

Moans. Groans. Sighs. Fucks. Oh shit. Fuck yes. Oh god. Oh fuck. Harder. Closer. More. More. Deeper. Faster. God yes. God yes.

Collapse.

Caress.

Whispers.

“What do you need?”
“Just you. Only ever you.”

 


Fusion Flashbacks

We fucked for three hours.
We broke a futon frame,
and kept going.

Slut achievement unlocked.

~

He thought I’d somehow be disappointed, never getting his cock hard with my mouth. Little did he know, sucking his softness while he used me as an ashtray was the highlight of my night.

~

Images constantly played on the backs of my eyelids. My head felt light, as if filled with helium, inducing giggles and glee.

He drove slow. I realized it had already hit him, too. We made it back to his place okay.

I talked A LOT, and was loud until he pointed it out. Then I whispered the rest of the night, except for when I screamed.

We had ridiculously high sex. And it was our first PIV fuck. So awesome.

~

His driving away was gut wrenching.
The 4am arrival text made it better, though.

~

The last night of camp always seems to elicit profound conversations. And, most of the time, I am the vessel people heave their emotions into.

This time, though, it was a two way release.

~

Oink’s porch is magical.

~

Had we kissed more than a peck on the cheek before our random drive by make out session?

Hmm, things to remedy later.

~

2am Sunday night is when shit gets real.
Bravo, friends.
Bravo.

~

I was a bitch.
Did he deserve it?
Do I care?

~

Scritches are the best.
And puppies are the cutest.

~

Are we geeks that are kinky or kinksters that are geeky? Either way, we all knew (most) of the words and sang/rapped/screamed until our throats were raw.

I love my people.


Forget

~a poem~

Let his kiss wash over you,
a tidal wave of lust and wanting.

Let his touch tempt away your torments.

Fall into the bliss of flesh on flesh.

Let his teeth sink into your skin,
marking you,

gifting your body with
bruises and dull aches.

Enjoy these constant reminders.

Let him slip into you,
again and again;
moan, groan.

Express your pleasure into his ear,
and forget how he dismissed you.

Forget his inability to love.

Forget his words, so easily spoken,
that sliced your heart into halves.

Hold back your tears,
except in ecstasy.

Push down your love, your hopes
of anything more than this moment.

His truth, shattering your girlish fantasies,
was a blessing.

Enjoy the play, and,
as for your dreams,
forget.


Obsession

“Love is when the other person’s happiness is more important than your own.” – H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Love is listening to every song on the album and knowing all the lyrics. Love is waiting for 36hrs on the street to buy your magical ticket. Love is watching the show, singing along, and being beyond grateful for the privilege of that experience.

Love is not running after Lin’s car for two blocks.

Love is not forcing yourself into his life, demanding more than he is willing to give.

That is obsession.

I’m glad Lin’s leaving the show cause this shit is scaring me.

I know it’s easier for me to say that because I’ve seen it, but I’d feel the same either way. I want Lin around for years, decades to come, creating more art for us to marvel. I don’t want a fan to take a turn and this situation ending in tragedy.

Ham4Ham, the Hamiltome, the upcoming documentary, and his Twitter/Facebook; Lin gives us pieces of his life just about every day. Be thankful he is so engaged with his fans. Appreciate all the different ways he opens up and shares parts of himself with us.

Don’t chase after his car. Don’t harass him for an autograph when all he wants is to get back to his family.

Lin is a person, not a god you placed on a pedestal. He is an artist, not all knowing, but complicated and flawed like the rest of us. He is a geek and a nerd and we love him for that, but loving him is letting him go.

Let Lin live his life free of the fear of one day interacting with the wrong fan. Let Lin be a man instead of some mythic figure you’ve created in your mind.

For the love of all that is good in this world, be polite, be kind, and love him by leaving him alone.


Balling On A Budget

Recently I took in a double feature all by my lonesome, Zootopia and Batman Versus Superman, at a nearby discount movie theater. I used to call it the $3 movie theatre, but, since both my shows were after 6pm, both of my tickets were actually $4.50. No matter.

