Baby if you give it to me, I'll give it to you, I know what you want.

When you get home at 5:30 pm and you make good use of your time (i.e. don't watch tv or be online the whole time), it's possible to actually have two evenings worth of activities. The majority of my evening was chill and involved cooking dinner, playing with the dog, making a mix CD for Next-Door Coworker, talking on the phone with several folks, watching five minutes of the Elizabeth Berkeley Lifetime movie which was disappointing (I wanted trashy, not social-problem-of-the-week!), and reading. D'vil tempted me with going to see a showing of X-Men 2, which I really do want to see, but since it was a late night show in Evanston and I'm trying to pinch pennies, partly in anticipation of my roadtrip which is rapidly approaching, I passed. Instead, I went and got flogged. It was nice.

This was actually my first official time being flogged, at least in a real way that lasted more than a few hits, was done with nice equipment and wielded by someone with skill. While I was a bit of a lightweight, I'm still proud how much I sustained with relative ease. Had I been better-rested and in a more prepared headspace (I'm a better bottom if I know well in advance I'm going to be bottoming, though with certain people I don't need that much preparation), I feel confident I could have taken more and pushed not only my pain limits but also my stamina limitations, which sometimes present as much of an obstacle for me. Plus, it wasn't really a full scene but more of a test-run for both of us. Besides, bedtime beckoned so I gladly answered the call.

Last night I had bdsm dreams because of this, but mostly it involved floating accoutrements and not actual activities. Like my dreams had lots of costumes and props, though I can't remember any actual plots or characters.

I have a mix brewing in my head that started a few days ago. I wish I could go home and make it now. Work is always cramping my artistic style.

I'm full of foolish songs.

Today every breath draws in a living memory. I taste you, your air and scent that fills my nostrils and mouth when I’m close enough that we’re no longer touching. I taste the not-so-chaste kisses from a lunch date, smoky and salty and urgent and playful. I taste childhood springs and the heat from the sidewalk on the way home from school, afternoon freedom blowing in the windows on the bus, drowning out the screams and chatter. My mouth is filled with foods from summer barbeque and powerfully fragrant sweetness from azaleas and dogwoods and magnolias.

I look at myself in the mirror and think, I am a man who sometimes hides in his house, paralyzed by the energies of millions of bodies and unable to face the eyes and attention of anyone. I examine my legs and see something new and unfamiliar and I get excited at the prospect of getting to know it. I see my body for the first time every day. I catch my reflection in the window in the train and my first thought is to shift positions to keep from colliding the man standing on the platform before I realize the man is me and I can’t help but collide and merge into the image as it dissolves when the doors open and the night air pours in, releasing me from the metal box.

Sometimes I have this space in my gut, this empty sphere in my first chakra. It’s not a hole to be filled, but more complicated than that. It’s a space that occasionally itches and wants to be rubbed or maybe filled but only temporarily. A membrane longing to be stretched and pulled, so I can enjoy the sensation of it reforming and collapsing back into itself. I fill it with food, with cigarette smoke, with laughter. I stuff it full of images and sounds and melodies and lyrics and that point in the song where the violins swell or the singer’s voice breaks and you feel everything tenfold. My belly aches at times and I cradle myself under the covers, lying on my stomach with my hands across my chest. I feel heavy with life, not like depression but more like grounding. I’m no longer drifting off into another dimension because I’m stabilized by the fullness.

Tears originate from this place, or at least mine do. Others’ get stored there for safekeeping.

I think of those who can reach inside and touch the place. I crave those who know how. I’m craving it now. I can do it myself without any problem. Sometimes it’s familiar and I prefer that. Sometimes I’ve discovered a newness inside myself and I explore it like a new lover, intuiting where to go.

I swallow these memories and tastes from today and keep them warm inside.