Happiness

June 10, 2018

The Touch

June 10, 2018

The trees have kept some lingering sun in their branches,
Veiled like a woman, evoking another time,
The twilight passes, weeping. My fingers climb,
Trembling, provocative, the line of your haunches.

My ingenious fingers wait when they have found
The petal flesh beneath the robe they part.
How curious, complex, the touch, this subtle art –
As the dream of fragrance, the miracle of sound.

I follow slowly the graceful contours of your hips,
The curves of your shoulders, your neck, your unappeased breasts.
In your white voluptuousness my desire rests,
Swooning, refusing itself the kisses of your lips.

Renée Vivien

My joy…

June 10, 2018

You are my joy, my sadness, my despair, my smile, my most intense emotions, my serenity – and my greatest fear!

Gray Wolf

All humans dream, usually three to five times a night. And every time a man dreams he has an erection; every time a woman dreams, the blood vessels of her vagina become engorged. These changes in our genitalia are apparently unrelated to sexual thoughts before sleep or to sexual content in the dreams themselves. Rather, erections and vaginal engorgement seem to be the result of the state of dreaming itself.

Jerome Groopman
Review of The Mystery of Sleep by Meir Kruger in The New Yorker Magazine, Oct 23, 2017.

How could I be femme

June 10, 2018

I started to find butch women in movies and books and queer erotica, and they captivated me. But in those precious few portrayals, butches were paired with femmes, and that dynamic left me hopeless. Based on what I watched and read, femmes were petite, curvy, pretty women. How could I be femme if I was too tall, too broad-shouldered, too strong-jawed? How could I be femme with my flat chest and scarred face? The butches I saw in fiction didn’t want a woman like that. The one dynamic that was presented to me led me to believe I couldn’t exist in queer spaces. So I stayed in the closet, in the dark of my own doubts and insecurities.

But the quiet certainty of queerness didn’t leave me. I thought, sometimes, I’d go crazy if I couldn’t touch another woman.

Katrina
Relearning how to dress myself from the closet I came out of

see in the mirror

June 10, 2018

Joan Semmel, “Erotic Yellow”

Then we fucked and I could see in the mirror when I looked up that blood was dripping down both my legs, bright red and almost beautiful and I thought it’d scare him or me but it didn’t. (I mean I wasn’t like that. I mean it wasn’t like me. I couldn’t wait more than two or three minutes after sex with men before dashing to the bathroom to scrub everything off me, to ‘detail’ my bellybutton ring like I could get pregnant or die that way. Then I scrub memories too but I didn’t scrub this one and so; bear with me. I feel like it matters or I wouldn’t be telling you, trust me.)

(But I gave that up, too: the idea of sex being clean, because I mean what makes you more vulnerable than being fucked and dirty too, and how can you have sex if you aren’t vulnerable? But also so much has changed since then, about sex.)

He kept fucking me because this could be the end of it, after all. Who’d ever said that we didn’t have to shed a little blood on our way out? Or leave some damages on the carpet or even stain my brain with the memory of my thighs in the mirror, shocked by myself and unsure, thinking to myself ‘we are animals who bleed’ and also how the Pill they’d switched me to was fucking me up, because you know, for so long, for a year or so I hadn’t bled at all except on purpose. So this was a new thing for me and Blake.

Riese
What did you do out there. What did you decide.

Oh, no…

June 10, 2018