It's so much easier to feel beautiful when you're alone. I wonder about that, sometimes. Of all the beautiful sex I've had, the best has been alone. Not the best orgasms, of course. The orgasms I give myself always feel a little flat. I can't feed on my own need, my own fulfillment. I only feel content, full, after I've lost myself in a lovers fruition.
But beautiful... that only seems to happen in my own eyes. When I'm alone, I see the spill of my own hair across a pillow as I turn my face to the side, and it's art. I feel my own skin, silk. I pull my breasts out of confines of my bra, and the expanse of flesh doesn't feel ample, it feels right. Their size doesn't matter to me, only what they make me feel, and every inch of surface is waiting for my fingertips and nails. My hard little nipples aren't too big or too small. They're simply perfect points of sensation. I can touch them soft or rough, it doesn't matter. I do only what I want, what makes me feel good, and they're beautiful in that moment. My belly, the bane of my self image, that I look at in a mirror and tilt my head to the side because I don't understand it... my belly is soft and warm. A path to wander down, that my fingers love, full of sensation. The fear of being judged, the unwillingness to look into a lovers eyes for fear of what you'll see... none of that exists in bed with you when you it's only you.
When I come, my breath is only for me, my pants and sighs aren't meant for anyone else. It's luxurious, in a way it can't be when the hopes of your lover are pinned on your cries.
When you're alone, you can imagine anyone as you spread your legs. You don't have to feel guilty for the faceless lover doing anything you want, the moment you want it. It's selfish, of course. And I never resent the reality of the face above or below me. I love those faces. But sometimes, it's wonderful to see a chameleon in your mind, a constantly shifting pantheon of pleasure crafted by your imagination. Your thoughts kept inside you, only for you, are never going to be dirty enough to make you blush in shame.
But beautiful... that only seems to happen in my own eyes. When I'm alone, I see the spill of my own hair across a pillow as I turn my face to the side, and it's art. I feel my own skin, silk. I pull my breasts out of confines of my bra, and the expanse of flesh doesn't feel ample, it feels right. Their size doesn't matter to me, only what they make me feel, and every inch of surface is waiting for my fingertips and nails. My hard little nipples aren't too big or too small. They're simply perfect points of sensation. I can touch them soft or rough, it doesn't matter. I do only what I want, what makes me feel good, and they're beautiful in that moment. My belly, the bane of my self image, that I look at in a mirror and tilt my head to the side because I don't understand it... my belly is soft and warm. A path to wander down, that my fingers love, full of sensation. The fear of being judged, the unwillingness to look into a lovers eyes for fear of what you'll see... none of that exists in bed with you when you it's only you.
When I come, my breath is only for me, my pants and sighs aren't meant for anyone else. It's luxurious, in a way it can't be when the hopes of your lover are pinned on your cries.
When you're alone, you can imagine anyone as you spread your legs. You don't have to feel guilty for the faceless lover doing anything you want, the moment you want it. It's selfish, of course. And I never resent the reality of the face above or below me. I love those faces. But sometimes, it's wonderful to see a chameleon in your mind, a constantly shifting pantheon of pleasure crafted by your imagination. Your thoughts kept inside you, only for you, are never going to be dirty enough to make you blush in shame.
That's a very beautiful post. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteNo no, thank YOU. :D
ReplyDelete