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When someone doesn’t trust you

When someone doesn’t trust you it undermines everything. I don’t trust you when you say you have emotions for me. I don’t trust your erection. Don’t trust you when you say you’d rather stay here than go home to your wife and kid. 

I don’t trust your love. Nor your attraction. I don’t trust you to tell me the truth. You’re going to use me for every Fancy Peso I have. And then you’ll do what almost every guy does, and tell me my physical shape doesn’t turn you on and that you are done with me.

I don’t trust you not to lose interest. I don’t trust you haven’t already. You’re pretending now. 

When someone doesn’t trust you they can’t trust your diagnoses.

I’m pretty sure your mental illness is just a way to avoid everything hard in life. 

I don’t trust you to pull out. I think you’ll come in me if I ask for it.

My hips propped up on two pillows you press down on my upper back tilting my pussy in the air. A moment ago, eyes locked, hilt deep, slow, beautiful, focused. Now – I am empty and waiting, my ass in the air, wishing for some way to better show you how much I want you. 

“I want you.” doesn’t cover it. Barely a skim into surface waters.

But your cock knows, it knows. And you spread my cheeks and lips and line it up and give me what I want. You fuck me deep, hard, long, like an animal. Breathing. Feeling your need. Quickening, touching me places only you can.

I feel the tether in you. How you hold back for fear of breaking the One Rule.

Don’t come in me.

Family crisis. One upon another. Yeah no shit. You put seed in that? What the fuck were you thinking.

When someone doesn’t trust you, hard and fast, out you go. What the fuck. You know who I am. You are capable of understanding me. The many, many facets. 

That’s right, George, your pal, Hux.

I don’t trust you to live long enough to get to know me. 

You’re afraid of Americans. I’m afraid of Europeans.

When someone doesn’t trust you it makes a really fucking ill-timed, ridiculous, tumultuous relationship even more so.

But it is one. I know. You know. We are in one and I finally accept it. 

“But oh in my world it is the dough of life.

And to bake nothing from it that has you in it…”

I want it to be about sex. I really do. But you are right, it is more, and I know why you need it to be more. 

Do I know why I need it to be more? I don’t. I know that your cock and your face and your mind and your rhythms are magical and new and I still don’t know what the fuck our bodies are doing and why. 

Why now, why ever, why did I cause this? 

Because it is fucking beautiful, and you know it, and I know it.

I don’t trust you not to smoke cigarettes indoors.

I wanted to spitfire on you, in your face, tell you tonight how ridiculous I find your self-destruction. YOU? Seriously? Fucking you? What the fuck are you doing? You’re too smart to go this far, I don’t care how fucked up and mentally ill and/or bad-patterned you are. That mind is not broke. So fucking use it.

I’m not here because my father died. I’m not here because of that. You keep saying that. I’m not here because of me. I knew before I came what I would find. FUCK YOU for not seeing how much I know. 

I came here for you, motherfucker.

I came here because you’re in a bad way, and I love you. Why the hell can’t you see that? Because I don’t say it to you? 

I can’t.

I can’t. 

So deep. It goes so deep. I just immediately knew you, so long, so good. We have protected each other so many times. Please let me.

One look at your face, the first whiff of your words. I saw all that is and has been and will be, all the many pathways. Fear trying to drag me down the worst case scenario.

Love.

Give me some credit. You think I don’t vent and cry and dance and wail? Sob and moan and Om and … all the rest.

  • Root Chakra – LAM
  • Sacral Chakra – VAM
  • Solar Plexus Chakra – RAM
  • Heart Chakra – YAM
  • Throat Chakra – HAM
  • Third Eye Chakra – OM
  • Crown Chakra – AH

Oh ye of little faith. How can I vent to you? I barely know you. And you have so much else to carry. 

But so you say of me. So we protect one another from each other’s burdens. 

When someone doesn’t trust you they clench their pussy tight. Your cock slips out over and over. Watching my angle so that I don’t encourage it. I’m too tight and you’re too soft. I don’t trust you not to scoop it up in a handful and wedge it into me, over and over, seeking the magnetic lock.

