Month: April 2011

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I want to be unrecognizable. I love how a relationship (I’ll just leave that right there for all of you to define how you like) can just completely drop like a bomb and leave everything scattered. I love that feeling of when we’ve gone our separate ways and realizing that suddenly I’m not the same person you were stepping into it. Anyone I’ve been intimate with in any way has left an imprint on me. I’ve been branded metaphorically with so many marks of who’s been here.

And I can reflect back and see exactly who’s done what. He made me like this. She made me get over this. They taught me this and that. Every time I open myself up, it seems those I’ve opened myself to take the opportunity to, if I may steal DYC’s perfect metaphor, rearrange the furniture to an arrangement that suits me better than that before. 

I just love that strange feeling of wandering around right after a storm. You can smell the rain and the air’s still electric. And everything just feels a little different. There’s this kind of freshness in the fallen branches and the leaves stuck to the windows of cars. It’s how I feel right now, entering this new phase of my life. He literally changed around so many things within me for the better. He was absolutely the thing I needed. And he’s put his mark on me just like everyone else, his certainly being one of the most prominent. 

I once read somewhere that if forest fires didn’t happen, the entire forest would just die from all the underbrush clinging to it. I don’t want to say that I was being stifled or anything. But, I do want to say that if I don’t let go, I’m bound to just wind up hurting myself. 

I’m trying to look at this whole thing from the positive spin of the fact that he and I really helped each other and changed each others’ lives. And, while sometimes it hurts to say that, for now, the buck stops here, it puts a little spring in my step to know that I am beginning an incredibly new phase of my life whilst changed so profoundly by him.

Sorry for being so cheesy. I promise, the regularly scheduled smut will resume momentarily.

drinkyourcunt:

I’m going to smudge the lines of your self-portrait.  I want to make the colors melt and bleed.  I’ll climb in your head and rearrange the furniture.  No one will recognize you when we’re done.

vrbw:

http://vrbw.tumblr.com/

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Fuck yeah, I’m an overachiever. 

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The little girl play I engage in is so beyond just the “taboo"ness of it, like most of the other practices I enjoy. (What’s the point of shock value in the privacy of your own room, even with the thin walls?)

It’s the feeling of being nurtured that accompanies it that draws me in. For a masochist/submissive, I tend to freak out if I am not able to hold the reigns on my life and completely know what’s going on and what the outcomes of things will be. The unknown doesn’t scare me so much as the surrender of control of things which I realize are so completely out of my control.

While I certainly experience this release of control while submitting generally, there is something about being a "little girl” that gives an even greater release. I feel little. I feel dependent. I feel this overwhelming surrender to the powers that be and an amazing sense of letting go without incurring the sort of consequences that I am afraid of coming across were I to become less disciplined and control-oriented in other areas of my life. 

In the role of the “little girl”, I’m forced to let go in a different, maybe even deeper way, than when I simply submit. I’m cared for, I lose my control, I no longer have responsibilities. It’s an incredibly relaxing experience. 

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“You know why sluts fight?" 

My ex-girlfriend used to ask this all the time, usually with a fistful of my hair in her hand or my arm twisted back uncomfortably behind me. She would tug back harder, smile this disgustingly sweet grin, and answer. 

"Sluts fight to lose." 

notsafeforanyone:

Stop fighting. You know I’m going to win.

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Me, age 8: My lower lip is too big. 

My mother: It’s beautiful. And, one day men are going to go crazy over that.

Me: Why?

My mother: … don’t worry about it.

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When I was a pre-teen, I was a huge tomboy. Which is kind of hilarious now, as I own more skirts than pants and way too many sundresses, almost every shoe I wear has some sort of heel on it and I take pride in my hair and makeup. Not to say I get crazy high maintenance about it, but I’m certainly at the opposite end of the spectrum now.

Back in my tomboy days, I used to wear outfits similar like this (a band t-shirt and a jacket in a neutral color with a gender-neutral cut) when I went hiking with friends. So, I’m having a bit of a flashback right now. Courtesy of my girl Sasha, who never fails to evoke some sort of positive reaction out of me, even if it’s just nostalgia. 

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Fantasy currently keeping Ivy tossing in the night: 

I meet them at a party. Or maybe out for coffee. Maybe on the train. We exchange pleasantries. They’re artists. Or they’re suffering through the constant rat race of academia. Or they in some sort of reputable position that they put on the second they leave their home and toss right off once they come back to descend back into the perversion that society has so confusingly frowned upon. 

We see something in each other. We’re all not sure just what. They’re mature, beautiful, interesting. I feel so young in comparison, so naive and untamed. They’ve fine-tuned their sexuality to a more refined standard, they understand how to control their energy in a way that I cannot. They seem so in love with each other, so infatuated with each other, so connected.

I just want be along with them. I want my own Henry and June without the drama of a crumbling relationship. I just want to learn. I want to be under their wings. I want her to do my makeup and pick out my clothes. I want her to show me all the places she goes. I want her to show me herself in such a way that I can only hope to glean her best qualities over time as he watches with a satisfied smile as their girl grows with them.

We arrange to go for a walk, get a cup of tea, take a drive. She wears something so conservative that it’s nearly scandalous, he keeps it simple. I suddenly feel so ostentatious and childish, like I’ve been going through my mother’s closet and I’ve stumbled out into public in shoes six sizes too big and lipstick smeared on my chin. But they still see something in me, it seems, some little glimmer of something that they could make me into. I want to be changed.

I want them to come in like a hurricane and blow my roof off. I want them to take me places, to introduce me to people. I want to be their girl, their project, their source of some sort of amusement at how reckless I am and how much restraint I lack. 

And the day when I’m finally in the situation when I have him nude and her breast presented to me, I want to feel as if I’ve earned it. 

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There’s something really understatedly elegant about that buckle at her shin, as opposed to the harsh messiness of a knot.