I have flown right through this glass

I used to bite. a lot. but M doesn't seem to like it so much... I suck tiny not-at-all lasting hickey on his chest and arms sometimes, but it's not the same.
I got him to bite me. For months after we met he would leave rather nice marks all over my shoulders and breasts...
and then I made the mistake of telling him that my mum had thought they were kinda funny, and now he doesn't leave them all that often any more.
Kind of a shame. I'll have to do something about that.

We had a very nice talk last night. Something we had really needed to discuss for a while, but had kind of been avoiding. He's gotten good at this... sort of bringing up something that needs to be talked about, talking a little, have some very nice sex, talk a little more, fall asleep warmly and happily. If everything in my life could be resolved in bed I'd be a much happier girl. The closeness just makes everything seem better, softer, more real, less likely to be misinterpreted. It makes it easier for me to separate the words from the meaning and also for whatever part of me that always expects to be attacked in conversations to just calm down and take a nap. M is a very good man.

There is something indescribably intense about the way the cool acidity of your mouth quenches the warm salty sweetness of the few drops of semen licked not-so-very-coyly from the tip of you erection.

My fingers are bloody, but I don't mind much. The night is too warm and it isn't worth the trouble of trying to keep from making a mess. Besides, I am mad at my birthcontrol pills for making my period come more often, so I am caring less and less about keeping things contained.
So I masturbate bloodily while I think about nothing much.
Which isn't uncommon for me. I like to let my mind wander and shift, I let my mind rest on whatever it likes and I pick at the ideas, but I don't let my body get involved in that at all. It divorces the mind and the body enough that my worrying doesn't make my lungs knot up with themselves or the voles gnaw at my intestines. I can work through ideas. Or just stuff, ideas for birthday presents, things I've done, what to wear to work.
And I think it's best when I'm on my period because my sex drive is a little low, my arrousal a little slower, I'm less likely to orgasm and ruin my thought process. It's comfortable.

I've decided what I can blame PMS for.
-extremely elevated sex drive
-major need for approval
accompanied by
-need to prove myself
also
-long naps

so. Not that I ever blamed any of it on hormones. Except occasional crying jags when things just weren't going my way, but really that's just stress release.
so there.

I've been reading Henry and June and come to the conclusion that I really like Anais Nin. She seems lonely, but also she seems to struggle with words and ideas and feelings like I do. It's nice to be able to connect with someone from so long ago in a way like that. I think it might just be that she was so used to writing in her diary that it all went in, all of the unhappiness and uncertainty and uneasiness and discovery.
It's interesting, that's all. I wish blogs could be like that, so full of information and ideas, but cut down, pared to just the parts that make you realize where you are.

I have been on the verge of tears for too long
and now you are home
warm arms around me
hungry mouth against mine
sweet words in my ear
deliciously whole again
loved again and filled again
In your arms I weep
all the frustration and annoyance
and pain and lonliness
saved just for you
and you hold me near, because
you maybe understand how difficult
it has been, even though none of it
really seems to matter anymore
and listen,
to my sighs
and ums and
the words that have difficulty
finding their way
out of
my mouth
and help me put it into perspective
help me solve the solvable ones
and help me forgive the rest,
or at least
not let them bother me
so much.
which is enough.
And I am taken in again by your warmth
and your willingness
to hold me
and I nestle in your love
and cleave myself to your chest
and take in great sighs of your smell
until I feel well again
and you just hold me and smile
and soothe my hair back from my face
and look in my eyes
and say again
again
that you love me.

Last week was rough and M was away. But now I am better-ish, or rather, more prepared to face the world. He's a wonderful man. Also, I read far too much E. E. Cummings (which, by the way, is supposed to be capitalized and punctuated) for which I am occasionally sorry.