Tags » ‘Peroxide’
April 24th, 2015 by Professor Chaos
I am far too fond of alliteration for my own good.
I really appreciate everyone’s comments on my last post. They mean so much to me. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to reply. I don’t have the mental capacity to do so just yet.
It’s been a month since I was released from the hospital, and I’m only doing marginally better, physically. I still can’t tolerate much by mouth. Moderate to large quantities of clear liquids make me very sick and I can only handle a little “full” liquids at a time. My doctor tells me not to push it, to take it easy on my gut. But my stomach frequently complains how hungry it is, and that’s hard to ignore. Plus, I miss food.
I miss all the things I used to be able to do. Not just eating. I miss the things I used to do for stress or pain relief–baking, weight-lifting, taking baths.
Consequently, I’m doing much worse mentally. “For now” has, in my mind, stretched into “forever” and that’s hard to ignore. I’m still grieving. Others have projected an image of “toughness” onto me, and I’ve adopted it for myself, stubbornly trying to hold onto some vestige of emotional, if not physical, strength. So I project an air of “I’m doing fine” when I’m shattered inside. I’m still not able to work properly, and my supervisor is frustrated with me, which only makes me more angry with myself.
I’m falling into a lot of the same unhealthy patterns as the last time I was on TPN. This includes distraction from my grief–when I can’t work, I constantly occupy my mind with puzzles and music, audiobooks, or TV. This is not a thing I like to do. It feels empty, so I punish myself later.
And I’m also falling into the same relationship patterns I was as last time. And it kills me. Peroxide is a doll. He wants, desperately, to make things better. I recognize that he can only make things easier. I feel bad that this has come down not only on my shoulders, but his. And so, whether to punish myself or through a misguided attempt to “protect” him from the same pain that I’m experiencing, I push him away.
I did this with Shadow, before. And Peroxide’s feelings for me are much stronger than Shadow’s (and so are mine), so he’s willing to put up with more crap from me, and he won’t allow me to push. But he can’t keep me from withdrawing, so I do. Even though I don’t want to, I do. Even though it hurts me, quite possibly as much as it hurts him, I do. Because I don’t know how to do anything else.
Yes, I am in therapy. Yes, I’m trying to process. But trying is all I can do. The wheels are just spinning.
April 8th, 2015 by Professor Chaos
I haven’t been around much lately. I haven’t updated my Patreon in months. I haven’t posted much here either. I have a good reason for it.
It has been over three weeks since I have eaten solid food.
As part of my complex, multiorgan illness, I suffer from digestive tract paralysis. It’s an enigmatic, and for the most part, untreatable disease. It has rapidly progressed in the past six months, and I can no longer tolerate anything more substantive than clear liquids.
As a result, I am being fed through my veins until my gut has had enough rest. This process, known as total parenteral nutrition (TPN), is one which I find myself simultaneously terribly resentful of and immensely grateful for. This is not the first time I have been on TPN, nor will it, I imagine, be the last. (At least, I hope it will not be the last. The possibility of this lasting forever is too bleak for my mind to accept.)
I am adjusting to life on TPN. It dangerous, but it is not terrible. I have a bandage-wrapped IV line in my arm that never comes out and itches. I have a bag of nutrients and fluid to lug around for twelve hours a day. I have new and deadly risks to live with that require me to go to the emergency room at the slightest sign of them. These things are irritating, but immeasurably better than constant pain and nausea, than malnourishment and untrollable weight loss.
I am in mourning. I miss food. I miss being able to fully partake in the social activities that revolve around it without huge amounts of stress. I miss feeling properly human. The urge to eat is so primal, the lack of the ability to do so has plunged me into a pool of identity loss. I feel more artificial than animal.
Being chronically ill can be terribly isolating. I feel as if I’m outside of my “real” life, looking in at what could be, what “should” be, unable to reach it, as it passes by, without me. And I grieve and give voice to my grief, and if anyone happens to hear, they usually don’t know what to say, so they don’t say anything. I know people care and don’t know how to express it, but their silence adds to the feelings of loneliness. I see them express more sympathy over the flu than ten days in the hospital. I know why. The flu is relatable. People have had the flu, and they know it sucks. But few people know the grief I’m experiencing, and they don’t know how to relate. And so they say nothing, and I feel alone.
