In lingerie like tonight. Black stockings, seamed. Strappy sandal heels. Fresh red predicure. Pushup bra.

But unlike tonight: hair tight up off your neck. A clip would be good, chopsticks would be better. A wrap-around dress with no buttons, only ties.

Greet me at your door like this. Have my drink ready – you know what it is. Be ready to bend over for me. Be ready to get on your knees. Be ready to say please in that lovely aching way you do – with desperation, longing.

“Harder,” she whispered. “Fuck me harder, please, please.”

In a dingy bathroom in the downstairs of a Tibetan restaurant. Her cheek against the peeling greasy paint, legs kicked apart, stockings pulled down just to below her ass, dress shoved up around her waist, in front of the filmy bathroom mirror where she could see my arm flexing as my fingers - two, three - thrust inside her. Photos of the Dalai Lama on the wall. Penny joked about her being a bad Buddhist.

But I couldn’t resist.

An hour, more, of discussion: I’d send her a BDSM checklist about possible things to play with; we spoke about how much anger came up for her last weekend when I was hitting her; we spoke of my upcoming workshop and the BDSM techniques I’m hoping to practice with her, she was especially interested in the breast rope-binding ritual.

I imagined her, bound. Wrists behind her back, whimpering.

(Witness of that moment of giving in stirs something in me that nothing else does.)

I couldn’t get the angle right. I know well enough now to know how she likes to get fucked, to know the pressure she needs to come. Palm of my left hand holding her tailbone, working three fingers inside, right hand reaching around on her clit, pressing between the two like I’m cradling her pelvis.

She was up on her toes in her heels. Hands pressed against the wall, gasping, pressing back against me.

“Goddammit,” I swore softly into her hair, her neck, biting her shoulder, pressing into her harder, faster, “you’re going to come for me. Do it.”

She moaned. Couldn’t. It wasn’t going to happen. She needs a deeper bend in her hips, bent over or legs up. Something about how the muscles stretch and open.

But oh she was open for me last night. And I love the way she lets me shove her against walls, lets me fuck her in bathrooms in restaurants, up against trees in parks, up on my roof looking at the Manhattan skyline, Prospect Park, the South Brooklyn police precinct three doors down. Cars on the BQE whirring by, her hair dishevled against dark blue sky.

She’s even more of an exhibitionist than I am. This makes me want to test her limits, and mine. To find the places she won’t go and challenge her.

What an honor, such an honor, the ways she lets me in.

We attempted to leave the restaurant smoothly, the walk of shame past steaming plates of hot food and waiters and waitresses eyeing us suspiciously. Outside I caught her hand, laughing down the East Village streets, occasionally twirling her into my arms for a deep kiss. Supple, she gave in so easily, so eagerly, so sweetly at times my knees went weak and my throat growled with power.

She knows how to make me feel strong. Which makes me want to take her down all the more.

These mid-week dates are the tease, the warm-up. They get me going and keep me hard for days until I get to fuck her, for real, bent over something, on her back, head banging the wall or falling off the bed, arms up and grabbing for the headboard behind her, pressing against something, anything, for better leverage and pressure and power, oh the way she gives in.

Like last Friday, after mojitos and making out on the roof, she walked slowly, deliberately, into my room and bent over the edge of my bed, forearms in front of her. I think she would’ve stood up fairly quickly, really, but time slowed and the desire that swelled up in me in those few tiny moments were enough to keep me going for hours.

Swiftly I came up behind her and smacked her ass. “Bending over for me, are you? Just so eager to get fucked.”

“Yes,” she whimpered, barely audible.

I shoved her panties down - cute, a muted vintage pink and cream, lacy on the edges - fast, was ready to rip them apart, her dress up above her hips, held her cunt open while I unzipped and pulled my cock out, quickly unrolled a condom, spit on my hand, thrust inside her. Fast. Hard. Not even my fingers first.

I like the noises she makes when she’s caught off-guard. Thick moans from deep inside somewhere.

And did I mention the dress? Summery, cream-colored, halter top that tied behind her neck and behind her chest, shoulders bare, two knots, skirt below her knees. I kept hold of the ties and pressed her into the bed. Head down.

Hand pressed around her hips and onto her clit, just how she likes it, slow and soft as I fuck her hard and deep, and as soon as I started working her clit harder, faster, I could feel it swell, could feel her body shuddering, and she came, fast and hard, still working my hips to stay thick inside her, until she collapsed with her low hums of oh god ohh baby ohhh.

