Drunken Thought #2

Everyone's so quick to diagnose.
Everyone's so quick to prescribe a treatment.

     I'm waiting for an opportunity to tell my story.  Before the scab... Before the scar tissue... Before the blemish...  No one has ever asked me what happened in the first place.  Before the broken skin... Before the spilled blood... Before the ambulance ride...
     It's been a very difficult story to keep to myself.  But, no one asks, "How did you get that x-long gash from here-to-there?"  Instead, I'm told to "apply cocoa butter to reverse the hyper-pigmentation."  As if, healing lies in the reverse of the trauma's symptoms.  As if, I'd be free if the scar blended with my skin-tone.  As if, the disappearance of my scar will make me forget his forceful hands in my hair.  Before telling me, "Black skin is prone to darken where a barrier is breached,"  please ask if I'm proud to see evidence of a threat null and void.
     I've been longing to say 'yes' for so long.  "YES!"  I've wondered how that would sound from my lips to my ears. How would "YES" sound reverberating throughout the air?  "YES, I've been in scuffles."  "YES, I've fought for my life."  "YES, I'm still here, in spite of the sharp edge held firmly at my face."  However, I've longed to say "YES" without adding my name to the long list of victims.

Why would I want to cosmetically remove a badge of honor?

 

Everyone's so quick to diagnose.
Everyone's so quick to prescribe a treatment.

     I've been equally redundant to call upon my truth.  I would hate to have all-that-I-am reduced to 'fucked up', so I stay silent.  Waiting...  Longing...  Furiously masturbating to the thought of someone giving a damn enough to ask, "Where'd this come from?"  Pointing to the scar between my eyebrows.
    Is it a rude question to ask?  Is it inappropriate to inspect my body and inquire about your findings?  Probably.  But, I find it equally rude to discuss the matter on Oprah's coach; in an attempt to promote my latest project.  I guess this story will die with me...or, it'll splatter from lips when I'm desperate for some attention.  Which isn't today.

Black Spark: Blackstreet

What is this, that drives me out on his limb?

     At some point, "I love you" didn't do it for me anymore.  No matter how I said it: in the heights of passion or in the depth of emotion, It didn't completely translate how I felt.  No matter how much I said it: the rattling of a dated declaration didn't do my feelings justice.  "Love" was too shallow of a term to define the nature of our connection.
     Looking into his eyes, "Cum inside of me," felt right.  Holding his pumping hips in my hands, "Cum inside of me," became an opening statement before a sacrifice.  I wanted him to know: I am devoted.  What's a word to describe my need to put my life into his hands?  To use risk as evidence?

The intensity,

building with every stroke,

makes me wish I had a womb to capture this moment.

       With my legs drawn over his bouncing shoulders, our rhythms drive me mad.  The thirst for his every drop develops into a compulsion.  Regardless of what sprouted from his seed, whether a jolt of life or a slow death, "Cum inside of me!"  I wanted him to inhabit me.
     His face falls open.  His muscles clings to my body.  Pumping in clinging spurts, we began to bond in a new way.  Spraying.  Churning.  Soaking.  Whether to build a new life or to weather the same sickness, I cast my life into the winds of his orgasm.
     As his body collapses onto mine, I am filled with the unknown.  Questions swell in my head.  Possibilities play themselves out.  What did I just do?  There is so much pending... So much to be determined...  What's a word to describe my desire to die, if he's going to?

"Cum inside of me," felt right.

Black Spark: Chapter 1.5

"Elsewhere a villain in born.

 He will take your power...

 ...up his ass.

 ...down his throat.

 Now, he has stolen mine: I lost focus.

 I must find him and take his load." - Black Spark

 

     I kept nodding off at work today.  So damn tired from staying up all night masturbating.  Beautiful Boys.  Dusty Basements.  Lasers.  Lust.  Abandoned Dance Floors.  I couldn't stop watching.  These films activated something deep within me, I couldn't lift my eyes from the Black Spark.

