I have not written in, or read, this blog for quite a while. I had forgotten about my last entry completely.
Which is why I find it fascinating that I was coming on here to write about intimate sex, with emotions involved.
It hasn't been that long. Over the course of a very busy summer I haven't changed that much.
I do tend to go from 0 - 60 when it comes to change, though.
I'm not in love.
And not in a false protestation kind of way. I'm not in love.
But I am allowing myself to feel valued. I am allowing myself to value.
It's fucking terrifying. On a very fundamental level, it feels wrong. And it may be wrong, with this person. This other broken person who is pursuing his own health and happiness with the fervor of a drowning man gasping at air.
It might be shallow. Making out like teenagers, dry humping endlessly and getting myself off out of sheer desperation... that's not exactly intimacy.
But it is for me. Opening my eyes is intimacy for me. Being willing to allow a single action to continue instead of using it as a spring board towards the end is intimate, forces me to exist in that moment for longer than I am comfortable with.
I have gotten used to sex being frantic. Or unsatisfying. Either or, no middle ground. My own passion blazes, and I have very little control over it.
That statement feels false. It's not that I don't have any control over it. It's that I need it to control me. I don't want to think too much during sex. That doesn't make me a good lover. Passion is beautiful and sexy, but so is thoughtfulness.
I have to frame it this way, in my mind, in order to accept that I want to change. It can't just be about my own happiness, I want it to be about being better for others. That's infuriating.
But, it is what it is. I have had to hack aspects of self for as long as I can remember, in order to get shit done. I'd like to not have to hack this particular aspect of self. I'd like to already be in an authentic, accepting, loving place.
I am not.
Not yet. I asked C to leave last night, after hours worth of lying on the couch making out. I kept coming back into my brain, after moments of reveling in my body, and being uncomfortable. Feeling unattractive, unwanted. Feeling like too much, too wet, too big, too desperate. Far too vulnerable. I would have liked nothing more than to fall asleep cuddling another human being, having my back rubbed, rubbing my ass against a hard cock. That would have felt amazing. And vulnerable. And too much.
This is what I avoid with the conflagration. When I burn so hot, I can't feel any discomfort, any loss or sadness or fear. I just burn, and then I am happy.
Having been controlled through my desire, having been made to feel completely alone in it, I didn't realize how much I was relying on being able to be alone in it.
So. I do not want that. I also do not want to hurt others in my quest to not be that. Because without the conflagration, the reality of me emerges. And the reality of me is fucking intense. I have the emotional control of a teenager, thanks to stunted growth patterns from a young adulthood spend denying every aspect of self for fear of judgement and loss.
In spite of having spent years working on almost every aspect of emotional self, I have completely neglected this aspect of emotional self.
Black and white. I have felt, for far too long, that if I love it will be forever. Or it will be a singularity, in existence for a single burning second then gone. I rarely love in degrees, and that's what's required to engage with another human being on a healing journey. Like is an insipid term, far less scary. I do not want to like the people I let into my bubble, I want to love them. I just don't want to be owned by them, or have them own me.
Which is why I find it fascinating that I was coming on here to write about intimate sex, with emotions involved.
It hasn't been that long. Over the course of a very busy summer I haven't changed that much.
I do tend to go from 0 - 60 when it comes to change, though.
I'm not in love.
And not in a false protestation kind of way. I'm not in love.
But I am allowing myself to feel valued. I am allowing myself to value.
It's fucking terrifying. On a very fundamental level, it feels wrong. And it may be wrong, with this person. This other broken person who is pursuing his own health and happiness with the fervor of a drowning man gasping at air.
It might be shallow. Making out like teenagers, dry humping endlessly and getting myself off out of sheer desperation... that's not exactly intimacy.
But it is for me. Opening my eyes is intimacy for me. Being willing to allow a single action to continue instead of using it as a spring board towards the end is intimate, forces me to exist in that moment for longer than I am comfortable with.
I have gotten used to sex being frantic. Or unsatisfying. Either or, no middle ground. My own passion blazes, and I have very little control over it.
That statement feels false. It's not that I don't have any control over it. It's that I need it to control me. I don't want to think too much during sex. That doesn't make me a good lover. Passion is beautiful and sexy, but so is thoughtfulness.
I have to frame it this way, in my mind, in order to accept that I want to change. It can't just be about my own happiness, I want it to be about being better for others. That's infuriating.
But, it is what it is. I have had to hack aspects of self for as long as I can remember, in order to get shit done. I'd like to not have to hack this particular aspect of self. I'd like to already be in an authentic, accepting, loving place.
I am not.
Not yet. I asked C to leave last night, after hours worth of lying on the couch making out. I kept coming back into my brain, after moments of reveling in my body, and being uncomfortable. Feeling unattractive, unwanted. Feeling like too much, too wet, too big, too desperate. Far too vulnerable. I would have liked nothing more than to fall asleep cuddling another human being, having my back rubbed, rubbing my ass against a hard cock. That would have felt amazing. And vulnerable. And too much.
This is what I avoid with the conflagration. When I burn so hot, I can't feel any discomfort, any loss or sadness or fear. I just burn, and then I am happy.
Having been controlled through my desire, having been made to feel completely alone in it, I didn't realize how much I was relying on being able to be alone in it.
So. I do not want that. I also do not want to hurt others in my quest to not be that. Because without the conflagration, the reality of me emerges. And the reality of me is fucking intense. I have the emotional control of a teenager, thanks to stunted growth patterns from a young adulthood spend denying every aspect of self for fear of judgement and loss.
In spite of having spent years working on almost every aspect of emotional self, I have completely neglected this aspect of emotional self.
Black and white. I have felt, for far too long, that if I love it will be forever. Or it will be a singularity, in existence for a single burning second then gone. I rarely love in degrees, and that's what's required to engage with another human being on a healing journey. Like is an insipid term, far less scary. I do not want to like the people I let into my bubble, I want to love them. I just don't want to be owned by them, or have them own me.
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