And what of the boy? He is wonderful, as always. He is my light in the darkness, my breath of fresh air, and all the other clichés that spring to a love-drunk mind. He does what he can, and it is more than enough. He makes me chicken broth and fancy drinks. He helps me with. But part of me worries that he will miss the woman he could cook for, the woman he could go out to eat with, the woman whose body and mind weren’t so brittle and breakable. And that my lack of ability to lead a “real” life will outshadow his love for me. And part of me feels I will never deserve the sort of sweetness he gives me, and that he will realize it. I fear this terrible thing, this thing I have no control over, will kill his love for me. Bad enough that it should kill me.
February 2nd, 2015 by Professor Chaos
On my way to the Thursday night dance, I pass by an area of town I don’t visit much anymore–not for any particular reason, just because I don’t find myself with any cause to go there. Walking past your old apartment, I am suddenly gripped by a memory, whisked away by nostalgia. I remember that first night, the first time I slept in your arms. You snored, so loudly it woke me up, but I didn’t care. I lay awake for a long time, not able to believe I was there, not able to believe how lucky I was (and still am). I was so unsure of your boundaries, unsure of what was and wasn’t allowed. I remember I asked you, awkwardly, if I could see you naked, if I could touch you, and you said “Yes,” surprised, as if the the thought had never occurred to you. How unused to being an object of desire you were back then! But you caught on quickly. You teased me a little, do you remember? Turning your back to me, not letting me see what I wanted until the last possible second, your lips curving into that mischievous little grin that demands to be kissed. But at last, you let your briefs fall to the ground (they were purple, do you remember? You wanted to impress me with my favorite color, and I was, although truthfully, I would have been impressed no matter what). You let them fall to the ground, and turned to face me.
And when I put my hand on your cock, you gasped.
December 30th, 2014 by Professor Chaos
A few nights ago, I, in my infinite grace and majesty, took a tumble down the stairs, the result of which is a significant bruise above my rump. The bruise is enormous–bigger than any I’ve ever had before, and is dark purple which Wikipedia tells me is called Byzantium.
This, among other things, has got me to thinking about marks.
I love leaving marks on H2O2, of all kinds. I carefully apply lipstick only for the purpose of leaving prints of my lips all over his face. I beat his ass to a lovely Byzantine shade, not unlike the one mine currently sports. Afterwards, every time he sits down, each resulting wince will remind him of me. I leave bite marks all over him. I write on his body–his chest, his ass, his cock. Loud and lovely proclamations that he is mine.
But marks fade. They are transient by nature. This seems like it should bother me, but it doesn’t. Their impermanence compels me to reapply them, frequently, in new and creative configurations; each kiss, each scribble, each bite a sign of my desire made manifest upon his body. My love emblazoned upon him, evidence that, despite whatever may come, I was here, this happened.
Chaos Was Here
October 19th, 2014 by Professor Chaos
Six and a half years ago, I started taking a medication that changed my life, drastically, for the better. There is no doubt in my mind that without starting this medication, I would not be writing this today–I would be dead, probably a couple of times over.
If you have been following this blog for any length of time, you will know that I am chronically ill. My health is not always under control, but sometimes I am granted respites from the tortures that are concocted for me by my body.
Before I began taking this medication, I was very ill. My stomach had lost the ability to empty into my intestine, and my intestine fared no better, no longer able to push food through it. I suffered from frequent blockages and bacterial overgrowths. I couldn’t eat much, and what I did eat, I couldn’t absorb. I lost a lot of weight very quickly. I was told that if I lost any more weight, I’d be given a feeding tube.
Despite the severity of my symptoms, it took years for me to be properly diagnosed. Six and a half years ago, I was finally given a diagnosis, and, even better, prescribed a treatment. It was a medication in the form of subcutaneous injection, a delivery method that frightened me and fully realized for me the gravity of my situation.
In all actuality, as scary as needles are for some people (a group of which I have previously counted myself a member), they are, in and of themselves, not terribly dangerous, and not particularly painful. Six and a half years after that first terrifying needle stick, I do not blink an eye at even the most particularly painful poke.
Since then, I have dealt with situations so much more painful than needles: all manner of trials and tribulations dealing with my health insurance and this medication. From figuring out how to dispose of half a dozen cold packs and a giant styrofoam container each month to making sure someone was home for the delivery man, from finding a place to empty my sharps containers to dealing with a supplier shortage, from prior authorizations to a shipment of the wrong needles to a shipment of the medication without needles, I have been through the fucking mill.
