Death, Sex, and the Muse

Thursday, I ordered "Denial of Death", a book that among other things suggests mental illness may be result of getting bogged down in the failure of your own hero's journey. Friday, Amazon sent me links to romance novels. 

(I have never in my life bought a romance novel or even perused them online or in person). I think Amazon's algorithm is drunk. That, or they decided based on the last bunch of books I ordered that I need to lighten up. :) Or get laid. 

They may be right.

In other personal news, the Muse delivered a story to my feet early Friday morning. Like 5 a.m., per usual. The Muse is an insomniac, or else functions on European time zones. I figure where the Muse is from, Time doesn't matter because she darned sure acts that way when she interacts with me! 

I was literally walking from the bathroom to my bedroom when Persephone started telling me the story. Nearly unconscious, I had just enough brain function remaining to remember I have a voice recorder on my phone. So instead of staggering downstairs and writing, I dictated the skeleton of the story. 

Then I went to sleep. Score for modern technology! So a new short story will be forthcoming. Warning: It is dark, post-apocalyptic, not warm and fuzzy. Shades of T.S. Eliot, even.
            ~~GH

Guest Singer: Richard Thompson

Incredible lyrics. Such an intimate and poignant story. Notice the third verse, which shifts into a new arrangement as well. The narrator reflects on the intimacy the two shared, or is that merely a metaphor for smothering himself to please her? ~~GH

RICHARD THOMPSON
"Sunset Song"

(Richard Thompson)

With you or without you, love,
I must be moving
Never meant to linger here so long
With you or without you,
Though it breaks my heart
To hear the Sunset Song

Wasn't that a time we had,
And bless you for it
But I'm a stranger here, I don't belong
The band's down on the jetty,
If you cup your ear
You'll hear the Sunset Song

You said, if I hold my breath
Dive down deep enough
I might grow fins
Seems to me I've held my breath
Held my breath to please you
Ever since

Early morning, that's the time
For fare-thee-wells
Slip out of the warm sheets and gone
But I long to hear it as I walk away
To hear the Sunset Song

In your waking, in your dreams,
I'll not be martyred
On that cross where some say
I belong
Opinions are coffins, I'll just trust my feet
To find the Sunset Song

Every day I'll wear your memory
Like a favourite shirt upon my back
In the hallway, there's my suitcase
By the door, I never did unpack

With you or without you, love,
I must be moving
Never meant to linger here so long
With you or without you,
Though it breaks my heart
To hear the Sunset Song

Authenticity

Caution: Frank sexual topic ahead. Bail now if you have delicate sensibilities and/or do not want to read a blunt discussion about sex. I did not write this -- I wish I had. Maybe I will write something similar soon. I feel every word of the following essay.

I found this essay in several places, but never saw a title associated with it. So I dubbed it "Authenticity." ~~GH

Okay, as soon as you get to the bottom of the image below, the text begins immediately. 

Last chance to bail. 3, 2, 1 . . .

Sex is not a goddamn performance.

Sex should feel as natural as drinking water.

It should not require confidence.

Sex should happen, because the moment is ripe.

Ripening lips, ripening labia, ripening cock, ripening pupils, ripening state of being. Ripe and augmented and brimming. Your energy goes to your pumping heart, then to every external nerve, then to theirs, on fire.

You bask, roll, play in it. You sigh, moan, laugh.

It’s not about being “good in bed.”

It’s about being happy.

One should never worry if they’re doing it “correctly.” Sex is not factual. I don’t want your cookie-cutter sex, I don’t want your meticulously crafted, calculated, fool-proof fuck. I don’t want a show. I want you. Let your instincts, urges and whims define that. It’s enough.

What do most girls like? Forget about it. Statistics are meaningless when there’s only one. Hello, here’s me. Here’s you.

Don’t worry about taking it too slow. We got time. We got infinite rhythms, combinations, possibilities. Explore each fuck. Take our time. We can do a different one later.

Don’t worry about making me come. I’m here. Right where I want to be.

I am overwhelmed by wanting; you don’t have to convince me. I want you because I like you. So don’t put on a front. Don’t taint this.

I’m frustrated—it’s just authenticity I want.

It’s originality.

It’s passion.

It’s joy.

Don’t say that something I like is ugly. Don’t compare yourself to the rest. You will live and die with and within your experiences like everyone else. If someone thinks you are amazing, they are not wrong. Their universe is as real as any other; it is forged through perception.

I don’t care if you accidentally slammed my head into the wall, if you slipped out, if my arm cracked, if the delightful pressure of your wet lips on my anything made a silly sound. There is no right way and no wrong way.