I bought both tickets at the same counter where I purchased my concessions. All told, I spent $25 on myself for about five hours of introverted bliss.

I started my evening with Zootopia at 6:20pm. I had liked the trailer and heard one or two reviews that praised it. I too must concur that it was worth your time.

The movie depicts inherent bias in multiple different ways, as well as analogies to racism, such that is relatable to both children and adults. Thankfully, it features multiple female characters and passes the Bechtel Test.

Of course, this is a fictional world where, in the end, problems are solved and our characters are left in a better place than where they started. If only it were always so in real life.

After a quick bathroom break and a flyby purchase of a small popcorn, I slid into my seat just in time for the beginning of Batman Versus Superman. I am so happy I only paid $4.50 for this movie.

One of my chief complaints about the flick is its need for more editing. Certain scenes I found to be superfluous and downright annoying. I understand their significance (giving insight into a character’s motivation and mental state), but I sat there in the theatre thinking ‘Better acting and better writing would have made this sequence unnecessary.’

Another problem I had with the movie was petty, but important. At a certain point, I got annoyed, so annoyed that I yelled at the screen. I don’t normally do that.

When I saw characters act in such childish ways, exercising their grievances, when I knew all they really needed was some therapy, it made me not care. At one point I thought about walking out of theatre, and I NEVER do that.

What kept me in my seat was a reveal that was teased in the trailers: Wonder Woman. By far, the battle scene with our three heroes, as well as teases for future Justice League movies, are what kept me from repurposing those hours. I was not disappointed by the parts of the movie least central to its plot.

The glass half full description I am willing to accept and trumpet is the movie’s purpose: this nearly three hour adventure sets the stage for other Justice League movies. We get to see Jason Mamoa for fifteen wonderful seconds in his lovely tattooed body and flowing hair underwater. We get to see Flash being Flash (only for a flash of a moment). We get to see Papa Pope trying to save his son who becomes a cyborg in the process. And we get to see our girl being gloriously badass, fighting and surviving, thriving in battle next to the bat and the demigod.

Yes, I’m glad I only paid $4.50 for it, but I can say Batman Versus Superman was worth my time for the chance to see what’s coming next in the land of comic book movies. Boy, is it going be a wild ride.

So, my double feature night was a success. I treated myself to non healthy food and time to do whatever the fuck I wanted to do. I highly recommend it, if you can.

If you don’t treat yourself right, who will?


Famished

~ erotica ~

“It is a rare beauty that can keep her fairness whilst drenching her face in tears.”

Angelica gasped, and grasped the letter she’d been reading to her chest, while turning to look at her intruder.

“How long have you been standing there?”

A wicked smile emerged on his face. Angelica folded the parchment and hid the private missive on her person.

“Long enough to know that’s not a letter from your husband.”

Angelica had thought she was alone. She’d heard no noises, save the music and shouts from the nearby party, for the past ten minutes. Needing a break from the revelry, she had slipped away to the garden, her private, cool, quiet oasis, and sat on a stone bench at its central pond.

Well, it had been quiet, until trouble crept up on her.

“Your accent; are you from the colonies?” she asked. He gave a sweeping bow, his bejeweled cane glittering even in the dim light.

“Indeed, my lady. Thomas Jefferson, at your service.”

“Huh, as if you know the meaning of the word.”

She knew the man by his writings and stories overheard when no one noticed her listening. Still, everything about him screamed his station: the clothes, the posture, the adornment, and even the lips. He puckered them and held them, accentuating his mouth so that each word he spoke drew in your eye. She made herself look away. A glance was enough to know him.

“Always calculating, always analyzing. My lady, your reputation is more than accurate.”

“As is yours, Ambassador, so let me squelch any hopes you harbored about the extent of our interaction today. I am neither a servant nor a slave salivating to please you. And my husband requires no assistance for you to offer. Therefore, what do you want?”