I currently await something far scarier than that first needle stick. In three days, I will give myself my last injection. In three days, I run out of medication, and I cannot get more.
Let me explain as best I can. I still don’t quite understand the situation myself. Insurance companies don’t aim to be understandable, or friendly.
A little over a year ago, I started a new program at a new school, and consequently switched health insurance. This is something I only undertook with much trepidation. In fact, health insurance played a key factor in my decision for what graduate program to attend. (It shouldn’t have had to, but it did. Uninsured, the health costs I would accrue over only a year would be more money than I have made in my entire life.) Fortunately, the health insurance at my chosen program covered all of my medications, even the injectable.
When I transferred my prescriptions over, I was filled with apprehension. What if my new pharmacy wouldn’t fill it? What if my new health insurance didn’t pay for it? What if they refused to deliver it to my tiny little post box at my tiny little apartment?
Unbelievably, the process of getting my prescription was completely smooth. It was a dream. They didn’t have to deliver it–I could just pick it up at the pharmacy. My insurance covered it, and paid for it without a fight, or even a prior authorization. The medication even came in prefilled syringes so I no longer had to deal with the not-really-a-big-deal-but-still-a-minor-hassle of drawing the medication up into the syringe and making sure I got every last drop.
I should have known it couldn’t last. I’ve been burned by insurance companies before. Earlier this month, the insurance plan year rolled over, and my insurance decided to use a new formulary (meaning a list of the medications that they’d cover). Under this new formulary, my medication is considered a “specialty medication” and only 50% of the cost is covered, meaning I can no longer afford it. Without warning, one of the key factors to my health and happiness was ripped from me.
Before you ask–there are no alternate treatments, there is no appeals process, there is no one I can talk to, there is no one I can send H2O2 after with a hickory stick. There is nothing I can do.
There is, however, something you can do. I don’t like asking for help–not from my family, my friends, or even my readers.
But this is also an opportunity–I’ve been considering recently, unrelatedly, starting a new blog. My writing has taken a turn for the steamy as of late–some of it erotica, some of it just more graphic than what this blog usually sees. It doesn’t seem appropriate for Lab Coats and Lingerie, but I have nowhere else to put it.
Instead of a new blog, I’m starting a Patreon account. If you want to be a patron, you’ll get access to exclusive writings about my fantasies, my sex life, and other things I am too shy to talk about here. If I can get one hundred and twenty readers to pledge $1/post, and if I post once a month, that will be enough to cover my medication. I may post more often, and you can set a monthly limit for how much you are willing to contribute. If you want to see what sexy thoughts lie within my twisted brain, and you want to earn my undying (literally) gratitude, then consider pledging, and please share the word. If, for whatever reason, you can’t contribute, that’s fine too, of course. Lab Coats and Lingerie will remain here, free to read, and continuing to update. You still have my gratitude for reading this far, and for supporting me with your desire to read my words. It means more to me than you can possibly know.
June 21st, 2014 by Professor Chaos
This is not a post about chastity. (Sorry, chastity enthusiasts. Perhaps another time.)
Before I knew I was dominant, I still knew what I liked. I liked to be in control during sex. I liked collars. And I liked locks.
I make jewelry. I have been making it for very nearly my whole life; without a pair of pliers in them, my hands feel empty, and they itch for the tools with which they can create. And, of course, when I started dating, I would make jewelry for my my sweethearts–handmade chains that they would put on reverently, wear religiously, and rarely remove. (One of those things that, looking back on, makes you say fucking duh.)
In my early twenties, I was in a monogamous vanilla relationship. I became restless. Something was missing from my life. I wanted something, yearned for it, but wasn’t quite sure what. During that time, I developed a fascination with lock charms. I began to collect them. I could not get enough of them. Every time I bought one, I became dissatisfied with it, and would soon find another that I would have to have. And yet, I did not make anything with my lock charms, nor did I want to wear them myself. I just kept them.
Heart-shaped locks with filigree details, locks with the key attached, small locks, delicate locks, chunky locks. The prize of my collection was a sterling silver clasp that was cleverly shaped like a padlock. It didn’t actually lock, of course, but it worked like a padlock, and I thought, like one does when one is twenty, that it was the coolest thing I had ever seen, ever, oh my god, I have to have it. I attached it to a rubber cord and wore it around my neck, once. That felt odd–wrong, somehow. Uncomfortable. I took it off, put it in my jewelry box, and left it there for years.
