day 5: whose hands

I’m talking about my orgasm now. Which was ass sort of off the bed, pillow under my clit. Pussy saying, if we had more organization would we have gotten a dildo? A finger?

So E-- recommended Ellis Avery. I did The Teahouse Fire a while ago. So The Last Nude.

On the way outta my walk the library notice came that hey, hey The book is In. And I got, and I don’t like the font and the smallness of the font. And I hate whatever I’m being taught as a writer from this Professor’s book. And then I just sort of let myself touch and read. Tap the clit and read in.
My pondering question is, like, does it matter whose face I put on the body I imagine bringing pleasure to mine. Because I run through faces, bodies, names, energies. I don’t remember who was there when I was at cum. Maybe it was just me.

Ah, it was. Me. Getting myself off.

It was a low pouring of caramel, not like the big HUH WAH. And that’s okay. The contractions came before the pink. And I rubbed out a little pink.

day 4: one hand on the clit, one hand on the pen

One hand on the clit, the other on the pen. I read We Can Come Home & felt prompted. Noticing how my clit hand wiggles cursive as I write.

1. Desk writing, reading & touching me
2. Suck

So Jen writes about a fantasy of doing to, clicking the fantasy into place & boom -- to the climax. I really enjoy fantasizing about sucking cock. Sometimes, when I’ve gotten eaten out, I notice I open my mouth & throat my throat open, swallow. Those times, the climax is a huge metal pot of hot fudge or caramel tipping just enough for all to flow over with the momentum.

The lady with floppy hands (TLWFH) wrote in her book about going to a place in giving head & cock where the opening of the throat contracts like the walls of the pussy. To imagine my throat as pussy. H-o-t. ...This opening for TLWFH being meditative, transcendent.

Meanwhile, I’ve put Buddhism away in a decorations bag in the closet, pinned my Magic Bus poster up. Am fiercely with strong impulse shaving out residue of others’ personalities printed into this new studio, onto my space. This auto erotic.

Sexed Words & I have talked about wanting to eat writing. We say, “I wan to eat that.” & TLWFH (can I get off her? Goddamn you, San Francisco, smirking at me from across the bay. Preening. As if I am touching my me for you. Ugh. Anyway.) TLWFH talks about a ~hunger~. I see mine, the hunger, in the lungs chest womb feet ears nose orifices toe-spaces undersides of joints... The hunger that is what -- the absence of an orgasmic state? The hunger that is my animal, my aliveness?

I just want to eat sex.
Swallow it full
Be held open by it.

Surest way to go over the edge.

Now, I set down the pen & oh wish it could go on for hours. I know as soon as I bring my focus, can feel my skin waking...

--
And I stick 3 fingers in my mouth, to my pussy. I feel all the bands of muscle, I clench & I pull in fingers, pull fingers out. There’s not enough hands, enough coordination. Then it occurs to me, “vibrator?”

I pull out my hand & my cream is -- brown.
Instead of sexy white.
I go to the kitchen to paper towel this brown cream off because (because?), and I want to be an ally to this body. I feel glow orange hate for doctors, nurse practitioners shoving their fingers in, telling me this or that about my defects, my faults, how I feel about ___, sending me out w/antibiotics, ultrasounds, sheets of paper, ridonculous bills that change nothing. Answer nothing. Then I embrace my scent, which seems normal.

I buzz on, hear TLWFH. Then push her out. Then contractions around my fingers that I’m pushing into my me. I start to pant, moan sigh it out. I feel brave. I cum up & over. The colors are lavender.

day 3: what she said

Still in the pushed down after of it, when my consciousness slips down and everything is a little bit like pudding, or maybe more embodied.

After I cum I like to go pee. Because once, I had a UTI and it was the Most Horrible Experience. I was on an airplane. think it had to do more with the ocean, but. Or, it’s because when I was a kid I used to go pee before dinner after I’d rubbed out on the bear and stumbled downstairs flushed in the cheeks and wobbling in the pushed down after of it.

When there was Pop Up Video on VH1, I saw this one pop up “What do people do most often after sex?” And then I looked away or got distracted by the video. This answer puzzled me for years. Do they pee? Sleep? Eat pizza? I came, so I peed.

Anyway, I was out in the heat and looking forward as I went down the block to get inside the apt, to close the door. I wrote a letter to my sweetie out in the wilderness, untouchable: hey look, I’m touching myself.

I’m making lists of topics I want to call in.