Everything I've ever wanted from pornography:

Artistic

Experimental

Sensual

Irresponsibly Truthful

     After my fourth load, my orgasms weren't wet anymore.  But, like the characters in the films, I couldn't stop touching myself.  Stimulated on every front, my hands and cock were inseparable. Poetic lines scrolled across succulent close-ups.  The way their secrets sparkled kept my thighs open. The music kept me awake long enough to squeeze out the fifth.

I'm so damn tired...

Folsom Street Fair 2011: The Process

     Weeks later, I am still processing my time at the Folsom Street Fair this year.  What is it about Folsom that makes me feel like I'm in my element?  Of which spirits did I fellowship?  I think I may have tasted a morsel of something significant.  Something clicked.  I feel compelled to pursue this harmony, discovering what it means for my life's purpose.
     Whether it was a cold breeze or warmth from the afternoon Sun, it felt so good on my bare hide.  Exposing myself in public...  Playing without fear of judgement...  It felt good to be surrounded by a community of people doing the same thing.

Its painful to think about this happening only once a year.

      I think I am realizing how much I need this.  Sex and Sun needs to continue sharing the atmosphere.  Public displays of fetish needs to be met with smiles and the lighting up of eyes.  Kinksters should go home with the thought in their head, "I am not alone."  What can I do to usher this kind of environment into reality?

That's where I always get stuck
I don't know.

     I think "Journals of an Intelsexual" shines a light on sex-positivity, broadening people's perception on sexuality and fetish; but what's next?  I am racking my brain trying to figure out my next steps.  I've taken a few shots into the dark, submitting applications to open positions within the sex industry and reaching out to kindred spirits.  I feel this to be a tremendous turning point in my life, both professional and personal.

All I can do is pray

This passion is weighing on my heart for a purpose

I await to see what surfaces

Photos courtesy of Boisterous & Tommysole

Folsom Street Fair 2011: Chord (Part II)

     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I’d start with me and him naked.  On all fours.  Overlapping on the motel room’s floor, we were in unison.  With her legs wrapped around my neck, her heels sat on my back as he serviced her feet.  Slurping.  Moaning.  Flicking my tongue over her clitoris, I can feel his warm mouth alternating between her feet and my back.  Taking turns licking and lapping.

Us: Gnawing and nibbling.

Her: Moaning and giggling.

     I love the warmth of their limbs wrapping around me.  Embracing me from behind, his hands roams all over my body as she fills his mouth.  Our services are synchronized.  Our thirsts siphoned  from the same well.

     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I'd start the next scene with her on her back.  Putting myself on top.  Her throat and teeth quivers around my cock.  Plunging his fingers inside of her, he feeds me her pussy from his palm.  Spreading her lips further apart, I rhythmically dart my tongue directly on her clit.  Each orgasm makes her body shake and rock; I love the momentum.  I love the way he sucks her juices from my beard and how our tongues battle for the last drop.  I love kissing him. 

Two heads are better than one.

Four hands are better than two.

Three lovers are better
than any fantasy I could've mustered on my own.

     If I had to transcribe our threesome, I'd start with poetic thoughts of dreams coming true.  His tongue rakes across the sole of my left foot.  Her mouth seals around the toes of my right foot.  Heaven materializes before my eyes.  Infinite hands sliding across my skin.  Tongues slithering and darting inside of me.  Heads rising and falling in my lap.  I've prayed for a moment like this... Being worshiped by two people at once.  Fireworks exploding in my body!  A network of pleasure tearing me apart!  For an hour, I attended Heaven.
     Its his turn to stare at the ceiling.  She's on all fours.  I'm kneeling behind her.  We're going to fuck on his face.  She can barely maintain her composure; as I stroke deep inside of her, his mouth tugs on her cunt from beneath.  Every few strokes, I'll remove my erection from her and give it to him to suck clean.  It was a beautiful sight, to see his bearded face respond some greedily.  His hands traveled to my hips, groping my ass...then to her hips and her breasts.  Every few strokes, there was another mess for him to clean up.

To be continued...

