slut iso love
He asked me–
“don’t you want love, isn’t that the goal? Don’t you want to wake up next to someone?”
And I sat there for a moment slightly dumbfounded. I wanted scream out. Yes! Damn it I do! of course I do, there is nothing I want more than that. I want to share a breath, my moments–the challenging, the monumental, the mundane. I want to share my bed, your bed. Yes I do, of course I want love.
Remember what that first love was like? All consuming, fueled like a crime spree, nothing else mattered, the reach and strain only came from our sex. Your cock always straining to get to my cunt. Our minds buried between the others thighs, tangled together like overgrown summer grasses. It was innocent and simple. It is learning how to have sex, how compromise your way to pussy, to erection–how to make each other cum. Lessons we learn to take to next one we fall in love with.
Second love? I married mine. It was sex, drugs and rock and roll. It was artist to artist conflict, it was fucking unleashed, tumultuous as a late summer tornado–the sky turned black, the air caught sparks of an electric fire of two. The city was ours, it felt like we revolved around it, the city, our love, our fucking embodied this feeling of the city. We were here to do something, we were here to create art–to live, love and fuck like artist. We did– until we let our city and our narcissistic personalities sully and turn it to shit. It was this love that began to change me, change my personality, build on my cynical bitterness–an ugly side of me. A bag I held on to for too long, a bag I took with me when I fell in love for the third time.
Third love? The ultimate take me there then tear me down, ravaged my brain and soul, it destroyed me. It was everything, love, passion, hate. We fucked all night and all morning. I fell back in love with San Francisco when I feel in love with the gangster. He took me places I had never seen in the city, places we would go to at the break of dawn, when every thing is orange and wet. Together we were raw energy, inseparable–for a time. But pain beget pain and we turned into some form of a twisted love life.
Since the loss of my love life, I think, purposefully, I may have been putting myself in the situation of avoiding love, or more so of avoiding heartache. I opt to play the role of slut. There were times when I allowed love to slip in, but it left as quickly as it came. Love is not as easy as it was when I was 20 or even 30. Love in San Francisco is not easy to come by. Life has a way of showing on our faces, the complications, the quirks, the way we sit in our ways.
I get enough cock, but not nearly enough love. Sometimes I feel like have this uncontrollable amount of drive and passion for not just love, but fucking and living and I don’t know where to put it all, so I slut it. But, in the end, it never does it for me like I need it too. Those who want all this fuck passion or fucked up passion, are rare and far between– and all the cocks I suck in search for the next great passion– are merely that, just cock. My mouth like a dowsing wand for turgid maleness, my cunt a repository of cock that is not for me, not mine, not the one.
What do I do with it, with all this want, with all this passion between my thighs? I don’t know where to put it, I don’t how to use it and often end up abusing it. Drowning it with my own cum.
lovely. just lovely.
A simple offer that is not so simple.
Nor is it contrite.
Would you accept?
I have entirely lost any sense of there being a singular meaning of the word “love.”
I was divorced a few years ago, and it caught me completely by surprise. There was no period of unhappiness. She traveled to visit family, reconnected with an ex-boyfriend and was back there six days later.
I was in love of some sort earlier this year. It was wonderful and amazing and passionate in every way. When we were together it was sweet, and warm and comforting. When we fucked it was spectacular, and intimate, and long and passionate and–for both of us–more than just fucking. We fucked four times the last time I saw her, and she was happy and said so…and then nothing. A phone call, a lie (at the very least a lie of omission) and suddenly gone.
I was love of some sort though, but it didn’t feel like what most people would call “being in love.” I loved it though.
So I’ve lost any notion of a singular definition of love, and I’m a fairly dead inside these days.
I suppose I’ll find some other definition of love eventually, though I’m not putting much effort into looking right now.
Sex, Love, Hate.
Then, sweet insatiable indulgence once again. A chance to learn another, but only for a short time. Love found me and then went on it’s way. I really wasn’t looking.
The raw, selfless energy given was kind of cathartic.
Hey there. Just thought I would say hi. I can only read you blog occasionally – the writing and the photos stir me up and make me jealous, lusty, desperate. Managed to finish another story – a short one, much less aggressive that the usua l. I’ve kinda given up on writing them – way too much effort and never enough appreciation. This one you may enjoy, though. Will put it up in a few days once I’ve found the pictures to illustrate it. Just stopping by for now…
i love the way you can capture emotions with raw words, images that fit pefectly and in my head I say, “She’s right, that’s just how it feels.”
You are amazing.
Vix, very moving post. Thank you for sharing it. I hope all else is well. xo – E.
Terrific piece of writing. Honest and elegant yet with a sharp edge. Beautiful.
Love your blog and your photos. You have an amazing eye and notable talent.
Many thanks,
Princess Polysemy xox
Sometimes the denial or suspension of what we need must be the answer; never the ability to obtain our desires remaining just from a hands grasp.. that perpetual unavailability serves as some form of satisfaction. the momentary taste to feed desire and more. what would eventually fade in love (i wonder) remains there always. in memory and past action, it is there for the mental taking to revisit alone, time and again.
lovely writing as always..
As I get on in life, I begin to understand that love with the rigor and toughness to stand up to the times is not Love. Or, praise take it, LOVE. Passion and drama and sex and affection don’t all need to be crammed into the same frame, I think, and there are times it’s worthwhile to uncouple the heart from the naughty bits and let each live their own sweet lives. Not ideal for some of us, I know, but liberating…it leaves us open to so much more.
Vancouver Sensuality: thanks for sharing this. I have this burning want to know a male perspective, and you always bring it in an important way. Love comes in many forms, and not ever definable. I have tried to mold it to fit some vague concept i had in my mind–that never would fit. the search is back on.
Edwrench: cathartic moments are important, I seem to have them all the time, or that is what I choose to define them as. “sweet insatiable indulgence” how I miss you so…
WannabeR:i will look for it.
advizor54: thank you
Ella: thank you, everything is well as well can be.
PrincessPolysemy: wow! thanks for the great compliments and the smile because of them. xoxo
citydouble: answers are quite often not we had in mind as answers. The answer is there is no answer. memories remain.
Greyrake: how did ya get so wise. Thanks for always honest comments. Still I long for my naughty bits to collide with the love bits.
Indeed, what to do with all that want and desire… Frankly I’m no closer to the answer now than when I was a teenager. As ever, you’ve moved me in all the right directions xx