It’s the release I crave to hear the most. The letting go. The body stores things hidden inside joints, muscles, sinewy tendons, veins. How else to get the energy, the prana, moving again than to up the heart rate, force you into all the edges of your skin, sensation everywhere, pleasure bursting from the core of you?

What an honor, such an honor, to be received. To be allowed to go inside and touch those untouched, unlandscaped places which hold secrets, soft and dark, and dangerous raw beauty.

Texts on my way home, before the show:

SS: I am still so hot for you. (this is ridiculous)
Penny: I was just thinking of you baby. xo
SS: Oh? something dirty I hope. I want you up against a fence, where everyone can see how you flush when you come.
Penny: Dirty boy. I want your head between my legs where it belongs.

… and that did it. God I love it when she says things like that. This is some of the dirtiest sex I’ve ever had, with Penny, and she keeps pushing me, pulls topping from me in new ways.

I had to get off before going back to Midtown for the radio show last night. I kicked off my shoes and shorts, strapped on, jacked off.

I came fast, swearing fuck and oh god with a string of dirty language in my head: that’s right. take my cock in deep. I like it when you struggle against me. Go ahead and resist, I’ll just go harder. You can take that can’t you. Can’t you. You like my cock in you. You like it when I come inside you. That’s right. … but eventually it was the memory of her clit pulsing in my mouth, my fingers tightly squeezed inside her, the way her thighs shake, that sent me over the edge.

(It occurs to me now that I’ve rarely seen her face when she comes. She likes it from behind, my fingers on her clit. Moaning into the mattress. Then there is mymouth on her, quickly becoming a surefire way to get her off. I rarely see her face. I’d like to. Like to see her eyes, her mouth open and gasping.)

So I jacked off. And - crap, lost track of time. I sped into Midtown, still strapped on* with my favorite Silky.

I got out of lateness free because my name wasn’t at the security desk out front - sometimes it’s under Smith instead of Sex, but this time it was just not there. Diana blamed security, but I knew it was because I’d spent that extra minute with my cock in my hand.

Diana looked great. Penny tuned in, and I read an excerpt from open up for me, a password-protected post from May. Diana went right to commercial, blushing, and said, “Damn, that is dirty! Dirtier than anything you’ve read on the show before … ”

And she’s right. That girl is filthy. I love it.

Plus? I was having the best hair day ever** - too bad it was radio.

Things I meant to mention on the radio last night:
* #1
** #2

I’m going to attempt a new series of writings in praise of femmes. This is the first officially, but it follows in line with in praise of stretchmarks.

This past weekend and some amazing time with Penny (more on that later) has me thinking about trust and femmes. I wrote recently in a dramatical moment, “I just don’t trust femmes anymore” - with immediate caveats and retractions - and I want to expound.

It is femmes that I perhaps trust the deepest. The way I am received - not just cock-and-cunt, not just my fist inside the muscular bowl between your legs, but all of me: when my strong hands weaken and flutter, when I cry, when I laugh too loud, when I give up give in let go, when I feel my power slipping and you put it right back into place with a gentle flick of your wrist.

It is within your embrace that I make the most sense. Callie was the first femme I ever dated, the first relationship where my affections were returned tenfold (before that, I’d loved a femme, my best friend, for years, but that was tragedy. After that, The Ex, who I thought was more femme than she was and that caused constant tension between us).

I know who I am around you. My carefully manufactured, deliberately manifested masculinity suddenly has a purpose, a function, a use, and it excites you, makes you cry out and give in and let go, turns you on. My gestures are held by you, witnessed, caught gently and cradled, and oh my god thank you for that.

Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.

This dynamic runs deep in me. Who knows why - nature, nurture, socializing, fetish. I need it, ache for it, me a teenaged pretty-boy (you say), you a powerful goddess. And you must know I never use words like goddess to describe women (too cliché, too overused) but yes that really is what I mean here: magical, strong, miraculous, seductive, creational.

I was made against you. I can think of a couple of you specifically against whom I break and become myself: Callie. DateDyke. Muse. Strong enough to catch me, strong enough to let me sharpen myself against you.

And it is this power that scares me, that now brings these feelings of mistrust. Because I love this dynamic so much, fetishize it even, it touches deep primal nerves in me. I become carried by it and have trusted it - the dynamic - more than I trusted the person. I let her use her femme-ness to get what she wanted, I let her use beauty, seduction, soft skin and flirty submissive eyes. I watched it, I even knew what was going on, and I let it happen anyway.

