Last night when he was lapping and sucking, his head buried deep, full of hope, concentration, sweat glistening from his forehead , fingers and tongue doing just what they were supposed to, my juice quenching his thirst, he was there in it, in the moment.

Where was I?

My body was there, my cunt was there—performing like she always does. Wet, soaking and insatiable. My mind was not; head dangling over the edge of the bed, my thoughts–grappling, struggling in you. Grabbing a fist of short hair, I grind my body into your face, his face, his tongue and fingers lost in my abyss. My hips and ass, sway, buck and rock into his tongue and fingers. Your tongue and fingers. I lay there being fucked by another mans mouth; wondering, imaging, fantasizing how you would be drinking from my layers. Would you bury not come up for air, would you lap with your flat tongue to flesh, would you work at my hard pearl, searching for the treasure, lost in my sea, fingers realizing my plumping full of life flesh?

Not there, my body began to float—hovering above the bed, looking down on the scene. Watching myself, my body unable to control her pleasure, as my rational mind remained consumed, with lust of man, not the man between my thighs, not the man who I let penetrate my pages and creases. Consciousness is elsewhere, corporeality oozes out my cunt.

I am struggling with separation of the mind and body. My pussy wants to get fucked, but my mind longs to be fucked deeply, by the one. At times I equate my random sexual escapades to drug binges (I have had my share of both). Sex with a new man, the thrill of the chase, the flirtations, the anticipation, the uncertainty, the slide of the hands, the glint in the eyes, the feeling of cock as it grows inside his pants, swelling at the thought of my lips caressing—drawing out his moans. All this, it is a fucking high, like that first line of blow or that inhale of dope as it snakes and slide down the foil, rising in a halo of smoke. Filling your body with super strange, super pleasure unlike any you will ever feel again, and you never do, but yet you keep on trying to. That is my random sex. I keep on trying to feel, to super feel. Longing to be filled, my mind saying “fill this cunt,” demanding it of me, and then it is there, being stuffed, filled, handled, rammed and I scarcely know it is me being filled. Sometimes I catch and fly with it, soaking, but it remains in detachment.

Like a drug binge, a random sex binge leaves me with a great melancholy. If I know I do not feel anything for the man, beyond wanting to feel his tongue in my ass—then I do that, catch my high for the night, and then I slink. Seek the refuge of my own big bed, where I am safe from myself for awhile. No names, no numbers, no me given. I sleep it off, and then it begins again. My pussy always wakes up before me, notifying me of her desire. Like a binge constantly in chase of the ideal cock, the perfect fuck, the super high, the perfect you, and the perfect me gets choked by cock and cum.

4/7/09