black and white

What if she just gave you everything? If she allowed you inside of her in a way in which the metaphor is even stronger than the physical manifestation. If she just showed you every point of fragility, every joint worn weak, every bone turned brittle.

It’s often hard to be bare, even though we’re born it. We deviate from so many of our initial notions in an attempt at maturity, such as demanding care with such unabashed fervor that it seems to be nurtured is an essential part of being human. Yet, vulnerability will be difficult for her. To become oneself seemed to mean to build up walls not solely to keep invasion out but to deter those sincerest, most intimate forms of care as well, all for the sake of some structure to lean upon.

But, what if she could break down some of those walls? And she followed your lead, arms out, palms wide, fingers trembling with an almost rudimentary trepidation.

There’s something impossibly romantic about this.

There’s a tenuous line between pain and pleasure. Upon examination, it’s really more of a no man’s land. It’s disputed territory we play in. It’s something that I fight against time and time again: I enjoy this. No matter how close to just plain awful it seems to get, I enjoy this.

So, it’s no coincidence that the novel about Michelangelo’s life was called The Agony and the Ecstasy. The two are not mutually exclusive. It boils down to the nature of suffering. And you know how I feel about suffering.

Facts stand that suffering can be beautiful. And you must be aware by now that not everything beautiful is necessarily good. Though, I suppose it depends on how you approach that word as well.

Nonetheless, I’m sure we can take an example from Michelangelo and find art in this suffering.

A poem I like:

Having a Coke with You

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

Frank O’Hara’s right as rain. It’s not what you do so much as who you do it with.

“In one way or another I’ve always suffered. I didn’t know why exactly. But I do know that I’m not so scared of suffering now. I feel more than I’ve ever felt and I’ve found someone to feel with. To play with. To love in a way that feels right for me. I hope he knows that I can see that he suffers too. And that I want to love him.” – from the film Secretary.

Ugh, nail on the head.

I love being choked in a sexual way. But then when I really think about what’s going on I’m stuck thinking to myself, “I probably shouldn’t be doing this.” Because facts stand that someone could really screw up. And I always go back to the actual violence of the gesture and what it is normally used for, like when I mull over some other fetishes like (consensual, in my case) non-consent. There’s a moment where you stop and think that for a lot of people, this isn’t sexy. In another context, this would be horribly wrong.

But I still can’t deny how it makes me feel.

littlegirlyone:

i know there’s huge ethical/legal/moral controversy about choking as a sexual practice. i understand the risks. sometimes i even freak out about them in a panicky, ‘i’m not gonna do that anymore’ kinda way. but when we’re fucking, there is no more controversy. there’s only our bodies. our trust. our hands. our throats. and in that context, the risk is worth the reward.

“Find me now. Before someone else does.” – Haruki Murakami, IQ84.

So, I hit a follower milestone.

And it’s a Tuesday.

Decisions…

She touches to remember. Where she had been grabbed, where fingers caressed, where knuckles turned white around hair. She explores herself like a cartographer, mapping out experiences it her mind to recall the topography of evenings past. Most of the time, it’s roughly to scale. Others, she just can’t seem to replicate exactly what had been done. But no map is ever completely accurate, it’s only an interpretation of the lay of the land.

Confession: My nipples aren’t horribly sensitive to light touch, but when pressure comes into play it’s an entirely different story. I’m usually entirely too sensitive for most clamps/clothespins/etc. I have a pair that work the way the ones in this picture do, so they can be adjusted, but I’m still a huge wuss about the whole thing.

Ivy

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