I know better now, I guess, I hope. I should pay attention to the red flags of constant “conflict,” I shouldn’t have gone to Mexico, I should’ve been more honest, I shouldn’t have fucked her if I didn’t have the aftercare in me.

I’ve said it before - it is one of my greatest flaws: I trust what people tell me. I am convincible.

There really are charms that only femininity, only femmes, only queer femmes who know how to treat sugarbutches like me, possess. Charms that unravel me deeply, that pull me apart. When it’s good, it clears out the cobwebs, shines light into every dark corner, exposes all the cracks and flaws and structures that hold me up, and then, even, fixes them, or attempts to. I am made more whole, more complete. When it’s bad, I have been destroyed foundationally, or attempted to be. Piece by piece picked off and explained in a new way that suited her. My dick in a mason jar under a sink, punished. My every action her fist closed tight around.

It is good I am strong. I come from a strong family who gets along, a queer lineage of kisses, teachers who respected and taught me, who sheltered me and pushed me hard, who said I was worth something, who said we all are, who said stories of marginalized groups and communities must be told, who said I could and should change the world, who said I could do anything, who encouraged me to come alive, who said they liked what I had to say. And I have this place - this personal writing project I refuse to call a “blog” because it is so much more than that, it is revolution, it is community, it is self-awareness and witness and a very lighthouse.

I have built up these tools around me so I don’t fall prey to this problem of trusting femmes. It is because femmes are who I love, who I partner with, for whom I deeply ache that they are capable of such unraveling. If I partnered with butches it would be a problem trusting butches, if I partnered with straight boys or trans women or blondes or tennis players it would be a problem trusting them. And perhaps this is why women as a whole - and femininity - are seen as untrustworthy, sneaky, manipulative in our culture: because men - hetero men - are the ones who partner with this, and men are the ones who have held the pens to write our histories, to write their great love stories, which have involved many broken hearts and many malicious women, because love is scarce and precious and delicate.

Femmes are not untrustworthy. Femmes are who I trust the very most, with whom I make the very most sense, with whom I am more myself than anywhere else.

I am scared, and skeptical, about what it may mean for me to trust, to explore, especially around the specific ways that I can lose my head in this dynamic. It’s new to me, and it affects me deeper than any relationship ever has - I’ve never lost myself so completely in a lover before. So now comes the fusion: the combination of the intense, passionate sexual dynamic that comes with gender play, and the knowledge of relationship tools that I have been collecting and building upon since I began dating fifteen years ago (half my life, now. Amazing). I have the support, the community, the friends, the knowledge, the inner strength.

So.

Bring it on.

me: I want to smack your ass
her: that’s exciting to me. how do you feel when you’re doing that?
me: strong, powerful. hard and wanting.
me: but also? completely inadeuqate and in awe of such beauty.
her: that’s incredibly sweet …
me: more in awe than inadequate; in reverence.

That moment of inadequacy is so hard to describe (especially via text message, what was I thinking?) - it’s less about the hierarchy between us or my own self-worth (that ‘inadequate’ implies) as it is about awe and reverance, like looking at the Milky Way and witnessing its spinning, a deep wonder at the beauty before me - and then a deep desire to bite into a destroy something so precious.

What is that impulse? My mom, who works with elementary school kids, speaks of it often - spending a few hours on a beach building a sand castle or a rock pattern only to have some of the fourth grade boys come trampling through and destroy it all. Sure, maybe once in a while there is a girl who does this - and sure, there are boys who never would (do forgive my oversimplification of gender roles here) - but by and large, the kids who do this are boys, and boys alone.

It reminds me of what I’ve read in feminist scholarship about pre-Christian matriarchal and goddess-centered cultures of which we have so little record. Some theories discuss how men were (and still are) so much in awe of a woman’s strength and power in sexuality that their impulse was to put it under lock and key, to control, to regulate. What they could not have themselves, they longed to own, occupy, colonize.

And in moments like my date on Saturday night, with girls like her, I deeply understand this feeling.

What is that? Where does that come from? It is similar to the impulse of destruction I’ve hinted at, the witness of something so perfect, so flawless and lovely, so fresh and baby-green and precious, trembling with new life like the leaves on the trees right now, that after a moment of quiet awe and appreciation I want to caress it, touch my hand gently to it, then wrap my fingers closed around it and squeeze the life out until I hear the last gasp of breath. I want to rip it from it’s branch like meat from a bone.

