poeticdesires

Category: Emotional

  • Tuned In

    My life infects my writing.
    My writing infects my life.     – me, in a random moment of realization and blunt honesty

    So there was this moment at work. Well, no, it wasn’t actually at work, but it was during the break between our setup and our tear down. It was this subtle little thing, a blink of an eye, yet as soon as it happened I had the feeling I would end up telling Doc about it. And I did just that today.

    I was sitting in a booth in a diner with two of my co-workers. One sat next to me, the other across from us. The one who sat next to me was a nice guy, which I already knew. He was in charge for both calls and I had worked with him before.

    However this was the first time we had had a chance to chat for more than a minute or two. He gave me a ride to the diner since I drove the box truck for the event and we chatted in his vehicle.

    He was a really good guy. Like I said, I’d sort of knew that, but hadn’t experienced it first hand before. I know his girlfriend and, since she was with him, knew that he had be to pretty awesome. And he is.

    So we’re all sitting in the booth, finished with our meals, killing time while waiting to go back to work. The boys (my other co-worker was also a guy) were chatting about sound stuff, an area that I have almost zero interest in. I spent my time playing on my phone and reading my Twitter feed.

    So they’re talking, and I’m ignoring them, when the super awesome nice guy sitting next to me crosses his arms, resting them on the table, leaving his left hand dangling there. And I immediately have this desire to reach out and grab his hand, hold it, grip his fingers with my own.

    The moment was so striking, it hit me almost like a Mach truck. (Yes, this experience is what inspired PDA.)

    Of course I didn’t do it. He was not my boyfriend, he has an awesome girlfriend who I like a lot, and I, like most adults, have a modicum of self control.

    But that moment has stuck with me for the past few days.

    When I spoke to Doc about it, he had me explain why it happened. There are a few reasons.

    First, Doc, as homework, has stressed for me to actively tune into my emotions. He wants me to be aware of how I am feeling moment to moment and see how that affects my day-to-day, especially in the area of me opening up to people about my feelings.

    Second, this particular job happened to be the last gig I had before the slow season at work started. I was highly stressed, having had little sleep in the past few days coupled with lots of work.

    Lastly, this moment, though it was in between gigs, was also highly relaxing. The boys were talking exuberantly about sound design. I was enjoying my time on the interwebs. We were all getting along smashingly.

    All of this led to my flash of awareness of something I wanted. Because I was tuned into my emotions, I realized all at once:

    1- This guy sitting next to me was awesome, a fact I had not fully appreciated before.
    2- I felt the need to be comforted, to have someone in my life be there for me when times got difficult, when the stresses of the busy season got to me.
    & 3- I need someone in my life to fill this roll.

    I can say a lot of things about my Ex, but this was one area where he got it right. My Ex was my champion, my cheerleader. He always thought more of me, more of my work than I did, and was there for me when I came home tired, worn out, and needing a strong set of arms to fall into.

    It’s been three years since I broke up with him, three years without that person to come home too. I’ve spent almost as long outside of our relationship as I spent in it. And though I don’t want him back, I want that person in my life again.

    I want that person to come home to, that person who is my champion, my cheerleader. I want those arms to fall into at night, that voice telling me how great I am, that I can do it, that it will all be okay.

    I want a partner again.

  • Telling

    ~ a fictional truth ~

    When you came home, tired from work, grumpier than normal. When you flopped down on the couch, kicked off your shoes, and said you wanted nothing more than to be left alone. When I slowly crept beside you, and softly asked if you wanted me to rub your shoulders. Or fix you dinner. Or just leave you alone for an hour. When I asked in the way I know is soothing to you, whether you know it or not.

    That was me taking care of you, being there for you, telling you how much you mean to me.

    When you left for work this morning, rushed as ever, focusing on your day’s endeavours. When you couldn’t pick out the right look for your big presentation. When you couldn’t remember where you’d placed your keys. When you almost walked out the door without your lunch. Or your scarf, even though it’s been freezing outside all day for days. When I picked just the right look, found your keys, wrapped your scarf around your neck, and kissed you bye as you rushed off.

    That was me being your champion, your cheerleader, the person who always has faith in you, the person who knows how great you are, telling you how great you can be.

