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Just Sex

“I’m still in love with Mirror.” It’s never just sex.

I’m surprised how easy it is to say it, this time. How much of me I can own it with.

“I don’t think anything has changed, really, I’ve been in love with Mirror since I started connecting with him a decade ago. What’s surprising is for how many periods I’ve hidden it from myself. I guess all love is like that, it ebbs and flows, and it’s easier or harder to feel throughout time.”

I’m also surprised that the partner to whom I felt it was important to disclose this reacts so well. There’s no surprise in his reaction. He reminds me not to seek out relationship. He reminds me that it’s doomed. That I have received a slap on the wrist so hard for trying to touch Mirror that it broke my wrist. This partner has nursed my wounds through failed relationship with Mirror before. 

In this moment, I don’t want relationship. I’ve let go of that. Not sure that I ever did want relationship. I want and wanted to be close to him, and the powerful patterns of relationship encroach when that happens. I still believe there’s a way we could relate that wouldn’t cause that. I’ve always believed that and been open to trying.

Especially now. 

A decade ago Mirror was really fucked up around sex and pretty traumatized, and I was forceful and needy and recently out of an abusive relationship. What started as a beautiful connection with more intimacy than I’d ever experienced quickly devolved into triggering one another’s defense mechanisms in endless fractal magnification. My heart broke and I moved on.

We reconnected some years after that and were very close friends for some time. Then I babysat him on his first LSD trip and realized during it that I was madly in love with him and had always been.

That didn’t result in anything good.

We did try again, until he shut it down. Again, I was heartbroken. Again, we managed to maintain friendship afterwards. From what he’s said he was attracted to me physically, but not emotionally. It’s hard for me to hear, since I have never had any separation between the two with him. I feel functional frustration and get that there’s no way to blend our lives, but for me the distinction between partner and lover is a clear and easy boundary to maintain, and him as a lover is both emotionally and erotically compelling and doesn’t necessitate partnership.

I haven’t seen him in some years. I’m back in my hometown, and I again forget that I am in love with him, I again push away the feelings that are just too raw. But I’m tired now, of pushing. I don’t have what it takes. And so the love floods into me and through me, and out of my eyes and between my legs. I’m overwhelmed, again, by the potential between us. The ancient, eternal rhythm that at the same time feels so novel and unknown. I am distraught and aglow with what he brings out in me. By him. 

It feels so good and it hurts so much. 

He moves me. His words stir my heart. His touch sets off timeless ripples of divine, electric incitation. It’s catalytic.

With Mirror in a hammock by the lake, his arms around me body to body. The wind hits the hammock, moving us, then sliding over my skin. Vortices of sensation fill my body in spirals from each point on which he touches me, extending down through me into the core of the planet. He holds me for hours. I smile into his heart.

His heart, beating against my ear, as if to say that what he causes in me has nothing to do with me. He just beats that way. It’s my fault for resonating.

I feel like I’m taking advantage of him. He can’t know what he’s doing to me. I’m not sure he consents to this. I feel guilty for how much pleasure I get by being near him. I don’t know how to tell him and I’m afraid if I do he’ll ration it. Begging for his permission seems like a lot of pressure to put on him, and the desire is so great I don’t know how to just ask.

The fear rises out of me being terrified of hurting him. I’d rather be hurt by him, again, over and over, than hurt him. He has a powerful gift with the transmission and reception of emotion and I don’t want to be the reason he hides and deprives it from the world.

And so I walk on eggshells. I make him out to be less of a man than he is. I decide what he can and can’t handle. It turns into sabotage.

Just Sex
Just Sex

Breath caught, new moments.

How much you wanted me, that one time. The weekend after my 40th birthday. When you wanted to touch me, to hold me, to caress me, to be caressed by me. Blew out all my circuits to have my desires fulfilled. Laughing. Breathing. And touching. 

I forget to be cautious and get hooked on your touch. Your solidity. The reddish fur. Body smell so good my nostrils flare to get more. Everything opens. Bottomless wells, no saturation in sight. 

I can soak up so much of you.

You’re the man that makes me feel the most like a woman. I feel protected. Honest. Safe and yet threatened. It feels real. I feel real. You feel real.

Still the only man I’d trust to make me pregnant. I don’t want kids, but that trust matters.

And then you dominate me. You hold me captive with pleasure. We’re lying in a bed in your contentious house. Exploring. Though we’ve had sensual moments and even somewhat sexual moments throughout – this is the crest.

Usually you block me. It drives me crazy. You don’t want to receive pleasure from me. I think you’re afraid of losing control.  And there’s obligation haunting it. I want you so much. I want to feel you on the inside. That scares you. I hate scaring you. How can this thing that would feel so perfect to me feel so wrong to you?

We still haven’t. Not sure what would happen if we did. Would I be satisfied then? Walk away? Fall out of love? Or would I lie mewling at your front door, forgoing everything for just one more push of the lever that dispenses you? Or would it be just sex

Just sex?

It’s hot and we are naked and I feel more exposed than usual because of how much you matter. I feel everything more. Every sense heightened. Desire drives me. I want to devour you. I want to be devoured.

