Day One: Commitment Phobe

I've made a commitment, maybe even more of entering into a covenant this month, to a community, to myself, promising to respect myself, to be patient with my body, to understand my desires, to still my mind, listen to my flesh and to feel, through every pulsing, the importance my own touch.   I want to engage in self-love, to put myself up on that pedestal, on top, where I've always belonged, not subjugated to someone else's body, someone else's desires. Promises of a month-long retreat, into myself, into the folds of my own skin, into the soft bounce of my own flesh, into the wet heat from between my legs. Promises to come on my own, my own two fingers leading me South in a journey of discovery, recollection, renewal.

And so I embarked on the first step of my journey. I came this evening.  Twice, so far. But only once by my own devising. I spent all day thinking about it, thinking about just how I'd inaugurate this month-long celebration of me. Knowing I'd have at least a partial evening to myself-- would I be on the couch panties off, dress still on, in the shower, in a chair at my writing desk, or prone and exposed on the bed? I chose the bed. I guess out of habit more than anything else. A return to something known and comfortable. All lights in the apartment off, except the small Burlesque Leg Lamp, throwing soft light through its fishnet leg and with a small thrill in my stomach about being caught mid-bucking, I tore at my clothes, hearing the material moan as I pulled it over my shoulders and stretched around my head, unable to get my dress off quick enough. I wanted to moan too. I wanted more than that.

Orgasms come for me, fairly quickly. Sometimes small and soft, tiptoeing up my thighs and whispering out from my lips in tiny ripples, leaving little or no trace of their passing. Other times, they're loud, obnoxious, in (or on) your face guttural roars starting from multiple locations- from the base of my spine, from my toenails, my nipples, my earlobes, and all converging at my pussy and spewing forth in geysers. These kinds of orgasms, this type of coming, this is what I yearn for, panting and covered in sweat, blinded, throat sore, body tingling and exhausted, begging for recupe time, and still greedy for more  These are the orgasms I prefer, the ones that push me through the hard times. But these full-body convulsings and dam-bursting moments are hard to elicit at the tips of my own fingers. And tonight was no different.

Laying on the bed, hands running over my body, I began to think rather than do. I'd committed to this practice, to this discovery, to working on breaking the dam and coming Victoria Falls at the coaxing of my own hands or even vibrators, rather than rely on your fingers, or better yet, your tongue. But as my hands moved, I heard myself narrating, relating my story, my movements, hoping that I could sound sexy in my own head, push myself over simply by sharing myself and thinking about how or what I'd write when I sat down to relate this experience. I began to narrate all the things I wanted to think about, then all the things I didn't. I couldn't commit to a single fantasy, to a single thought that would jerk in my mind, and at the tip of my clit, that would elicit a yelp or a gasp from my lips.

And then I wasn't alone anymore.  I heard the apartment door open and close, and footsteps on the hard...wood. And I thought of you,you not knowing I'd rolled onto my stomach to press my finger firmer against my clit, not knowing I was listening to you from our bed, listening for the sounds you make when you're pleasuring yourself, my ears subbing for voyeur eyes. Or better yet, thinking of you catching me, the urgency forcing me to move my fingers faster and grind my hips deeper against the flannel sheets. Then the vision of you actually catching me, joining in with my hand hard pressed behind your neck, cupping the base of your skull, tongue still lapping while you peer up through eyelashes dripping wet with me. And I came, finally, mind clear of all images but that one, I came quick and with little wet though blood rippling, and tiny muscles spastic. I couldn't commit to myself on my own, not tonight, not this time, not to come how I wanted- laying exhausted and eyelids fluttering in a pool of my own slick.  But, with you in my head, I did come that first time. Little as it may have been, I was not a failure.

And then the second time, when you finally did discover me, and wanted to know what I was doing. And I still wanted more.