    When we slipped off to sleep in each others arms, our breathing the only noise in our room. When I nuzzled my cheek against your skin. When I sighed in that way I sometimes do when falling asleep, allowing my body and my breath to fall into you.

    That was me telling you how comforting you make me feel, how safe my world is when I’m with you, how you are my home.

    When you kissed me, your lips so gentle against mine. When your hands explored my body. When I arched my back, breathed heavy into your ear, and whispered dirty thoughts your way. When I relaxed and let my body be with your flesh. When I came.

    That was me telling you how much I want you, need you, desire you, love you.

  • Pendant

    I wanted to do it myself. Looking around, it was obvious that most attending this class came with their partner. This was not surprising; the ultimate goal inherently could be a very bonding activity between two people.

    But I came for me, to explore something I had recently found as fascinating, alluring, something I wanted.

    When it came time, I sat down with the kit provided. I explained to the instructor my intention. They were very encouraging, sitting in front of me just in case I needed any help.

    I’d waited til most of the couples were done, knowing I might need that one-on-one time with the instructor. The couples at least had each other to lean on. I was flying solo.

    My nerves started growing as soon as people stepped up to start. When I broke out all the pieces of the kit, sitting them on the table beside me, my heart fluttered. I made a decided effort to slow my breathing, to remain calm. This was not an activity I wanted to fuck up.

    I wrapped the tourniquet around my arm and felt at the cleft for a vein. Just as I was instructed, I found the spongy spot. There it was. I chose my right arm because every time I’ve had my blood drawn (every time) it has been from my right arm. My left arm’s veins are not pleasing.

    I cleaned the area. I picked up the needle with my left hand. I took a deep breath.

    Slowly, I inserted the needle into my skin, working millimeters at a time. There was no pain. When almost all of it was inside me, and yet I still had not drawn blood, my instructor suggested a different angle. Still no good. Then they asked if they could try. One small move and I saw it; the line of blood appeared in the plastic tubing.

    I slowly pulled the syringe, extracting my own blood. As I saw my life force exit from my body, my other instructor came over, caressed my hair, and sweetly said, “Pretty girl.” When the syringe was nearly full, my instructor removed the needle and I immediately placed gauze over my skin.

    I didn’t want anti-coagulant, so I capped the syringe with the blunt tip needle and made my way over to the second station.

    There were two options; I chose the simpler holder. I pushed the plunger, filling the pendant with my blood. With the assistant’s help, I capped the top, melted the plastic, and added the metal fastener. In my hand was my blood pendant.

    But, in the other, was the syringe with the remainder of my extracted blood. I’d seen as others discarded their extra blood or drank it quickly back into themselves, but that didn’t feel right to me. It needed to be more sacred, more special.

    I got down on my knees, tilted my head back, and opened my mouth. As I pushed on the plunger, the first drop dripped into my mouth, landing on my tongue.

    The taste was familiar, yet amazing. The depth of the mixture, the nuance of the flavor, the thickness of my body coming back into me.

    As drop by drop I drank my blood, my thoughts were of my year and my goals: Bravery, Endurance, Forgiveness. A refrain of those words cycled through my mind as I remembered my adventures, the people I’d met (including my instructors in that room), the memories I’d made, the life I had lived from January up until that moment.

    When the last drop fell, I felt full of self love.

    I stood. I discarded my expired syringe.

    I held my pendant in my hand, turning it over and over. In the small vial I had captured myself in a moment, myself from this year, a piece of me.

    It hangs now on my wall above my bed. So many memories, so much of my life captured in one small little pendant.

  • NaNo Lessons Last

    Forgiveness

    The hardest part of NaNo, and something I’ve been struggling with as a goal for this year, is forgiveness.

    As a writer, as an artist, I logically know that my vision isn’t going to just fall from me onto my screen in its perfect form conveying all the emotions and depth of feeling that I envision in my head.

    Logically I know it will take time, work, and the crafting of nuance. Logically I know writing is a process, an exercise, and at times a fucking hard ass job. Logically, I get the struggle I went through this month.

    But emotionally I have beat up on myself throughout much of this process.

    I felt horrible skipping my writing time while in California. I felt less than when I didn’t meet my daily quota goals.

    I feel kind of shitty in the fact that I got to fifty-thousand-three words and stopped, that I just barely crossed the threshold and said, “Fuck it, I’m done.” In my mind, I should’ve written more, kept writing til the bitter end, til the last possible second.