“So quick witted, and straight to the point. I love it when my expectations are fulfilled.”

Like a hunting cat, he stalked over and sat next to her, placing his bejeweled walking stick on the ground. He leaned towards her, his left hand grazing her right, which darted away at his touch. Even with the rebuttal, his smile never left his face.

“And what could you have expected, Ambassador, except for my contempt. Galavanting overseas while others bleed for a country you’ve not seen since some adults now were nary up to your knees last you caught a ferry across the sea.”

“Verbal volleys with every vowel and consonant conjured. Am I making you nervous?”

Like a breeze, he swept up, turned, and sat on her other side, now closer to her. Angelica turned away, stood up, and walked towards the central pond.

“Why won’t you look at me, my lady?”

“I’ve seen all I need to of the predator hunting his prey, especially since I will not be caught. State your case or leave with what you’ve got: the annoyance earned of a fair lady.”

“Very well. I am told you counsel one I am to work with soon, an immigrant who’s got the ear of the President and a lot of ideas he’s pushing the Congress to approve. Tell me, what is your lover like?”

“Alexander is my brother-in-law.”

“I think you mean kissing cousin.”

“I think I’ve heard enough from you.”

Angelica gripped her skirts and began to stomp off.

“My lady.” Jefferson leapt up, grabbing her arm. His prey stared daggers into his eyes.

“As if you know the meaning of those words.”

“Simply answer a few questions.”

“Simply remove your hand from my person before I scream.”

“I only want.” Angelica inhaled and opened her mouth wide. “Wait!”

Thomas covered her mouth and dragged her towards the back of a nearby thick tree. Angelica protested, flailing her limbs about and biting his hand. Thomas bit back a cry of pain. Once behind the tree, he looked about, making sure no one saw his scurrying her away.

“Please, please. Stop yelling. Fuck, stop biting my hand. If you stop yelling, and biting, I’ll let you go.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said through the sound guard of his hand.

“I only want to talk.”

“About?” asked Angelica as a muffled one question word.

“Talk to me about him, Hamilton, and we’ll both pretend this never happened.”

Angelica thought, then nodded her agreement. Thomas removed his hand.

“Know this,” she began. “I will get satisfaction for the grievances you have caused me. We’ll negotiate the time, place, and circumstances at some later date. And if you ever try this again, I will let everyone know just how much of a scoundrel you are. I suspect they’ll love adorning your head upon a pike when I give them the juicy details of how you attempted to violate my honor.”

“My lady.”

“Keep those words out of your mouth. They are filth coming from you. Ask your questions and let us be done with this matter.” Thomas took a deep breath composing himself.

“Shall we sit again?” He gestured towards the grass beneath them. Angelica nodded. Thomas removed his jacket and laid it on the ground.

“Thank you,” said Angelica. They both sat down. “What do you want to know?”

“Simply this: What drives Hamilton? I know he grew up poor. It is simply money he wants?”

“No, though like all men he would like a certain level of wealth. Alexander wants to succeed, needs to in fact. I fear my sister may be a sacrifice he one day makes to reach his highest goals. But he wants to lead, to make the colonies better, to prove he is worthy of the renown he now receives. He knows his intelligence is what is needed in our fledgling country. I believe it to be so, as well. He wants to rise above his social station, to earn honor and respect in the eyes of those around him. Now, is that all?”

“One more thing: Before you left, how long were you two sleeping together?”

Angelica slapped Thomas, the crack from the impact as sharp as his accusation.

“So you never consummated your affair?”

Angelica went for her assault again, but this time Thomas caught her wrist.

“I know love when I see it, my lady.”

“You know nothing, my kind Sir.” Angelica spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ve already left an impression of my bite on your hand. Are you want to leave bruises on my wrist from your manhandling, too.”

