self-love wolverine

“Your arm is so pretty,” I said, admiring its muscles and smoothness, his beautiful light brown skin.  “If I was so pretty as you, I would just lie in bed and masturbate…all day!”

We shared a smile about that.  I get confused, sometimes.  My friend built a staircase-porch so beautiful; I told him–if I could make such a beautiful wooden thing, like a work of art but functional, I would never be sad ever again.

The handy friend replied something about my writing.  But what are words.  I said it would take a lot of words to help someone get into their house.  He said I could stack books as the final step.

I have a friend who’s so very gorgeous and makes the most beautiful music–her voice is angelic.  Once I heard her say she thinks of killing herself, and I was full on amazed.  I thought, “If I was that beautiful, I would love myself so hard.  I would treat myself as the most valuable, precious material in the world!”

But everyone gets sad, right?  Maybe she could see my excellence, but not her own.  I guess it goes that way, sometimes.  I could try to imagine myself as my mom saw me, or as my spouse sees me, or my bestie.

It can be hard to claw my way out of a sad mentality.  Like a wolverine, clawing my way.

We were having sex–I was caressing his ass and legs, as I sucked his dick.  I liked how it felt when my bottom lip bumped his balls.  Could there be any better feeling than that?

I liked his small sounds, getting a reaction out of him.  Feeling available and loving him, with my mouth, hands, and attention.

He had one hand on the wall, one of my shoulder.  When he was going to come, I moved his hand to the back of my head.

He pushed my head down on his dick, and I liked it.  He came for a long time.  I liked accepting his semen.  Mostly it pumped down my throat, but I could still taste it, salty.

I liked how he came for so long.  I felt a rush of compassion for his beautiful release, caring for his body and emotions, as he was in that vulnerable place.

What if I could love myself so good, that I could just masturbate all day, charmed by my own breasts and smile?  Or just my own goodness, all appearances aside.  If I could be that kind to myself, to consider what I do valuable.

I can’t maintain self-love all the time, but I can have moments.