1.    Porn

2.    Secrecy

3.    Vibrators

4.    Fantasy

5.    Restraint, Coercion

Vibrators. We’d found the book -- or, I’d listened to the TED talk of the woman with the floppy hands saying that it’s better to be a Turned On Woman, and that Turned On Women -- in the book, it said, in the Orgasm Meditation book, the OM Book -- that Turned on Women DO NOT use vibrators. And they DO NOT fantasize. They stay in the moment, in the present, with their partners who have explained their pussy looks a little coral today, or whatever and then rubs. Or strokes, I mean. And there is a towel? A timer? I think we did it twice? Three times? Lube? And we’d just gotten this  amaze rabbit ears flexihead HOT PINK vibrator from Feelmore510. And the book says Sorry ladies, put the down the vibrator.

It’s like. There’s an economy. Of shame.

I don’t ~care~ if it has to do with Integral or integral or Wilber or whatever. Hierarchy of cubed knowledge square saying vibrator crotch pussy isn’t as Slow as rubbed crotch pussy. Or the head of my clit doesn’t know enough after it’s been buzzed a bit? Or.

I, sometimes I -- mostly, or in phases, I. I like to rub it out, pelvis style. Sometimes. Sometimes, especially when I have the Internet and am getting into Porn, then, then especially then, the vibrator. I was inspired today by Her Daily Grind. The rotating around on the buzzing, and I got out the little paler pink bullet. Gave it some attention. Or it gave me attention. Thought about, thought about how my path to orgasm can be a while (this is not a judgement), and that sometimes, like today, if I was going to climax then there was going to be a vibrator involved.

The lady with the floppy hands says more or less to decentralize the climax. I mean, word. If I’m with this parter whose sex has been dismissed to the mountains for the next half a year, listen, then sure sometimes I will say “I am so not going to cum.” Or it isn’t about me for that bang, really. Or I am up there on the roof of my body, up there in the sky of me, my clouds and I don’t want to be a wave that crests. I just float back down.

In defense of the buzz, and I haven’t even gotten to dildos. To fantasy. There’s more days. In defense of the buzz, in partner sex, it could bring my wet or curl my toes or force my unngghhh closer to the place I don’t want to escape.

Here, for this orgasm. For this masturbation. Today. This jerk off. The buzz brought me through the tunnel. And the fantasy was hot. And the body feels the afterward. Unmediated.

day 2: humper

So, I jerked off, masturbated. This is the 2nd day. I felt self-conscious, pressured, the omnipotent watcher Eying me -- then I started to remember where I had gotten myself to yesterday -- rump in the air, opening opening. My big things are

1.  for whom 
2. not moving 
3. my cystic left ovary/blood/leaking
4. my technique

Today, the hot of the sun starts down through the palm tree that shades my north-facing windows. It's around 7:30 am. I have made a commitment to wake up and I'm awake. In my dream, I'd been saying I was sexually assaulted and this [the scene, being touched, held, restrained without consent by a body, in plain view of someone else] is triggering me. The previous night, after Saturday, all this yelling about masturbation, all this seeing my ol' college vibrator long gone to landfill: blue-teal, hard plastic, like an alien phallus. Vhzzzzzz.

What the voice tells me now, these days, is: They're not that bad, the things here & there that happened to you, at least it wasn't ________ or __________ ________ __________. At least it wasn't your childhood. I say to the voice: except for masturbation, it was. I mean, it wasn't that bad, but -- or, I hear similar stories, & --

As a baby-infant, I was a humper. Every day. My favorite -- (I've since learned to suck one particular cock like it's the mamma's breast I never got fed) -- my favorite: humping the pillow, the bear, rocking slow and fast slow.

Here, in my adult apartment, rotating the pelvis on the pillow, covered in quilts. Hot. Heat. Hiding. I'm remembering. At the baby-infant sitter's house. Her seeing me -- I'm on a bed there humping her pillow. The memory is so early, so strong so Core and so far in that I lack the clear words. The message was

1. No
2. Gross
3. Satan
4. Stop
5. Shame
6. Never Again

I also jerked off during nap time @ preschool (afternoon, babysat). Face down on the cot, barely moving, call it in on my hands.

I mean someone must've been onto me. Telling my parents.

Cover my body w/a blanket, wiggle silently. Only my hips.

This & hide it hide it hide it.

Today I cum belly down blankets off breaths moans arising & my hands starting to touch: thigh, back breasts arms -- these parts are numb & cold in sensation.