“I’m apt to do much more than that. I am more perceptive than you give me credit for, my lady. I noticed the tension in your body when I first announced myself, which could’ve been dismissed as your being startled. I noticed it again when I sat next to you the first and second time, which could have been your annoyance with me. I am much to handle. But I noticed it yet again as you spoke to me, slapped me, and when you tried to execute your assault for a second time. Is the lady unfulfilled in her marriage? Is the lady actually admiring of my reputation? Did she hope something less than ladylike would…come from this conversation?”

Angelica’s eyes narrowed.

“You are filthier than the mud beneath our feet.”

“And you can’t stop looking at my lips.” Thomas licked his lips, and watched her watching him do so. The tension in her muscles increased. “What would you have me do with them, my lady? Ask it, and it shall be fulfilled. Merely, ask well.”

This time it was Angelica who donned the devilish grin.

“A kiss, sweet aristocratic prince?” Thomas leaned in closer. Angelica raised her free hand and ceased his advance with her index and middle fingers. “No. No. Not these lips.” She dipped her gaze down. His eyes followed. “But those.” Thomas bit his lower lip and began panting. “Are you hungry, Ambassador?”

“Famished.”

His hands slid up her legs, raising her skirts, and slipped her bloomers down to her knees. He smelled her sex, and felt the growing pressure in his slacks.

“Have you ever serviced a woman before, Ambassador?”

“I’ve been carefully taught, my lady. I can assure you my services will be to your liking.”

“I’ll believe your bluster when…Fuck!”

She gasped, moaned, and craned her head back as Thomas’ mouth massaged her sex.

“Oh god in heaven. You sweet merciful shitbag, don’t stop.”

She gripped his hair and pulled his lips more onto her cunt. Her hips bucked, riding his face.

“Those fucking lips.”

She wished she were not who she was, wished he were not who he was. But, mostly, she wished she were not wearing so many layers.

Angelica’s hand fumbled, reaching inside her shirt, and found an erect nipple to pinch. She breathed expletives as he continued enjoying her sweetness.

Thomas licked, flicked, sucked, and fucked her with his tongue. She tasted of strawberries and silk, drenching his facial hair with her essence. He gave long languishing laps, then grasped her clit with his lips.

“Thomas!”

She tried to squeeze her thighs against the sides of his head, writhing her entire body on the grass. He gripped her thighs, digging into her flesh, sure he would bruise her yet again, gifts for her to remember him in the coming days.

Her screams grew, almost to where he wondered if they would be found. She shivered, shook, and pulled at his hair even harder, but he would not stop until finally she collapsed, sweaty and panting on his coat. Only then did he come up for fresh air, bringing his face to hers.

“You taste so good, my lady.” She could smell herself on him, felt the bulge in his pants pressed against her sex. She grabbed his face and pulled his lips towards her on, violently darted her tongue into his mouth. He parried, matching her tongue stroke for stroke while pressing his desire against her still throbbing clit. Finished, she pushed him away.

“Your right, Sir. I do.”

She gathered her skirts and stood up over him, swaying slightly in her sexual exhaustion.

“At least I know you are not completely full of lies and shit. Goodnight Ambassador.” She turned and began to walk away.

“Goodnight, my dear Angelica. Until the next soiree.”


Admiration Versus Adulation

We humans are odd animals. One smile, one gesture towards us from someone we hold in high esteem sends our minds racing. I myself turned into a jumping giggling fool Wednesday night from a simple gesture, though thankfully I was joined by a friend in my exclamations.

What level of Hell is it to not know if someone is a friendly fan or a forcible foe?

I am guilty of the sin of adulation, though my indiscretions are not so harsh as compared to what I have witnessed outside the Richard Rogers Theatre.

I get it. The show is phenomenal, the cast spectacular in their performances. Everything about this show is worthy of love. I admire all I have consumed in the music, media missives, and live musical.

But, at what point are you putting your obsessive need for recognition from those who create the art above the physical and emotional health and well being of the actors? When are you asking, or demanding, too much from folks who are simply people?