“Good in bed,” what.

You’re good in my bed. I’m pleased you’re there. I feel it suits you.

Shove your technique. Let your memory swallow it. Fuck me like you’d fuck me, fuck me like you feel.

This isn’t a test. ~~ [author] skwyrtle

Wrestling Boys in Cars

A sweet walk down lovers' memory lane, "R" rated.

Wrestling Boys in Cars

The switch turned on when a boy's hand came in contact with my hair.

When he made the tender, almost sacred gesture of smoothing back my long hair to expose my neck to his hot kisses, electricity coursed through invisible circuitry along my spine and sparks flew in an area far removed from his attentions. 

How I loved feeling so alive, so fully involved and caught up, so helpless yet so in control – panting and heaving, my chest rising and falling against his as he tried to gain the best advantage, fumbling and pushing as I gasped and demurred, murmured and resisted.

Kissing was the best. It was clumsy business until the logistics got worked out – whose head tilted right, whose tilted left, where did the arms go, how would our weight be supported – would I even allow a kiss? But once the details fell in place and skin met skin, we became raw sensation, pure nerve and sensuality, tongue in quest of tongue, lip sucking lip, simulated pumping and seeking of hidden treasures – promises yet to keep.

Fumbling. Sometimes there was fumbling, and oftentimes clutching.

The boys who fumbled or clutched in desperation, reaching for a breast or trying to seize a nipple like a purloined chocolate bar from the corner store were doomed to failure. They made what we were doing seem bad; they made me feel dirty and allowed my mother's cautions to filter through my physical sensations. 

The boys who coveted my breast and eased their way around massaging and comforting and slipped needily but naturally into my shirt were the ones who earned the prize. The ones who paid homage to the harnessed breast, then gently and patiently worked their way beneath the harness – they were the ones who earned bare nipple prizes. They were the chosen ones who suckled, who marveled, who whispered in amazement, "I've never seen such large breasts before!"

On rare occasions, there was dry humping. Grinding. Leg against crotch, sometimes knee against crotch. Sweating, panting, eyes closed, murmuring, begging, twisting, moaning, pushing, pumping, moisture, wonderful strange salty scents. We'd shift positions, mash mouths together, see each other out of focus, wonder who this stranger was with glassed-over eyes and wild hair, this person with their hands on every part of our body at once and still not touching just the right place. 

Sometimes a boy would commit the ultimate offense and try to unzip my jeans, or his own. The sound of brass teeth hissing was enough to break the spell and snap me back to an upright position. "No, we can't." Somehow we'd sort it out, make our peace, stay within society's limits while we danced a dangerous tango of desire and devotion -- not to each other, but to ourselves.

Narcissistic, needy, selfish and salacious, our youthful yearnings made us frenzied and left us frustrated by the end of the evening when we said our farewell's and exchanged good-night kisses.

© 2005 Ginger Hamilton Caudill sadly has since matured and no longer wrestles boys in cars.

Sexless in Seattle; or "No Sex For You"

Warning: Frank discussion about sex life ahead. Feel free to bail if you wish. No body parts mentioned, one act referenced. Would be considered PG at worst, I imagine. ~~GHC

Sexless in Seattle, or “No Sex for You”

I don’t say this is universal truth, just that this is truth in my own life. Desire for sex is closely tied to desire to prepare food. When the type of food I prepare is ridiculed or insulted, I feel much less like having sex. When the food I prepare is disparaged as in “I only eat because I don’t have enough sex” then I am even more unwilling to prepare food. When my worth as a human being and especially as a wife and partner is equated with whether I rise and prepare a hot meal for breakfast and stop what else I’m doing to prepare a hot meal for dinner, I feel much less like giving of myself in either area – food preparation OR sex.

I used to revel in food preparation. I wanted to find new and exciting ways to prepare food, new foods to experiment with. I wanted to share these experiences with him. I wanted to sample new tastes and textures. What I got in return was disgust, rejection, that’s-not-how-mom-makes-it. “I’ve never seen it done THAT way before.” This made me feel shame and embarrassment.

“You’re so nasty.” Hard as I tried to wrap my head around how those words were a good thing, I did try to wrap my head around it somehow even though it went against everything I’d ever thought about myself. That I think was the beginning of the disconnect I came to feel about sex. I didn’t want to feel nasty. I didn’t want to be a bad girl. I didn’t want to be punished. No, thank you, spanking is not sexy to me. I was beaten and abused and horribly punished throughout my life. I don’t equate those experiences to healthy, happy sexuality. I see sex as a positive thing.

