Most of the time I am a multifaceted human being.
I love thunderstorms, and making things with my hands. I enjoy mixing Maltesers into hot butter popcorn, and licking honey from a spoon, and Baileys hot chocolates (or any kind of hot chocolate…. or indeed any chocolate).
I love reading about politics, and nature, and other people’s lives. I love reading.
I like travelling, and visiting new places, and exploring new cultures. I like hanging upside-down off the side of my couch for no reason other than the fresh perspective. I like dancing around the living room to brass band tunes and singing in the shower to Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan.
I get very giddy over original glazed raspberry Krispy Kreme donuts.
I love long walks with long talks, and learning new things. I like the taste of white russians and the smell of petrichor and the sight of someone playing piano. I love listening to the first movement of Beethoven’s ninth symphony at the loudest volume possible with my eyes closed, feeling the music blast through my body. I like looking for unusual pebbles along the shore, and eating cheese-strings, and playing devil’s advocate in debates in which I have no strong opinion. There’s a lot going on in this weird five foot frame.
There are times though, when these many different parts of me get filtered through a prism and become one white-hot focused beam.
I’ve heard people talk about a ‘red mist’ descending when they’re angry. I’ve heard people say that they just “see red” and can’t think straight from the rage. This has never happened to me. Rage is an emotion I have a lot of trouble accessing, let alone letting it take me over. Red – the colour of anger and blood and passion and danger – has never enveloped me in a fog of fury. I have no experience with that kind of red mist.
But something similar happens to me when desire is involved.
When desire enters the picture, I become a single-minded laser point of lust. My thoughts melt and go fuzzy at the edges. A cold heat trickles all over me, and I can’t speak in coherent sentences.
Every nerve in my body feels completely raw; in this condition even the slightest skin-to-skin contact feels like the hottest part of the flame. Sitting thigh-to-thigh, the tickle of breath against my skin when someone whispers in my ear, the casual brush of a finger against my hand… All of these things feel the way sparklers look: burning, dazzling, white-hot glittery flickers of sensation.
I can’t think in this state.
If my person-hood were a piece of paper, my hobbies and interests are burned up by this fire. My opinions are singed off the edge of the page. My thoughts turn carbon black and the goofy aspects of my personality are ash, floating to the floor.
All that is left is a condensed version of me, a human neutron star.
Heavy-lidded, lips parted, breath caught in my throat, this version of me isn’t shy or self-depreciating or hesitant. There is no self-consciousness when the craving cuts so deep. There’s hardly even self-awareness.
There is only pleasure, and the seeking of it.
Pleasure, and the receiving of it.
At any other time, my thoughts are in completely in control. I turn situations and considerations over and over in my head. I think (and overthink) every action and interaction. I try to see things from every possible angle. I run through what I think, and then think about why I think it.
In the grip of desire, the script is flipped. My body has control. My thoughts scatter. There are no words in my mind, only a heightened awareness of touch. There are no worries or anxieties here. There are no critical thoughts. There is only sensation. I am a slave to my body and what it can do and feel. I am drugged with self-indulgent bliss. I am playful, and willing, and eager, and intoxicated, and malleable.
I am a plaything that only wants to be played with. I want fingertips to traverse my skin, and fingernails to rake across it. I want lips to kiss the inside of my wrist, the hollow above my collarbone, and down along my ribs. I want to trace a path from their earlobe down their neck to their chest with the tip of my tongue. I want these things and more. Much, much more. I want fiercely and with barely any control.
…And then afterwards, when I am sated and sleepy and slowly find my way back to myself, I am satisfied for a while.
Until I start to feel the craving again.
Until I start to want again.
Until the want becomes a need, and I become a slave to myself again…
For February I have decided to do LOVE AND SEX themed blog posts. Check out the tag to see more of this month’s theme!