I got a smile and a blown kiss as he sped away; that was more than enough. The next night, a gentleman ran after him, following halfway down the block for a fucking selfie. That was too much.

We are not entitled to them. We pay for a ticket and get our three hours of wonder and amazement inside the theatre. Any more than that can never be expected. Any more than that is done out of kindness, not obligation.

They are people with lives outside of the theatre, families to go home to. Once the curtain comes down, they owe you nothing.

When they want to just go home, or not talk, or simply need to be of themselves without the throng about them, leave them alone.

Please, just let them be.


Paciencia Y Fe

I knew the title of this post before I ever attempted to see Hamilton again. It is a phrase that resonates so much with me as to warrant contemplation of it being imprinted on my flesh. Paciencia y fe: patience and faith.

This go around I get to tell a story of triumph instead of a tale filled with tears.

Both my patience and faith were tested this week. I hopped a 1:50am bus Tuesday morning, arrived in NYC at 5:50am, and immediately got into the cancellation line outside of the Richard Rodgers Theatre.

However, unlike my previous experience, there were many more people waiting at this early hour. Colleges had just let out. Two different groups of friends had decided to show up on Monday, a non-show day, to sit and wait for the show on Tuesday night. By the time I made it to the line, I was in position number 18 for a ticket.

Only seven tickets were released for the Tuesday show. Also one magical person who had won the lottery gave their extra ticket to a cancellation line member. Still, I was too far behind to have any real shot of a seat that evening.

A group of my friends had suceeded in seeing the show this past Saturday. To do so, they had slept overnight in front of the theatre. Originally my thought was to do the same. As Tuesday’s show started, and we were informed there were no more spots left, I told the remaining people I was going to check into my hostel, take a shower and a nap, and return after the show was done to join them. That never happened.

I hadn’t slept in 36hrs. My bus ride was too rocky for any sleep. It rained most of the day on Tuesday, so no chance for an in line nap. I needed a break.

As we waited, the show about to start, hoping for standing room spots, I swayed on my feet. I felt nauseous. I didn’t know how long I would last without rest.

When I got to my hostel, I learned my room was on the fourth floor and the elevator was out. When I got into my room, I learned an asshole had taken my bed (the bottom bunk) and only one top bunk was left. I was mad, but I was more tired than I’d been in years. I unpacked, took a shower, and climbed into the bed.

I was done. As soon as my body felt the semi-comfortable mattress, it wouldn’t let me lift my head off of it. When I tried to sit up around 10:30pm, I felt like I would vomit. I compromised and set an alarm for 5am.

On Wednesday morning, I got back in line at 5:30am. If I had torn myself from my comforts and slept on the New York City sidewalk, I would have been 8th in line. Instead I was now 15th.

This ended up being a happy turn of fortune. Not only was I exhausted Tuesday night, I was also devastated. The path to attaining a ticket for the show seemed so hard as to almost be not worth it. I’d made a deal with myself that night while lying in bed that if I were any farther back than position 15, I would give up on this trip and try again another day.

Since I was 15th, I waited. And I made friends. They are the only reason why this story has a happy ending. For over twelve hours we chatted, laughed, and made fun of the ridiculous situation we were in. We created Cancellation Line Bingo. We whispered ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ for each passing man in uniform, and there were many. (Thank you Fleet Week for helping to make my Hamilton dream come true.)

By the end of this second waiting game day, I had hope again. So when I was next to last for the Wednesday evening show when again tickets and standing room spots were filled, I already knew where I would be sleeping that night.

I woke up Thursday morning achey but excited. I was so close. Just a little bit farther to go.

With my friends still with me, we again waited, now on my third day of outdoor tedium. At 3:30pm, when the theatre rep came out and said he had four premium tickets for Thursday evening, I felt like my heart would burst. All of us would see the show.

We had a meal together, changed together, and experienced Hamilton together. I saw my musical, and made two new friends to boot.

Patience and faith.