Pulling all the way out in one stroke, leaving my pussy gasping for you like a fish on the dock. Then the plunge, the relief, all of your cock in one, delicious thrust. Breathy giggles of delight and ecstasy. Volleys of lust.

And then you orgasm but don’t ejaculate, and I fucking love it and you, you multi-orgasmic male.

We are both so selfish. Utterly selfish and perfectly aligned. I don’t trust that we won’t be knocked off sync and our self-interest will coil us into impenetrable solitude.

I don’t trust you to read my book. You’re dipping into it, but I don’t trust you to read the whole thing. I think you will skim it and then say you’ve read it.

When someone doesn’t trust you, they can’t believe your love.

We are fucking the way we did first that one time, two years ago. Finally around back to that perfect side position, my leg over your shoulder, feeling the scruff of your face on my inner calf. Your breath moving the hairs on my leg. That angle where I can see your face and work my clit at the same time. And your cock is hard and good.

And you have a flashback in the middle of fucking me. The first I witness. And you have to leave. You, in a panic, holding my shoulders.

“Are you okay with this?” cuts through it all. Some sense of care even atop all the noise in your head, the coursing neurology, your past hung around you in a facade.

I was okay. Am okay. I love you.

I don’t trust you because you waited so long to tell me what the fuck is actually going on. The missing pieces rained down, the scars and scratches, the information that makes it all fit. 

I don’t trust her. What she is doing and has done to you sparks rage like no other. But I know better than to fuck with your family. 

I don’t trust her. I’m afraid she’ll self-destruct entirely and leave me to mother your kid. Your kid who I’ve never met. I see that future, where I’m stuck with it out of love, where she’s just a dead surrogate. It terrifies me.

I don’t trust you because you avoid the truth. You consume most of your calories in alcohol. You’re physically addicted. I don’t trust that or you.

And now you’ve moved in with me. I didn’t trust you so I gave you the keys. Less than 12 hours after I gave them to you you moved in with me. 

I don’t trust you because we never had sex on that IKEA chair.

I don’t trust you to let me hold you, soothe you, help you, or heal you. When someone doesn’t trust you, it’s hard to be a friend.

But I do trust you to tell me the truth. I trust your mind. I trust you to stay wild and free and brilliant. To remain unpredictable. So fucking smart.

And hot.

I trust you when you tell me I’m a very, very good writer. You’re a very, very good writer.

You mingle your things with mine. Your belongings shuffled into my deck. Intentionally, you place them there. It makes me anxious at first. I make piles. Segregate your beer and cigarettes. Pull clothing from each room and collate. Now, I’ve learned to be grateful for yet another way you’re inside me.

I want you inside me. All day, all night. Even when my body is too tired to respond my mind craves you, I want you poured over me and soaked into me.

Yet the day you move in I’m out doing drugs and meeting men. I come back to you eating. You never eat. I’ve expressed my concern about the bulk of your calories coming from alcohol out loud.

“I’m eating in your kitchen.” you say loudly, proudly, while cooking my last two eggs. You try to feed me and I refuse. I’ve longed for us to feed one another and here you are showing me the trust and I blow it.

Because I don’t trust me. I finally have what I have yearned for for so long and I will test every way to sabotage it. I don’t trust me to be present and in love. My heart can’t fit it, can’t process, my throat closes, I don’t say how I feel. 

You’re better away from her. Saner. Calmer. You’re better with me. I know it. You can have both. 

I don’t trust you to make me come with your mouth.

I don’t trust that I didn’t do this. All of it. I don’t know whether I was pulled in or whether I pulled this reality onto us. I just know that I want you, that it doesn’t wane, and that some homes deserve to be wrecked.

Don’t trust myself to love you the way I know I have to. You are sweet, and vulnerable, and kind. It would kill me to wound you. There is so much at stake. I can’t put just a toe in your waters. To love you I have to stop protecting myself. I have to accept everything loving you comes with.

I don’t trust myself to love you the way you deserve.


How I fortold it

How it happened


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