And then I met Peroxide.
Peroxide and I both love the symbolic aspects of D/s, and from very soon after we started dating, I knew I wanted to make him something with that clasp.
My boy, my collar.
This collar is delicate–its lightness belies its impermanent nature. It was not meant to be a forever collar–training, consideration, what-have-you, I call it a preliminary collar. Still, it is, if I do say so myself, quite pretty. It still has the original rubber from when I first put it together, but now I’ve added onto it with a bit of silver chain, a ropelike weave of which I am particularly fond. I was worried it would be too feminine, but Peroxide, bless him, cherishes it and wears it almost constantly.
Peroxide and I recently discussed ownership. This means that it is time for a new project for my plier-itchy hands, a new collar, a symbol for “forever.”
Gold and steel. Function and decoration. As strong as my love for him, as precious as he is to me.
We would like to use a real lock with which to close it. Unfortunately, as he discovered in his last relationship, he is sensitive to nickel, which makes most locks inutile. I have not yet figured out how to work around this problem, but I welcome suggestions. For now, the collar is one continuous chain, as unending and infinite as I hope our love will be.
As for my lock charms, they lay languishing in amongst my other beads. Their number remains steady, as my drive to collect them has vanished. I no longer feel as if something is missing; I’ve found someone who fits.
Image from http://www.sterlingsilvermall.com/
April 27th, 2014 by Professor Chaos
There is nothing I love quite so much as a man on his knees, in front of me. Giving himself to me. And yet, somehow, when he does, I become paralyzed, unable to take action, unable to take him, in the way we both crave.
We have done it. It has happened. This is not the first time, but it is one of the first. Our bodies are not yet familiar with one another, there are no comfortable routines to slip into; instead, we have touches full of wonder, trembling kisses, and an occasional awkward, fumbling disengagement when something doesn’t quite work.
Even so, our bodies have done pretty well for themselves, and they lay tangled together, exhausted. I am still on top of him, my hands cupped around his face, stroking it. His eyes look up from it into mine with a softness I rarely see, indicative of his vulnerable state. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for taking my virginity.”
“Thank you,” I reply, “for giving it to me.” I roll off of him, but his arms remain around me and his face turns toward me, his eyes, like his arms, not yet ready to let go of me.
“I’m yours,” he whispers. “If you’ll have me.”
Will I? I don’t know. Ownership of someone is something I have always longed for, but never quite reached, not by my standards, at any rate. It has been given to me in the past, unasked for and not necessarily wanted, dropped in my lap without any input on my part. That sort of ownership is not the same as one taken with intention, one discussed beforehand, considered thoroughly, and decided on together. That is the type of ownership I aspire to.
It is something I have wanted for ages. It is something I am not certain I am ready for. There are a number of factors to consider.
One is that, once again, it seems awfully soon to me. After all, it was not six months ago, that he belonged to somebody else. For me, collaring is nearly permanent, almost the D/s equivalent to marriage. It is not something I want to undertake lightly.
There is the responsibility of it all. I have spoken of this before, as well.
And then, of course, there is the commitment. I am more than mildly terrified of it. I have been independent for so long, and there is still a fierce streak of it remaining in me which I refuse to relinquish. I have always identified with the more playful aspects of BDSM, and I often think of myself as a mad scientist–calculating, hungry for power, but alone. Is there room for anyone else in my evil lair? While no scientist is complete without someone on whom they can experiment, I am still so very much afraid of this.
Still, I am awed as his willingness, his courage to offer himself to me like this.
And good test subjects are hard to come by.
March 11th, 2014 by Professor Chaos
Falling in love can be fucking terrifying.
He is, as he puts it, uncorked. I’ve just beat him to the point of tears.
The dam is unstopped
and we are riding
the wave of endorphins
It crests and crashes, leaving us shipwrecked in a sea of emotions.
He is trembling in my arms, vulnerable.
The intimacy of it all takes my breath away.
It’s okay, I tell him. It’s okay.
The last two people who confessed their love to me were friends, people I loved dearly, platonically, whose feelings I could not return. Consequently, I felt like perhaps there was something wrong with me, that perhaps I was incapable of love.
I love you too, I tell him.
And I do.
