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2:09 a.m. - 2002-02-25
Feminist
We were there, and there wasn�t really an out at that point. I mean, it was dark, and it was nowhere, and there wasn�t any moonlight, so I wondered how I was even making out vague shadows. But I wanted him, so it didn�t matter.

I made him moan; I did that. It was involuntary, and I think he was even surprised. There comes a time to draw a line and regret it later, and I have done that every other time that didn�t exist in my imagination. It doesn�t turn out well, speaking from my experience, because I always did it in that chickenshit way.

Well, anyway, after the moan, I almost stopped me. The only one that could stop was me, because I was the only one starting. Ever ride horses? Ever taken one by the bit? Me, neither. But I imagine it is something like that.

The silence after almost did me in, but by that point, he was rolling over, and I had him. I did something I have never done. He was there, somewhere, and it was at this point that I realized that the line was already drawn, I just needed to cross it. There was alien skin there, somewhere, and hair, and breath, and something throbbing, and I had to reach out, move closer, you know? It was not mine, and I discovered I was angry about that, angry enough to act. I wanted something different, was tired of intimately knowing the same anatomy I had grown up with, seen in the shower and felt tensing right before orgasming, over and over. Fuck that.

My fingers were searching; they hit his face. I pressed downward, around the sleeping bag. A deliberate invasion, and it felt. So. Good. I found the hot thing, the pulsing thing, and he tensed. I was so wet, and dizzy; disoriented suddenly. Adrenaline and instinct kick in, and I am stroking the silk with limited success (fucking sleeping bag), and he is making sound hinting less at surprise and more at eager, though it�s a muffled sense of desire.

He doesn�t know what to do, and I don�t either; there is no line, and nothing but a few shadows and some fingertips where they don�t belong. The sleeping bag releases its resistence then, and did I do that or did he? Not that it matters, because then I am on him, and it is awkward, and I think, stupidly, that we should be out in the desert right now, there should be stars, or something, because this is so primitive.

The sounds are coming faster, I know they are coming from me, but I can�t make out the syllables, or even figure out how my mouth is contorting. He is breathing in puffs; exertion, and I wonder why, when he hasn�t really exerted anything. And the pulsing has become insistent; it is everywhere, concentrated near my hips and rippling outwards. I bite his lip and there is a sort of uuugggh sound pouring into my eardrum because he is pushing into me.

Then, I couldn�t really describe it. I was on him, you know, and it was sticky, and I could feel him there, rocking slowly. My palms were pressing into something cotton; I squeezed, he pulsed. All of this was involuntary, I think. He was muttering, something like, �fuck, yeah�, and something in me clicked on, and I began in earnest.

He was alive, suddenly, his hands were all over me, crushing my hair, pulling it, running downwards and upwards, grasping indiscriminately. Something was coming, like a visceral crescendo, and he was hurting me, and I didn�t even remember that part �till afterwards.

So that�s how it happened. Want, take, have. As Lydia likes to say, can you picture it? I believe you can.

 

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