 


On Fear And Not Settling

I am so scared right now. Granted, I live a life full of fears, both big and small, but tonight especially those frights have set upon me.

I suppose I’m writing this so I can get some sleep, or possibly just to say it out loud. Name the demon and it will lose its power, as it were.

Three big fears have sent my mind whirling this evening: school, love, and Hamilton.

School:
I plan to take the MCAT in August. At every turn of my current scholastic adventure, I’ve done well. No, actually I’ve been awesome, with an A earned in every class I’ve taken since I’ve gone back to school. But I can’t shake the feeling of, any day now, the other shoe dropping.

When am I not going to be good enough? When are they going to see that I don’t belong, that I’m not as smart as I portray?

I know this feeling has a name: imposter syndrome. Yet, even though I know all my worries are not rooted in reality, and I do in fact belong here (post-bac quasi-pre med student, busting curves as I go), I’m always waiting for the no. I’m always expecting the no. I lack the confidence to believe in myself, though I keep proving my doubts wrong at every turn.

Currently I’m subscribing to a 50/50 mix of ‘fake it til you make it’ and ‘just keep going and see what happens’ to overcome my fear. Hopefully, with some help from Doc, this will get better.

Love:
Sometimes I am so lonely. Sometimes I fear I’ll never get married, never have children. Sometimes I wonder if I ever made a mistake when I broke up with my exes.

And then I remember why I made those decisions. I don’t regret leaving any of my past relationships. I do regret not leaving them earlier.

Too often I am drawn to an archetype which is basically the outline of my father’s traits: handsome, intelligent, relatively successful in his career, and utterly emotionally distant.

Pondering this in my car one day, I wondered if my ideal man was something of a unicorn, fictional and unobtainable. My ideal partner: a black man between 27-35, intelligent, handsome, wants marriage and children, politically and culturally aware, and with a kink or poly awareness or background.

Why do I call this man a unicorn? Because most men by this age, if they want marriage, are already married. Most handsome men are in relationships. This includes my semester crush, a beautiful mixed race guy with geekiness to boot.

Adding in the kink/poly element creates an even smaller subset to chose from, and I feel helpless just thinking about it.

I’ve thought about settling a lot. Maybe kink or poly aren’t necessary, but how do I even approach the topic to explain to someone unfamiliar with BDSM that I actually need that type of connection to feel whole? I’ve thought about relaxing my political views, and then quickly quashed that thought. One conversation with another classmate left me cringing: a few casual mild gay jokes, not understanding the extent of misogyny in his tone, and my frustration of trying to explain bystander intervention to help end rape culture. It just feels like to much work to compromise so much of myself for a life I know I want but not with someone who would inflict small heartaches each day.

In a random moment with my mother, on Mother’s Day, I talked about buying a house on my own and having a child via sperm donation, all after I’ve settled into my medical career, because, for the first time, I thought about a hopeful life for myself that didn’t include an imaginary husband who has yet to appear.

I don’t need a life partner, but fuck I want one.

Hamilton:
This past weekend, a few of my friends went up, stayed overnight waiting in the cancellation line, and got tickets to go see the show. I couldn’t come with them because of work.

But, I’m trying again this Tuesday and Wednesday.

What if it happens again? What if once more I have to swallow the bitter pill of sadness and regret? What if I go, only to come back in tears instead of triumph?

Of all my current worries, this by far is the least important (I do have some perspective folks) and, funny enough, the one with the most hope.

Today, during a cartoon marathon with friends (cause we know how to adult right) we planned a group trip to try to see the show. Truth be told, I much prefer that option, and am looking forward to it in July.

However, as with everything I’ve listed, I cannot let my fears stop me. Fear of failure does not mean one should never try. Fear can be a useful tool to save your life, but it can also hold you back from experiences worth living, a life worth having, through happiness and sadness. One cannot know the light without the dark, the yippee without the oh man.

So fuck you, fear. I’m still gonna be me, fraidy cat who does it anyway, scared shitless as I go.