    All of my negativity in this past month is just another reminder that I must be better to myself, treat myself better, forgive myself.

    The expectations I have for myself I could never achieve. The idea I have of what I should do or should be are unrealistic and hurtful.

    To let go of my sadness at not being “more”, to allow myself to just be, no over-arching expectation, no grand idea, just be poetic and let life be as it will, to do that will be to have struggled, accomplished a goal, and now moving forward to the next.

    It took me about twenty-four hours to really smile at the fact that yes, I competed NaNoWriMo. Yes, I wrote fifty-thousand words in twenty-seven days.

    Yes, I still blogged. Yes, I still went to California. Yes I still worked, and saw my family on Thanksgiving, and smiled when I hugged my niece and spent time with my friends doing nothing important (which often are the most important moments).

    That was my month. And, fuck it, even through the shitty times, it was a great month.

    So yes, I forgive myself for not being perfect, and I forgive myself for ever expecting that in the first place. I forgive myself for not creating the final draft the first time and I forgive myself for ever dreaming that was possible. I forgive my imperfections and my brain for thinking they shouldn’t exist.

    I forgive myself and, in doing so, am happy to just be myself.

  • Quiet

    ~ a story ~

    It isn’t like I want to feel this way. I don’t. I don’t want to be sad or upset or feel adrift. I don’t want to think on you longingly or hope for something I know will never happen. Because I know it will never happen.

    I love you. Fuck, I love you.

    I love you so much that I want to scream it out loud. I want to scream and yell and tell everyone I know how much I love you. But most of all, I want to tell you.

    I love you.

    But I’ve never said it to you. Will I ever say it to you?

    I love you so much it scares me. Like literally scares me. Because I would do anything for you. Anything for you. Just ask it.

    You’re there and I’m here. You have your life and I have mine. But if you asked, I would leave. I would come running to you. I would find a way to make it work. If you just asked, I would. But you never will.

    I’m not suppose to feel like this. Feel like I’m less than. Feel like I’m not appreciated. Feel like I’m not even thought of. Because how are you suppose to know I feel like this?  I never say anything. Anything. I just feel the way I feel and hope for some sort of fairy tale miracle.

    Of course I feel like shit. I’ve been feeding it to myself every day hoping for an outcome that just can’t happen unless I do something to make it happen.

    I’m suppose to be happy. Joyous even. I have this awesome job. These awesome friends. This awesome life. People would kill for my life. I’d kill for it. But I don’t appreciate it. Don’t enjoy the things I have or the people around me. Because…

    You. You’re there. You’re always there. You’re the background noise I can’t turn off. I can’t turn it off. It won’t go away, can’t go away. I won’t let it go away.

    Because I love you. And from the first moment I felt it, to the first moment I admitted it to myself, to the realization that I was too chicken shit to say anything and have watched you live your life without me, all I feel is nothing I want to.

    I want to be happy with you. I want my life to be joyous with you. I want you.

    I love you. Truly love you.

    But when, oh when, will I ever tell you?

  • Postcards

    “Why are you sending me a postcard?”
    “Because I can.”

    It was my last moments in London.

    That morning, my last morning in London, we’d fucked like it was the last time for a long time, because we both knew it would be the last time for a long time.

    But now, a few hours later, we sat at a tall table by the bar in The Hung, Drawn, and Quartered. He called our venturing to the restaurant his “giving his respects to his relative”. Apparently a distant relation had been executed here, back when it wasn’t serving butternut squash risotto or duck, cranberry, and port pie.

    We each sipped on our drinks and lounged. My legs dangled from the tall chair in a way reminiscent of my youth, though I was not as happy sitting in the restaurant as I had been when I was young. It was almost time to say goodbye.

    About ten minutes earlier we passed by a small shop that sold postcards. Near the beginning of my London adventure, I’d purchased postage for five cards, thinking I would send them off to family and friends. As my time progressed in London, the thought rarely came back up. Until then, during my last hours, when we walked by the small shop.

    He needed to go to an ATM, so I waited, sampling their small selection.

    Who would I send a card to? Who did I want to send a card to?

    I chose three: one for a parent, one for myself, and one for him. I paid the small fee and waited outside the shop for him to return.