Instead you slide a finger between my lips so delicately feeling for what makes me purr. And you find it, my spot, immediately. Small circles, precise wiggles, and with the least amount of effort you have me spellbound, panting, tense, riding the curls and sweeps of vitality emanating from my cunt.

Aching for your cock.

I feel my own self more when I am with you, not just you. Not just me. The other planes. Deities. The world. People. Global forces. Geopolitics. Geology. Time. Galaxies. Astronomy. The web of life. Vibration. Sensation. Trust. Fear. Love.

I’m terrible at being with you because I don’t know how to handle all this. Maybe you feel it all the time. Maybe you’ve had to learn to cope and I just haven’t. Perhaps I’m just feeling you, as you are. 

Do you love yourself as much as I love you?

I had to remind myself to breathe, today. Take beats. Pause. Allow space. I’m scared. Scared you’ll find out and run away, that I’ll ruin things again. I’m scared if I stop and let things happen that I’ll feel the scars and the wounds. That my heart will break anew. In that space between us I feel seeds planting, hulls unfolding. I feel the stretch of roots into each other’s soil. Life. Growth. I feel us creating light. 

What will the shine show? Our shadows illuminated this time, will the light heal or sear? Will our darkness feed on itself, fight back, overtake. Will you even let us find out? Do you even want to? 

It’s not today. It’s five years ago. And we are in that bed, and your finger is on my clit. I feel no shame or hesitancy in telling you what I want, in letting you know what you do to me. Giving you real verbal instructions, no hints, no coy, cute dilution. And you take the sheet music and edit it. You add new notes, you play it in a different rhythm. You give me better than I could compose. I am art. I am music. You draw and play me.

You tell me afterwards that you like it, that you like dominating me with pleasure. That you like all that control over all that I am in just the teeny, tiny pad of your finger. You still have it, you know.

But it’s not afterwards. It’s now, and you’re making me come. Gripping the sheets and sweat sheen back arched toes curled with your name on my tongue and you don’t stop. I’ve told you and you know, so you simply move a different way, to a different place. Subtle. Sliding your fingers wet with me along the neural wires in my clit until you feel the nodes. And there I am, coming again, and again, and again – within seconds. I lose time and place. 

But I don’t lose you. I am with you. You are with me and in me and around me for it. I feel YOU make me come. 

I still think I’m right. Still know I’m right. How angry that made you. Me asserting that I know better than you. It doesn’t matter to me, being right. I’m fine being wrong. But every cell in my body screams for you. I’m not wrong about how I feel.

The sparkling, kind, erotic, loving, open, beautiful, healing, healthy, free, eternal, spacious connection that could exist between us is there for me, present, easy, inviting me to step into it. I see it whenever I look at you, now. It is only when you remind me that you do not see it that it disappears. 

It’s hard to look you in the eyes, Mirror.

But right now your body eclipses it. All I see is lust. Cheap attraction. You just ripped orgasms out of me like it was a game. And when I recover my voice and breathe and get to the WOW – you smile and say:


Like I’m a fucking toy. Like it was just buttons to you. 

Just sex.

I give it up to sex. And my hand is grabbing for your cock, half hard and powerful.  And your hand is there too. I feel how I terrify you. How you can’t trust me. How much I have hurt you. I feel it in you holding back. I feel it in your sex. So much of you isn’t here. Your body cannot respond the way you or I want. My heart breaks while I whisper how much I want you in your ear.

While you jerk yourself off so intensely I’m raked into a frenzy. So fucking hot. Your lines fraught with your own power. For moments, you don’t hold back. 

Scenes fill me. You as animal fills all my holes. You on top of me, biting my neck, pinning me, slowly reaming me with your cock from behind. Sweat drips from your nose onto my back. You shift the angle of my hips wrenching my head back with a fist full of my hair. Gasping as you take what you can. Me atop you as goddess, rocking in waves, posting, grinding you down. Overwhelming you, enveloping you, creating you, destroying you. Nipples drag against your chest, cheek to yours as I whisper secrets you long to hear, curse you, love you.

Tantra. All else falls away. Full consciousness of our points of contact. A universe in each touch. Trust fills and flows through me emanating from my heart like a warm shot to the veins. Nothing matters but how you feel. How we feel.

It’s just sex.

I want it all. I want it bad. Your heart pounding so hard I can hear it thrum against your chest, sweat pouring. Messy, raw, extreme. The ragged sound of your breath. Your arm, shaking your whole body. How hard your muscles get before you explode. And your release. 

The need, the anticipation, maybe more overwhelming than your actual dick inside me. I still use it as porn.

Today when we looked down on the waterfall you said looking up at it is so much more ominous, because there you feel the crushing weight of time upon you. Over you. Tamped down and eroded. How long the shale took to form. How long the water took to drive it back. Lost pieces. Chunks of familiar rock shorn away and fallen. 

I’ve been in love with you longer than I’ve been in love with any other man. I feel the crushing weight of time when I look at you. How many people we have been. How many we will yet be. The patience. The impatience. Clocks and calendars and the endless void. Thunderstorms and fireflies. The blinding light and pitch dark. Phases of the moon. Regret and hope. Heartbeats and breaths. All the closeness I feel, all the space you need. It’s all there, in all of time. 

And sex. 

Just sex.

More About Mirror

More Heartbreak Part One

More Heartbreak Part Two


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