I don’t like this impulse much, I’m suspicious of it. I’m a pacifist, a feminist - but I’m also a sadist. I get off on the intentional release of pain. That also makes me a healer.

I have control of this impulse, to a point. I don’t actually crush baby leaves, or destroy flowers or people. But there have been times, that I can count on one hand, where I’ve been so deeply in sync with a lover, where they’ve sensed this impulse in me and provoked it, where I’ve nearly tipped over the edge and given in. I don’t really know what would happen inside of it, I’ve never trusted someone else - or myself - enough to find out.

Maybe this is one of the ways that I seek balance on a fairly extreme scale.

This too is why I like classic femininity in my lovers, in femmes: I want to see that supposed innocence. It riles me up, incites in me this impulse to take, to conquer, to overthrow, to destroy.

Consensually, and with such reverance and care, of course, of course.

On the V train:Caramel skin and she smelled like vanilla. Her hat was knit, covering her head like a something poofy and french, brown ringlets poking deliberately out from under it. Her jacket was mocha coffee colored suede with white fur at the seams, it came in stylishly at the waist and flared at the bust, unbuttoned to reveal delicious curves, cleavage. I don’t usually notice cleavage. Hers was near perfect.

On the E train:

Snow white: ruby lips, raven hair, creamy skin. Stop staring, I tell myself.

At Union Square:

Roses embroidered on the backs of her fishnet stockings. Black heels, not delicate, but not clunky either, rather very solid, firm. I wanted to bite each rose from her calf. Tear it with my teeth.

Clearly something is happeneing to my libido today. I do go through these moods occasionally. I wonder where I am in my cycle, if this corresponds.

Makes me wish I had someone to call & fuck.

Closest relationship I’ve had to that is Belle - but apparently, she has a girlfriend now. I haven’t talked to her much recently, we really only saw each other a few times. Too bad, though. I thought she’d be on the market for a while longer - I should’ve played with her more while I could, I really enjoyed her. And - on top of the physical chemistry, she never put pressure on me, never needed anything from me. That’s how we both laid it out at the beginning of getting together, and I had my doubts as to whether or not that could happen, but it did.

I guess it’s good to know that I’m capable of a sex-based relationship, in theory.

I’ve been hard for days. Ready to fuck. I take long luxurious laps at the briefest contacts to my pelvis - the moment of walking through the subway turnstyles. Leaning up against a table. My hips tilt upward in wait, like the center of a plant revealing to the blue sky. Magnetic and animal and it’s all I can do to keep from growling, sharpening my teeth on the skin of the girl next to me, behind me, in front of me.My cock is hard. That internal butch cock that raises and piques when I feel that rush to my clit, that swelling between my legs.

I am a battery charged. Plugged in and there is much I would do for the chance to spend a weekend in bed. Or a day - I’d settle for a day.

Cock so hard I could force it through brick. Through plywood. It could puncture glass, plastic. What would it do to you?

the Babeland references are because I broke my favorite pack-and-play cock this weekend and must get a new one. I should tell you it broke while fucking her in some wildly fantastic way, but really I was boiling it and the silicone split. damnit.———–
from: s
to: sinclair

Oh my God, woman, what you do to me. I want you so badly I’m literally aching. Can I come with you to babeland after work tomorrow, and then we head over to the workshop together? Of course I completely understand if you prefer to shop alone.

Christ, I don’t know how I’m supposed to concentrate on work… Can I get that quickie now?

XXX (because that’s what my thoughts are rated)

———–
from: sinclair
to: the divine ms. sI like it when I make you ache.

makes me feel powerful. makes me feel like I’m seeing underneath your surface, affecting you in deep waves that come to the surface and make your eyes ripple & shine. god, that way that you look at me, when your eyes do that, makes me feel … beautiful. capable. safe. like I could do anything, be anyone in that moment and you’d hold the space for me to fill.

god, you make me ache too. something deep in my belly nestled between my hips. and then my fingers, palms of my hands, wrists, the ache and quiver of not holding you, not touching your skin today, not waking with my hand on that perfect curl of your hip that I love.

last night, arms around you in that chair I only wanted to slip my hand inside your jeans, under your shirt to palm your breast, feel your nipple between my fingers. should I tell you things like this? I closed my eyes, visualized the room empty but it didn’t work, they were all still there.

my desire for you overrides: sickness, sleep, hunger.