    With a little time on my hands, I thought about what I wanted to write. Something fun came to mind for my parent. Thoughtful intents emerged for his card as well as mine.

    When he returned, we walked the short distance to the restaurant. After a few commemorative photos outside, notably his starfish under the sign, we walked in, found a cozy spot in a corner of the bar, and sat.

    As I sipped my cider, I pulled out my cards and started writing. My parent’s was easy and short.

    For my card, I thought about my trip, and the many amazing moments I’d had. I made a list, bullet points to jog my memory of my fun times in London.

    When it came to his card, I wanted to give him the same gift.

    “What’s your address again?”
    “Why are you sending me a postcard?”
    “Because I can.”

    I thought about the moments we’d had and the times I’d seen him enjoying his latest trip to London. Again I made a list, hoping it would spark his memories of his adventure and possibly, maybe, get him to smile.

    After we’d ordered our food, our friends arrived. They joined us, snuggling into our cozy corner.

    When I finished all my postcards, I realized a slight flaw in my plan. There was no time for me to go to a post office before I had to head to the airport. Gray offered to do it, but I didn’t want him to peek at his card, spoiling the surprise. Instead one of our friends offered to send them off for me.

    And then Gray promptly asked our friend to read it. He and his partner leaned over perusing what I’d written. They then, thankfully, advised him to wait.

    “See, I’m thoughtful and shit.”

    Soon after, it was time for me to go.

    Gray walked me to the station, about a few blocks away from the restaurant. We switched Oyster cards (mine had unlimited bus and Zone 1-3; his was empty). He filled my card with enough money to get me to the airport.

    We hugged just beyond the entrance turnstiles, standing there for a moment saying a silent goodbye.

    “Please try to stay safe and sane.”
    “Thank you for helping me with that while you were here.”

    We kissed one last time.

    Then I turned, swiped my card, and stepped through. He handed me one of my bags over the barricade and I was off. I didn’t dare turn back. I didn’t want to cry and I had a long journey to traverse before I’d be home.

  • Release

    I was nervous, terrified even. I was going to try this, going to let myself go to a place where I didn’t know how I would react.

    I talked about it with him first.

    “For our scene, could you do something for me? Could you take off my necklace?”

    With all of the emotions wrapped up in the simple piece of chainmail (my expectations for myself, my incessant need for freedom, to the point where I claim ownership of myself), I wanted to know what it would feel like to take it away.

    Put down the armour. Let go. Be free, exposed actually. To be adrift, but almost in a comforting way. To open myself up for possibility.

    So I asked, and he said yes.

    But, there were two conditions. His taking off of the necklace was only for the scene, only for the experience that night. Also, he would not put it back on me. I wholeheartedly agreed to both his terms.

    This was me sticking my toe into the water. This was me opening up to the possibility, to the idea, to the thought of power exchange. This was me letting go, letting the idea in, letting myself be open and vulnerable, naked, exposed like I had not been before.

    I trusted Gray. I knew this try, this action, was without commital, without the big scary idea of really delving into the power exchange pool. Just a toe in the water.

    I had been scared to ask him but did so anyway. When he said yes, a new fear sunk it. How would I feel? What would happen when my necklace was gone?

    We started our scene as we often do. I placed my bootblacking kit by the side of my mat. I stripped for him.

    Then he turned me around and had me kneal down. His fingers tickled the top of my neck.

    He had trouble initially finding where the metal unhooked. But then I felt the brush, the tell tale motion that he’d undone the necklace. It lightly fell away, sliding down my skin and off my body.

    My eyes watered. A wave of ease settled over me. I felt lighter. It was, of all things, a release. It was as if my necklace, the metal, had been weighing me down.

    I think it was the idea, the incessant need to be free, independent, to own myself because no one else would. The idea that I had to guard myself from the world, had to protect myself from being taken. Yet, instead, it was as if I was holding myself back, holding my feelings, my desires in.

    Gray handed my necklace back to me when the evening ended. It stayed in my pocket for the rest of my London trip and has stayed in my pocket, whether at work or home, ever since.

    I know eventually I will put it back on. Eventually I will want it back around my neck. Maybe during my next event (my last one for the year). Maybe one random day when I want the feel of the metal against my skin.

    My necklace symbolizes many aspects of myself, a large chunk of emotions, but also in encapsulates my persona as poeticdesires. Most asurredly it will end up on my skin again.