I began to see sex as dirty, to see him viewing sex as dirty which made me feel dirty because I didn’t see sex as dirty. Which after a long, full, rich sex life started seeming dirty. Which in turn was confusing.

Sex is a gift. Sex is a trust experience. Sex is me being open and giving and trusting and free and happy. Foreplay is the entire day preceding sex. Hearing how useless what I’m interested in doesn’t make me feel open or giving or trusting or free or happy. Devaluing my experiences doesn’t turn me on. Having my requests ignored – nay, spit on – doesn’t prepare me to have sex. “Please don’t block my side of the couch with objects.” I come home, my side of the couch is blocked with objects. Daily. I come downstairs in the morning after he’s been there. My side of the couch is blocked with objects. I literally have two, possibly three requests I make of him. This is one: Please don’t block my side of the couch with objects. It’s just disrespectful. It is.

Conversely, he has innumerable requests of me. Concerning spaghetti, for instance: Don’t use the whole wheat noodles. Don’t get the meat kind of sauce. Get the garden vegetable sauce. Don’t get Prego, get Ragu even though you prefer Prego. Cook ground beef to include in it even though you don’t eat ground beef in yours. I like it when you add in mushrooms, lots of mushrooms. Make sure you cook the noodles long enough that they are mushy. Be sure to add parmesan cheese. I refuse to eat leftover spaghetti. These, you see, are requests just about spaghetti. I just want to be able to sit down in my place in the living room without having to move six things.

Why does he think it’s a power issue? I don’t want/need/even feel like I hold ultimate power over sex. I am however one of two people necessary to create this sexual being called us. I should have at least equal say in the experience. If I don’t want to participate, then I won’t.

Today I blurted out to him that the reason *I* get to say when we have sex is the same reason why if I want him to eat and try to force-feed him food, that he has a say-so and the right to decline it. It doesn’t matter how much I want him to taste it, or that I made it for him. What I didn’t say is that if I really want him to eat it, maybe I should try to entice him by describing the ingredients or how good it will taste or how much I love him or why it would be good for him, or I dunno, maybe in lieu of manipulation just say that I have something good to eat and see if he’s interested. I imagine if he’s hungry, he’ll come to the table.

What I want is to share my very being, my essence with him. I want to be heard. I want to be felt. I want to -- well -- share. I want to pour out my spirit to the human being I have chosen and who has chosen me to spend our mortal existence with. And when I feel cut off from doing that, when I feel unwelcome and unwanted and unappreciated, when I feel my entire value is how often I spread my legs or give head or cook food, I want nothing less than to spread my legs or give head or cook food.

When instead of asking what’s wrong or listening to what’s wrong or even appearing to CARE what’s wrong, he makes shitty comments like “it’s hard to care when we have sex every ten months” – see, that just reinforces to me that my feelings don’t matter and not only that, the fact we had sex a few weeks back doesn’t matter either because as long as it’s not the way HE wants it to be, it will never be RIGHT so it doesn’t matter. I don’t withhold sex because I can. I withhold sex because I am no longer willing to participate in a one-sided unrewarding activity I am totally disinterested in (and the funny part is that the only sentence in this entire essay that will be understood, retained, and repeated endlessly in the future will be this last one). It won’t matter that I am hurt and feel abandoned and devalued. It won’t matter that I want more than he does to feel passion and love and romance, that I crave acknowledgment, that I beg for attention on a real and deep level. It won’t matter that he could have a raging sexual maniac for a wife if he would only treat me as an equal human being with feelings as valid as his and at least as deep as his.

It won’t matter that he could be experiencing the best sex he’s ever known on a frequent basis, so much sex that’s so good his head would spin from it, if he’d just stop worrying about his damned self all the time and his own needs and feeling so neglected. He is spoiled. And like all spoiled people, he’s lost connection with anyone but himself. I’ve created a monster by not holding him accountable. And for that, I am accountable. And for that, I suffer. Terribly. And for that, I have no answer, no way back from as far as I can see because he refuses to listen to my side of it, to hear how I feel or to look at himself.

So here we sit. Sexless in Seattle, except we aren’t in Seattle. But we are sexless.~~GHC

I apologize for the personal nature as well as the ranting nature of this post. I'm sure you cannot think of a word to say in response to it, and that's okay. I considered not posting it at all, like ten thousand other things I've written, but I decided that SOMEONE SOMEWHERE might benefit from reading it and, for me, that would be enough.