Folsom Street Fair 2011: Chord (Part I)

     Folsom is more than a street this weekend.  What typically is driven on, somehow drives everything in a ten-mile radius and beyond.  Inspiring.  Intoxicating.  Influencing.  The Spirit of Folsom fills me with an infectious excitement.  We’re all excited.
     In a crowded bar.  In a buzzing social scene.  Cigarettes.  Booze.  Dancing.  This is how we wanted to meet him.  If he turned out to be annoying...  If he turned out to be boring…  If he turned out to be crazy, like the guy from last year’s Folsom Street Fair, we had a way out.  My girlfriend and I wanted to make sure there was chemistry before going any further.

I think we fell in love immediately
Already intrigued by his intense need to serve
We didn’t expect him to be so handsome

     In a crowded bar.  Random introductions.  Cell phones.  Clicking.  Coronas with lime.  I can’t remember who’s idea it was to remove her shoes.  Immediately dropping to his knees, publicly taking her toes into his mouth.  His tongue wiggling between each of her toes soon met mine as we both serviced her right foot.  French kissing each other as we sucked and kissed her feet, commentary floated around us, “Ugh! That’s just nasty!”  Like magnetism.  Like gravity.  I was pulled into this moment of worship.  “OMG! Hold on, Jim; I’ll call you back.”  Name calling.  Cameras.  Cheers.

I loved every moment.

     It was safe to say we had chemistry.  Kissing my girlfriend.  Kissing him.  Watching him and my girlfriend kiss.  To taste the salt from her toes on his tongue.  It turned me on to share each other.  I’ve never had an experience so all-inclusive.  Everyone was into everyone equally.  In that moment, no one was straight or gay.  Single or coupled.  Equally helpless to each other’s charm, we were simply lovers.

To be continued...

Folsom Street Fair 2011: A Random Introduction

     Its one a.m. and its already "tomorrow".  I am dreading the thought of returning to the office.  The thought makes me cry.  The thought makes me turn this bottle of Fernet Branca upside down against my face.  The thought makes me reach out to random strangers, "Am I crazy?"  Yes.  I am not ready for "tomorrow".

I don't want this moment to end...

Although, its already over...

The leather's been packed away...

The freaks have scattered to maintain their respective lives

     We celebrated our day in the Sun.  We exhaled audibly outside of the shadows for a change... Outside of the basements...  Outside of the exclusive underground that binds us.  I am nagged by my depression, "Why are you celebrating the 1/365th of a year you can share the same Sun?"  I don't know.  The unfurling feels euphoric... liberating... But, the sub sequential re-integration is becoming unbearable.

Damn, I'm out of liquor.

     It's 1:34 a.m. and I am stepping deeper into "tomorrow".  Although, I have a beautiful woman sleeping next to me, I feel so lonely.  Not from the lack of quality company, but from the reality that we are mentioned during Sunday sermons.  Kinky.  Polyamorous.  Sadomasochistic.  Queer.  We are the people mentioned to get a rise out of the congregation.  I feel lonely because a false accusation becomes true because of my rare proclivities.

I am instantly wicked because I am twisted.

 

     This is what happens.  Every time fantasies materialize, every time I receive a massive offering of love and service.  The reality makes me sick to my stomach.  The reality persuades me to escape from "tomorrow".  Indefinitely.  What if my dissonance indicated that this isn't my "reality"?  Instead of cramming myself back into that ergonomically-correct desk, I should be screaming, "Fuck you, vanilla world!"

I damn and praise this awareness that I need a job!

     This weekend was beautiful; I will be spending this week writing about all that happened.  The problem with beauty, however, is that everything pales in comparison.  Its hard to get dressed in a suit and tie, when you've publicly frolicked in the nude.  Its difficult to step foot into the office fresh from a game-changing threesome.  It's challenging to have a taste of freedom and go back to the same stale coffee.  Just to stay alive.

Hopefully, my brain chemistry balances.

Hopefully, reality proves to be a great companion to fantasies.

Hopefully, I have an easy day at work "tomorrow".

Images by Michael Macku