    But not right now. Right now, I feel light. I feel free. Right now I’m poetic, with or without the hardware.

  • Water Torture

    I was fried, hanging on by a thread. And then the thread was cut.

    We were out to dinner, a group of nine of us, sitting around a large table in a pub about a fifteen minute walk from the Flying Dutchman.

    We were all tired, the rush of the Grue slamming to a halt as the event had just ended about an hour ago.

    It was all I had in me to not curl up into a ball and start crying. Having experienced another Grue, I knew this was normal. The intense event followed by the sudden end caused me physical exhaustion and emotional havoc. I knew this was to be expected. I was just barely hanging on.

    We ordered drinks. I decided I needed a beer. Just one beer. My pint arrived and I took one sip. Then two other drinks arrived, one of them being Gray’s. Because he sat next to me, of course I was going to reach over and pass the drinks to him.

    And then my hand clipped my pint glass. And all of my beer, save my one sip, spilled onto the table and onto Gryphon. Gryphon, who sat on my other side. Gryphon, who offered to share his french fries with me. Gryphon, who had made me smile even though I was feeling like crap.

    As soon as the glass hit the table, we both jumped up. I grabbed it, but it was already too late. His pants and half his shirt were soaked.

    I had to get away. I quickly slipped from the booth and rushed to the bathroom. One of the two stalls was free. I got inside and started crying.

    I had been hanging on by a thread. And then the thread was cut.

    All the horrible thoughts came to me in a rush.

    You’re so clumsy. You’re so stupid. He won’t like you now. You’ve ruined dinner. They’ll all hate you now. Why did you even bother coming? No one wants you here.

    CherryBondage soon came into the restroom and knocked on my stall’s door. I let her in and she held me as I wept. Hugging me tight, she asked me what was wrong.

    “I was hanging on by a thread. And then that happened and I just couldn’t hold on any more. And the bad thoughts came and I know logically Gryphon doesn’t hate me and the table is probably laughing about this right now, but yeah. I just… I needed to cry.

    “I’ll be okay. I just needed to cry.”

    And then I was okay. I actually laughed, knowing this would be yet another inside joke directed my way.

    When I returned to the table, I apologized profusely to Gryphon. Gray gave me a big hug.

    And waiting for me was another pint. The bar had spotted me the loss.

    But now I found myself in a new dilemma: I feared picking up my beer.

    I feared touching it even. When I went to drink my beer, I used both hands to lift the pint. When the next round of drinks came, I held my arms in tight to my chest and sat back in my seat.

    To make matters worse (or hilarious, depending on how you saw it), Gray and Gryphon taunted me for the rest of our dinner with my new found fear.

    Asking one to refill my water glass (since he could more easily reach the pitcher), he filled my cup all the way to the top. I stood up and leaned over, sipping the top off just so I wouldn’t spill my water when I lifted it.

    Then the other, the next to refill my glass, held the pitcher high in the air as the water flowed out. I was visibly nervous that the liquid would spill all over the table. Of course it didn’t, but the boys enjoyed egging me all the same.

    Gryphon smelled of beer for the rest of the night; he didn’t have time to go home and change before the After Grue. I kept apologizing; he kept telling me it was okay.

    Eventually, I believed him.

    The night was not ruined. No one hated. I was okay again.

  • A Few Thoughts

    – At Rope Camp, my NYR Cabin name was changed. I asked for the switch; Cabin Bitch didn’t feel right to me anymore. I am now Cabin Scribe. It seemed fitting to me, what with my recounting of our harrowing events of last year (and this one as well). Murphy worried that the name change told more about what I did then who I am. But I am a writer, have always been a writer, and will always be a writer no matter the circumstance, so in the end he accepted it.

    – I don’t know if it’s considered a life crisis when you ask yourself the same questions every year or so. Is this really what I want to do for the rest of my life? Are these the people I want to be around, the job I want to perform, the life I want to live? But the bigger question, the one which I never give an answer to, is: Am I willing to change that?

    – I hate the cold. HATE the cold. I was born in July, a summer baby, and have always felt immensely better in the dead heat than in the bitter cold. I’ve started layering already, breaking out my scarves and work hoodie. No more sandals. Short skirts now include crotchless tights. I need to make or purchase another hat. I hate the fucking cold.

