Mountains

I had an idea of passion as a child. I had thoughts that were forces leading my fingers to my cunt. I did not know what masturbation was, or what was sexual. There were no words for the buildup. I did not understand orgasm. But I could feel in the burning of my body the want and desire of not empty spaces, but spaces so large and still overfilled, over-brimming, overflowing, such excess that could not be contained, that had to be teased and pressed and jerked out of my body in waves and waterfalls. I wanted someone to do this for me, to excite me the way my emotions excited me. I masturbated before I was turned onto aesthetic beauty. I masturbated to sensation, the recognition of wanton pleasure. The men I’m with usually get turned on when they see how turned on I am when I look at them fucking me in the mirror. Its not their bodies or mine that I am looking at, but the motions, the microexpessions and tremors on their faces, the exact sound of their balls slapping my ass, that certain movement that lets me know that pleasure has overtaken us both, that pleasure is ruler in the room, that we use each other to feel… good… feel… something. I don’t want you to hurt me when I ask you to slap me, I want you to make me feel intensity, it has nothing to do with pain, pain is merely transportation to something higher, or lower, just never mediocre middle. I hate mediocre sex. It repulses me. I want sex to make me fall in and out of myself and through you. I need sex that forces me to deep into my body its almost as if I have left it, but really I’m imploding within myself. All these ropes and tools, and hands that leave marks, those bruises I show off, they are marks of my indignant desire to be lovers with want. I don’t care how your body looks, I care that it makes me cum, again, and again. And again. 

When I was lonely in school I’d masturbate in class, slip my hand under the desk and press against my pussy. My body with turn into dusty golden flesh, I would return to it, return into this fountain of pleasure. I don’t cum like that anymore. When I found out what an orgasm was, my orgasms changed. But sometimes with some men they grow so deep. I will fantasize sometimes with some men who eat me out, that there’s a bigger, more vicious man in their place forcing themselves on me, and that I have no choice but to feel pleasure. This confused me for so long, but this wasn’t a desire to be taken advantage of, this was a desire to feel, a desire to have no where else to be but inside of pleasure wrecking through my body, leaving from my wet pussy, my wet mouth, wet eyes. There is no space between the mountains of pleasure in my body, they are stacked so tightly against each other, and I need you to reflect that back to me because nothing in the outside world as ever been a blank enough canvas for me to see this neverending mountain range of just pure sex. 

When I want you to tie me up, I want to surrender into pleasure, I want you to feel the pleasure of making me cum, I want you to cum with me, I want to take you into that fucking deep dark ravine; I fuck your face while you fuck mine, melting into each other. I want to feel you cum inside me a million times, your body buckling into my orgasm and sucking it out of me, out of each bone. I want to see desire inside your eyes, I want you to want me madl. Aesthetic doesn’t hold a flame to that negative space between us where you stick your fingers in my cunt and cum because I do.