I feel like a teenaged boy around you, wanting you, so much, all the time. and then? there’s that other part, where you let me have you, take you, have my way with you - the way you lift me up, boost my confidence, make me feel so strong. thank you. I’ve never had anything like this in my relationships before, and it is such a beautiful relief, and so much growth for me.

we really must start practicing our quickies. is there a place in your building where we can fuck over lunch?

… I would love it if you came with me to Babeland, it’s a date. how about I pick you up after work?

love you.
sinc

Update 6 December: this post was featured in Sugasm #57. Thanks!

There is a moment, in sex, in foreplay, in making out, when I get this feeling that I can’t explain. I’ve tried to touch on it, tried to explain it, but I really have no idea what it is or where it comes from or what it means.

I’ve never really followed it for long enough to know what I would do in the middle of it, what would be on the other side of it. I only feel the beginnings of it before I shy away.

Its power scares me.

It is some sort of overwhelming desire, where I feel I could do anything. Where I just want to take and take and rip through someone else with no regard to what they are feeling or what they want, only paying attention to my own sensation, what I want.

This is something I have kept hidden for a while. In fact, this is a rather new feeling in me all together, something brought on by topping, by feeling butch while fucking a femme, something about gender is very tied to this in a way I can’t quite explain or articulate.

This weekend, while Callie & I casually discussed orgasms (her two kinds: 1. specific physical precision and 2. attitude, dirty talk and force), lounging on the couch after fucking in the shower, my new and favorite love told me her fantasies consist of force. Of being taken by surprise and fucked with no regard for her own physical pleasure or discomfort or harm or enjoyment.

“But of course, I am enjoying it,” she explained, shy and sly, in case I missed that part of the fantasy. She lowered her eyes and fingered the collar on my shirt.

“Ah yes I see,” I said. Trying to contain my coolness and not become a blubbering idiot on the ground in front of this girl this fucken girl on my couch revealing to me that she shares one of my deepest desires. Something I don’t ever really tell because it scares me too deeply.

We kissed. God did we kiss, all weekend long, which was five days as we both took the Wednesday before Thanksgiving off. I barely even have to close my eyes to remember all the precise contours and curves of her lips, her cheeks, her chin, her mouth, her tongue. I can feel her everywhere, still.

My teeth against her lips. My tongue on her teeth. My mouth achingly close to hers without touching, pulling back, leaving precise centemeters between us, hot breath weaving together. My hands on her ankles, on her calves, which are laid out over my lap and I’m straining, pushing against her thighs, fingers kneading her muscles as she writhes under my hands.

She moved her hand to mine and pulled on my wrist, guided my hand under her skirt to her cunt. She hadn’t replaced her white thong after our shower together. I found her wet and swollen already, slick and red and warm. Wanting.

I traced my fingers along her lips, the creases of her labia. “What do you want?” I asked, in an on-going attempt to encourage her to ask. Such greater chances of getting it, when you do. “Do you want my fingers inside you?” I touch her opening with my fingertips, press gently against her, but not inside. Not until she asks.

“No,” she says. “On my clit. I want your fingers on my clit.”

“Ahh,” I say again, understanding, still learning her body, her desires, and I trace my fingers along her wet slit and up to the hood of her labia, up to the ridge of her clit, that tiny precise spot. Circle around it slowly.

“Is that it?” I ask, whispering, barely speaking, lips next to her ear.

“Ohhh … yeah baby,” she coos, head bent back, back arched.

“Fuck you for telling me fantasies like that,” I say, and she’s a little startled by the harshness, looks at me with her eyes wide. “It makes me want to take you into the bedroom and bend you over my bed, push up your skirt and slide my cock inside you hard. Press my hand against your head, fingers tangled in your hair.”

Fingers, mouths, skin. I continue: “My hands on your hips so I can pull you against me as I thrust inside you. My hands on your shoulders holding you down. Holding you against me as you squirm to get away.”

She is wild on my hand. Pressing hot and heavy against me. She comes once, but is still wet and wanting when I start moving my hand again. She comes twice.

“I’m not opposed to … doing that,” she says, “there’s time.”

“You don’t mind waiting, watching me, from the bed, as I strap on?” I ask.