    – I leave for London in 25 hours. Writing just that brought a huge smile to my face. I don’t know if I’ll see any sights or just spend my time with CherryBondage, but either way I get my first stamp in my passport this weekend.

    And I get to go to my second Grue. My first was amazing and I’m hoping the second will be just as awesome, if not more so. Unlike last time, there is only one “class” I want to “teach” and it has nothing to do with rope. Well, it could, though in this instance it involves tights and tennis balls and it’s less about my teaching and more about me picking people’s brains who know the subject matter better than I (being a complete and total novice).

    – With my moleskin in my back pocket wherever I go, I have given myself a level of comfort I had not expected. I don’t scribble in it every day, but when I do, whether it’s jotting down a poem or random thoughts, flushing out my feelings or taking notes on a podcast I’m listening to, I feel like me.

  • Story Of O

    I’ve spent most of my free time thus far during my London trip reading an iconic BDSM novel, Story Of O by Pauline Reage.

    I’d heard of the book before I purchased it on a whim at Rope Camp. Having learned that it was the basis for two sites on kink.com (The Training Of O and The Upper Floor), I knew this was a story I needed to read.

    I finished the book in thirty-six hours. It was that good.

    As I read it, I saw all the little ways kink permeated the pages. Saw all the subtle notes of my life reflected in the story. Even just passing mentions of intricacies of my kink made my heart flutter.

    But now, having gone through the journey, having just finished the book, having invested so in the main character, her development, her journey, I am left with a sickening rage.

    The final page of the book tells of a deleted chapter, the final chapter, full of heartache and betrayal towards a character I had grown to love by a character I had grown to love.

    It said simply:

    In a final chapter, which was surpressed, O did return to Roissy, where Sir Stephen abandoned her.
    There exists a second end to O’s story. In that version, O, seeing that Sir Stephen was on the verge of leaving her, preferred to die. Sir Stephen gave his consent.

    Having read those words, I damn near threw the book across the room. I’m holding back tears as I write this.

    Through everything, through love and pain, questioning herself, questioning her love for one man and finding a deeper love with another, through two hundred pages of struggle and then finally to just be thrown away…

    I do not understand… I cannot understand…

    Sir Stephen was her Master, a man who found himself in love with her, who she gave all of herself to, and yet with one paragraph these iconic characters are sullied for me.

    As O grew to love Sir Stephen, I too found myself falling for his character, at first hard and unbendable, but who morphed and changed even as he influenced O, pushed her further than she knew she could go. His great desire for her, his deep love for her, his need to have her fully and completely is something I cannot deny I desire from another.

    I fear, and yet still find myself craving, to be owned. To give all of myself, to dedicate my being to another. But the idea of being thrown away, the idea of a Master disposing of his slave like she were just another fancy, brings my blood beyond boiling and scares away my resolve to even pondering the thought.

    How can one call themself a Master, accept a slave, take on the responsibility of another life, brand them, pierce them, lock iron loops through them signifying their eternal bond, only to later set them aside like yesterday’s paper?

    I wish I had never read that page, wish I hadn’t gone past THE END on what I thought was the last page of the novel. But now, having read that paragraph, I find myself trying to forget an ending I never thought would or could happen.

    I’m surprised how much Story Of O struck a chord with me. Even with the dense winding of the translation (the book was originally written in French) and the mental hoops you have to jump through to absorb the writing, I found something about this book so compelling.

    Maybe it is because the story is entirely from O’s perspective, giving insight not only into how she lived, the things she did (with and to whom), but also the why. Reading her pleasure in being a whore for her lover. Reading her thrill in being taken by whomever her Sir chose. The reckless abandon of the sex scenes (of which there are many). How complicated she was, both in her desires for men and women. And how much she changed from the first page to the last.

    I love Story Of O. I understand why you can base two different porn sites off of it. Having read it, I can already feel its influence on me, can already sense how it will shift my writing.

    But, more shockingly, I can almost feel the shift in me. I can almost sense how I’ve changed through reading it. Can almost imagine how I will be different now that the last page is finished, the book is closed, and I’m supposedly free from the bonds of the words.

    Because I don’t feel free. I don’t feel like the story has ended. The book still feels wide open, splayed, ready to be read again through my body, my desires, my lovers… through me.