Self-portrait

I write personally in this blog in the sense that I share intimate, sexual details about myself. I offer up my views and feelings on things. Mostly sexual things. But I deliberately keep big chunks of my life off the screen.

The biggest chunk has been the relationship I've been involved in over the past year. I've had urges to share, and parts of that life and that love spill over here in wafts, but I've never outlined them clearly. The reason I'm about to is that it's over. Just writing that word sends up another wave of grief. I'm hoping the writing will help me push past - push through - these feelings into something else because right now they feel crushing and huge. I feel like I have a fairly well developed ability to allow myself to feel things, with the faith that beyond the pain lies something else. In the past few days, there have been moments where that's very hard to imagine.

I'm disoriented. I have anxiety and when I cry, my tears run faster down my face than I've ever felt them. I go to bed feeling disoriented, without him there, and I wake up feeling the same. I lie there for a few moments to make sure I'm not wrong, that he's not in the bathroom or the kitchen or somewhere near but he's not. I think I hear his truck coming down the street but it isn't. I sleep with my arms around a pillow and my face tucked into it. I walked into my acupuncturist's office today with tears running down my face. I walked out calmer, but still with tears.

I haven't shared, not because there weren't moments I wanted to capture and describe and remember. I've kept silent because I think precious things have to be treated delicately. He didn't want to be written about, so I respected that. Mainly though, I think the things we cherish and value have to be honored. We might describe them to people, but I think opening that up for the world to watch is asking for trouble. Our relationship was ours, it wasn't public domain.

I'm confused sexually. I've always employed the "amnesia fuck" after a break up to help wash away the imprints of that person. Now I'm not so sure. I'm a girl who's done a lot of fucking for various reasons, but what's been so different for me this year is the relationship between my heart and my pussy. I met a man I could expose myself to more than I ever have. I could share everything - all the details of my compartmentalized life and still feel loved. I miss the companionship and the way that things come out of me with him that don't seem to come out with anyone else.

Sexually, I went deeper with him than anyone. I went deep with Andre, and I've been deep with a few other people but this had more permanence to it. I felt and hoped we'd be in it for the long haul. He was open, curious, accepting. He matched me sexually. He had a strong sex drive and could fuck with his heart and his cock. He had an amazing, conscious touch like no one else I've ever met. I felt held in all the vulnerable places I went to. And there were a lot.

I think I have my answer though. Yesterday, I thought I was feeling wanton, sexual, open, some embodiment of cunt, of femaleness. Craving a man, wanting to feel male energy. I rubbed up against (um, made out with) two different men. I had three orgasms but there was no kissing. And no actual fucking. I kinda felt better. But in the morning I felt numb.

Today, after crying, today after acknowledging how much I love this person and writing instead, I feel better. More in tune with myself. And more honest. It's him I miss, his brand of masculinity, his love, his touch, his cock. His. Smell. Hair. Arms around me. I'm sad, so so sad but at least it feels real.

Photo: Sam Taylor Wood, Self-Portrait as Tree

I posted this photo on my tumblr a few days ago, with a sad and pretty Goldfrapp song. I remember reading an interview with Sam Taylor Wood and she talked about taking this photograph. She'd been diagnosed with an awful disease and was staying out in the country. The light was hitting the tree in that surreal way it does at dusk. The other day when I posted it I was thinking of the solitariness. Now I think of that twilight - the hour when the door between worlds opens. It's the in-between hour, the time for portals. When things feel magical.