And it is scary. We have not been seeing each other for very long–two and a half months. It seems fast to me. I worry that fast means reckless, that we will spin out of control and crash. I have pulled the tears from him, have I pulled love from him as well?
The last person I confessed my own love to was Shadow, who did not, for various reasons known not even to him, feel the same. He cared for me very much, but it was, ultimately, not sustainable and we parted. At the time, I already felt undesirable, unwanted, perhaps a contributing factor. His lack of feeling just confirmed the whispers my demons told me.
I have spent a long time keeping people at arm’s length and not letting them in, for various reasons. To protect myself, to protect them, because they weren’t submissive, because of my illness. It felt like there was a piece of me missing. The hole in my arm led to a hole in my heart, unfillable, leaking out my sense of self-worth. I was unlovable.
I do not question the veracity of his feelings, or of my own.
I don’t have doubts, but I do have fears.
First of all, I fear for his heart. Not only am I the one who holds more of the cards, but I am older and more experienced than him, and I want to treat him gently.
He is afraid of it ending. I don’t blame him for this, as it is scary, and the pain of his recent break-up is still fresh in his mind. However, I can recognize the value in relationships that do not last forever. Unlike his last, our relationship does not have an expiration date. But all relationships end one way or another. This is not my fear.
My chief concern is his heart.
I have broken hearts before, and to do so breaks me. I want to care for him and protect him and love him, in the fierce, savage, tender way I’ve come to know.
I know he fears that he is not worthy of me, but I think he is.
I fear that he is not fully formed. That once he is, he will no longer want me. What if he is secretly a top and just doesn’t know it yet? What if he only thinks I am what he wants?
And, yes, I worry about my own heart. It has been broken too, so many times. By submissive men, by vanilla men, by women, by my own self. Can it handle any more?
And though I am afraid, though I am terrified, I know I must have courage. I would never forgive myself if I lost him through my own cowardice.
And so I resolve to keep my heart open, and I pull him to me, and feel his heart beat against mine.
December 18th, 2013 by Professor Chaos
Tonight will be intense. Tonight I will pull from him a fluid manifestation of his pain, but I am not going for blood. No, tonight, I will go for tears.
My voice is calm, my demeanor methodical, though my heart is pounding and my stomach is fluttering. This is unusual for me. Normally, I am unable to hold back my laughter during play, my joy uncontainable, my smiles so wide they hurt my face. Tonight, however, I am nervous; I have never intentionally made a partner cry before, but I am determined to do so now. I am wielding my “mean stick” as he calls it. Similar to a wooden night stick, it’s something like a cross between a cane and a paddle. Heavy and very, very cruel, it is one of my favorite toys.
My most favorite toy is lying on the bed, face down, naked except for his purple boxer briefs. Purple is my favorite color. He knows this, and that’s why wears them. This makes me smile. I aim right below the curve of his ass, above the line of the shorts.
He moans into the pillow, already in pain. “No warm up tonight?” he asks. Tonight is not about gentleness or slowly building pain. Tonight is about intensity. Tonight is about tears. “I am warming you up,” I say. “I could be hitting you so much harder.” I raise my arm above my head to demonstrate.
He twists and screams. “It hurts. IT HURTS.” I remain impassive, although I smile freely now, my endorphins overpowering my nervousness. I know it hurts. That’s the point.
My heart continues to race–no longer with agitation, but with excitement. My dominance is substantiated more as sensuality than sadism, and indeed I have never really considered myself much of a sadist. I do not think I am a very effective or skillful top. I do not think about ramping up the pain or whether something will sting or thud. I merely consider what I want, and then? I take it. And tonight, I am taking his tears.
“I. DON’T. LIKE. IT.”
“Hold still,” I tell him. He’s writhing around on the bed, and I’m having trouble aiming. I want to hit him repeatedly in the same place, to break through his body and tear the emotions from his soul and the tears from his eyes. But he won’t hold still. I move down his thighs. This hurts him more, and I know it.
“I want you to stop, I WANT YOU TO STOP,” he is sobbing. But it is dry sobbing. No tears yet. “That’s not the safe word,” I tell him. He moans: “I know.” I’m not stopping.
“It’s not about what you want,” I tell him. “I KNOW,” he cries.
My arm is getting tired, but I am resolute. No stopping. No stopping just yet.