Of course she doesn’t. I take her hand and pull her from the couch, walk down the hall and she slips into the bathroom as I dig my cock from my toybox. (Which, for the record, is a rather large tool box, complete with compartments for drill bits where I keep my condoms. Once, a straight male friend, looking for a screwdriver, actually opened it up and exclaimed there were no tools in there after all … and what else could I say? He set it up so perfectly: Depends on the kinds of tools you need.)

She walks back in as I am faced away from her, pulling my A-shirt over my head, unbuckling my jeans and pushing them down. Pull off my briefs and step into the leather harness. She places herself on the bed in front of me and folds her long legs under her body, fans her skirt out over them.

I slide my hard, red cock into the hole in the harness and tighten the straps. Tear open a condom with my teeth and roll it over the tip, then turn to her. She is on her knees on the bed, I’m still standing, she reaches for my cock with her fingers and I push her hand away.

She gives me a long, hard look and I grip her upper arms in my fists, a little too tight, hold her gaze for a moment before I twist her torso and push her down to the bed on her stomach. Pull at her skirt hard and thrust my hand between her legs. I push my thumb inside her and bend it at the knuckle, opening her, pressing on the edges of her cunt. She’s gasping, laughing a little bit and gasping, breathing loud, moaning with every exhale.

I push my body against her. As she arches her back, spreads her legs, one hand takes hold of my cock and the other is still on her pussy, spreading her lips, locating the hole.

I slide my cock inside her. Thrust it inside. Put it inside, press inside and I’m not being gentle. I’m not concerned about how wet she is or isn’t, the angle, if she’s ready. She is, but it doesn’t matter. I have her explicit permission to take her with no regard to her, and I will. I am.

“You like that?” I ask, whispering, growling. “You like my cock in you like that?”

Pushing and pulling her torso again, I move her so she’s width-wise on the bed, bent over the edge, ass in the air in front of me and I stick my cock in her again. Press thrust plunge. Dipping inside and sliding out. I can see her cunt, red and swollen under me, even in the shadows. Stretched at the edges with my dick inside her.

I grab her hips for leverage, to give my own hips a break and instead just move hers against me, pulling back and then away. Less work this way. I’m breathless, need a chance to calm my heart and pulse.

She’s a good two inches taller than me and the bed is too low, the angle is not quite right, so I’m half-squatting legs bent pressing into her hard as she hangs off the edge off the bed. She’s still squirming but I keep thrusting, clit straining against my harness. I push my hand into her hair and grip a fistfull, pressing her face into the bedspread. She gasps and laughs again, raspy, moaning.

“Oh god … oh yeah … oh baby,” I’m saying all the cliche things. Fuck, she feels incredible, open under me like that. I bite her shoulder. I want to leave marks on her, my marks, teeth marks and red blisters. I want her to feel this for days. I pull out slow and pause, press inside of her hard. I’m moaning with every thrust, lips next to her ear. “Uhh, uhh, ugh … ”

I pull out and she turns onto her back, wraps her legs around my waist, arms around my shoulders. My mouth is on her collarbone and I slide inside her again, fucking hard, hips bucking against her, head bent back, arms shaking from holding myself up so I collapse onto her and keep fucking.

“I can feel every muscle in you,” I say, “I can feel it when you pulse under me like that, when you tighten.”

Eventually, I come like this, thrusting inside her, wishing I could release inside her like they can. Shaking rather than thrusting inside of her at the end, pulsing everywhere, screaming with release, groaning. Mouth next to her ear, whispering fuck-talk, hand in her hair, until I get sweet again and start kissing her face, touching her cheeks, smoothing her wild hair that I’ve tangled.

We hold onto each other and kiss and I have friction burns on my elbows, spots rubbed red and raw from all the fucking. My knees are weak, I’m shaking and shaken, practically crying at moments, other times laughing and giddy.

It was the next morning, waking with her, that that feeling came up in me. Awake and playful, I laid my body down on top of her, between her legs, and immediately was so turned on it was painful, so hard and wanting it nearly knocked the breath from me and though her face was upturned, looking for me to kiss her, her arms around me fingers on my skin, I had to bury my face in the pillow next to her and breathe, focus, calm my muscles because I wanted so badly to rip something, to use my fingernails to keep her in place, to cause that look of slight pain on her face.

To hear her cry out.

Desire so overwhelming I have little regard for pain, for boundaries, for anything except taking.

She had somewhere to go, I had to back off. But perhaps next time, I’ll discover where that feeling will take me, where it will take us.