July 1, 2020

Eat the F*cking Fruit!—A Declaration of Desire.

Warning: naughty language ahead!

What does it mean to want, shamelessly, as a woman?

There is a simplicity in my desire, to touch and be touched, to share and care and be cared for, to have my body opened up on the forest floor, and be tasted by a lover. 

No, I am not in a relationship. I’m not even sure if this is dating. What this is is raw, unadulterated exploration—the thing I have been told is unsafe, unspiritual, and unbecoming of a lady. I am at this wonderful crossroads where I can honestly say, “I don’t give a fuck about propriety, I’d rather be fucking.” 

That is only half the coin though, as there is a sexy, well-muscled man in my bed at this moment, and yet here I am at 12:12 a.m., typing away on my silver, sticker-covered Mac. 

Why am I not in bed snuggling? I can’t. I am restless, in mind and body, and I am reminded that as much as I am growing to trust my love of men, I still, and will always, love my freedom, my own sensuality, and my creativity more. 

And in that statement I relax, as I finally, fully accept—I will never leave myself behind again for a man.

My mind races, fingers fly over black, glowing keys, and I am in my element, as surely as I am when in the act of love. Can I separate these two from each other, sex and creativity

Sex: hot and steamy, little sounds that escape my lips, and bigger ones that shake my body. Creativity: Here in my computers glow, I get to relive those sensations, not only in my body, as I am still reverberating from my most recent orgasms, but in my words as my fingers release the synaptic tension that not even the most stellar sex can set free. 

Dear words, I fucking love you! 

Dear brain, you hot, holy, restless thing, you were recently set afire with anxiety, and now that that has run its course, arousal takes center stage. 

With my feet curled beneath me—pink, painted toes peeking out, my long, freshly, shaved leg bent before me, chin propped on my knee—I take a deep breath, and shudder with pleasure. Even now, I am doing something taboo. I am tending to my passion; not the passion that rises in response to strokes and kisses, but another passion, a deeper one that rises from my pulsing womb, the core of my creativity. 

Some part of my brain protests that I should be contentedly cuddling the sweet man whose curly head is currently resting on my pillows. My inner critic inserts, “What kind of woman gets up to write in the middle of the night and leaves her lover to languish in empty sheets?” 

“The kind who is true to herself,” I reply. 

My honesty is no longer convenient. I can no longer compromise. The ropes that I used to wrap myself up in have run out of length. I’ve claimed too much of my fullness to ever shrink my five-foot, nine-inch frame again. I’m too alive to pretend that my blood does not run hotter than the fires of hell, from which I have no desire to be saved. 

Fuck it! Consume me. 

A chill runs down my spine as I shift my feet under me, now finding my own rhythm as my body remembers the rhythms I’ve ridden with a lover whose taste I can’t wash from my mouth, whose memory drives me to push my own boundaries, to risk rejection, to risk sadness, to risk gain and loss, to ride the waves, momentarily surfing the memories of our skin sliding against each other, here in this moment.

I’m being pursued, grasped, with hardly a courtship in sight. I’m bored with being a good girl, and though I love a good man, I’m sick of good boys. I’m tired of aiming to please the status quo. I’m tired of acting nice, of waiting for the ticker on the date counter to say, “It’s okay to drop your panties now. You’ve waited the ubiquitous amount of time required.” I’m beginning to wonder, why wear them in the first place?

It’s curious to me, the ways we so stringently restrain our pleasure, and go to such odds to subvert our needs. Yes, needs! We all have them, and they do not make us dirty. They make us human, and sinking into them is sacred.

I want to meet, and be met in, those needs—all of them. 

I want to be lit with longing, mingling minds, hearts, bodies, and souls—to be incinerated in the process of this discovery. Passion burns with luminosity and clarity, leaving nothing standing that is untrue. And so I sit and write, when maybe I should be sleeping or snuggling, but this is who I am! And I will be had as me, or not at all. 

I will pluck the fruit, take a bite, and revel in its juices running down my chin. 

”If women trusted and claimed their desires, the world as we know it would crumble. Perhaps that is precisely what needs to happen so we can rebuild truer, more beautiful lives, relationships, families, and nations in their place.

Maybe Eve was never meant to be our warning. Maybe she was meant to be our model.

Own your wanting.

Eat the apple.

Let it burn.”

~ Glennon Doyle

I am burning! 

Spiritual prohibitions sizzle in the flames. Chains forged from soulless, social conditioning melt from my body. My flesh expels scars left by my family trauma. Truth bumps rise on my skin, as the chill mountain breeze blows thunderstorm scented through my kitchen window, and miles away the train rumbles down the tracks, blasting its horn. My red journal sits beside me, scrawled with spells and misgivings, the pages filled with my insecurities, prayers, and letters to lovers that I will never send, as those messages are for me. 

My phone is full of honesty. I pursue a lover who leaves me lusting. We chat and flirt, and I love him a little because that is my nature. I tease, and offer him comfort, and accept him as he is, putting no pressure on either of us to perform, just swimming in pleasure. And I want him like no other.

I ride the rapids of male desire, so direct as to be almost aggressive, and I relish in my own discretion and surrender, equally. 

No, I’m not waiting for Mr. Right. I am here and alive, right now. I’m done pining. I’m done lamenting my lust. I’m done apologizing for my arousal. I’m done acting as if I am not delicious, and I am offering the world a big, juicy bite. 


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