“There are tears,” he sobs. “I’m crying for you, Boss.” I turn him over and see his face, red. For a moment, I think he’s messing with me–he is, by his own admission, “a bit of a brat.” But he’s not bratting me this time: I see a tear trickle down his cheek, a hard won spoil. The sight of it makes my heart do things I can only try to articulate, and I am awash with feelings which are raw and unfamiliar. They are, in a word, intense.
I gather him up in my arms, my brave, beautiful boy, broken by me, and hold him.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
We haven’t said our first “I love yous” to one another, but my heart is bursting with it. I do not think now is the time for those words, so I hold his face and make him look into my eyes, emoting as hard as I can. He senses my emotions and responds, quietly. “You’re very special to me, too.” His voice is ragged and my eyes prick. I wonder if I will cry, too, but I don’t. Tonight, the tears are his alone. I merely marvel at his beauty, his vulnerability, and my fortune that he is mine.
November 19th, 2013 by Professor Chaos
We met for coffee and immediately clicked. It may be because we have similar conversational styles, or that we are both squarely between being introverts/extroverts, or perhaps that he is just that wonderful. I was very excited to have a new friend in my new city.
The second time we hung out, he kindly accompanied me to a munch so I would have someone I knew (albeit barely) to make me more comfortable. We talked for hours, about many things. It continued to be easy to talk to him, and I continued to be amazed at how comfortable I felt with this boy that I had essentially just met. And I felt terrible about how much I wanted him.
I tried very hard not to flirt. I felt guilty. I felt elated. I kept having to remind myself that this was not a date, that he was in a relationship with someone, that I had to behave myself. And I did, for the most part. Still, when he dropped me off at my apartment, I made him get out of his car and give me a proper hug, and I reveled in the feeling of his arms around me.
When his relationship with Tavi ended, I felt sympathy for him. Break-ups suck, no matter what. I tried to quash any sort of hope that was kindling in my heart. When we made plans to hang out again, I told myself that it was as friends and that if something happened eventually, that it would happen, but that I shouldn’t actively pursue him, that I should give him time to heal.
We flirted a lot. I couldn’t tell if he simply liked the attention or if he was interested in me. (I am also remarkably dense. I am terrible at telling when someone is interested in me.)
I went to his house. I tried to teach him to dance. We talked. We walked to the dance venue and he teased me about my height. I jokingly threatened him. I took his arm as we walked in the venue. I wore my “dancing outfit”–pants which accentuate my butt, and are easy to dance in, and a top that leaves my shoulders bare. He complimented me and I wondered if he liked me.
Dancing with him was amazing. I spent the night with him in my arms, making him blush and stutter and stammer, unable to meet my eye, and it was delicious. When I feel comfortable with someone, when I have an indication that they’ll be receptive to it, I have a flirting style that is aggressive, almost predatory in nature. I let them know I want them, and give them a hint of just how much I want them.
At the end of the date, I wasn’t sure what to do. I wasn’t even sure it was a date. I am normally more than comfortable making the first move, but I didn’t think it was right, so I gave him a hug and awkwardly ran away (much like Clarice here).
Our next date, he cooked for me. I love to bake, but I can’t cook very well. I love it when a man cooks. Not only is it nice to eat home-cooked food, but it makes me feel special, somehow, worth care and effort.
I have a thing about foot rubs (I LOVE THEM). Knowing this, and knowing my feet had been aching from being on them all day, he offered to give me a foot rub. I sat on his bed and felt his fingers on my arches and looked at him kneeling on the floor in front of me. And I could no longer resist.
I asked him if I could be radically honest with him and he said yes. “Look,” I told him, “I know you just got out of a relationship, and I really want to be respectful of that, but I also want to throw you down on the bed and have my way with you.” He immediately became delightfully blushy again, and averted his eyes and muttered something along the lines of “Oh thank god” and “I think I like radical honesty.”
I told myself I wouldn’t kiss him till our third date. (For those who are wondering, it was REAAAAAAAAAAAALLY HARD to do that.) I kissed him, the way I always kiss boys, forcefully, aggressively, and hard. And then we spent most of our third date kissing. His lips are soft and wonderfully responsive, and he reacts to my touch in all of the ways I hunger for, the ways that spur me on to touch him more, kiss him more, hurt him more. Simply put, he is what I have always wanted, what I have always imagined and hoped and longed for in a partner.
Our dynamic feels very, very natural to me. I can be myself, every aspect of myself, around him. I haven’t felt like this about someone in a very long time, and I am so very happy.