“My ass hurts and my legs hurt. It’s a sex injury. I wonder if I could get a grant for that,” I said. “I need a grant to buy more…cauliflower. To fuel me, so I can have more sex with you, and get more sex injury.”
My spouse and I were taking an early morning walk. It felt good to move slowly through the world and see what was going on, near home. I looked at the early morning clouds, and felt the joy of having a body. Even a body in pain.
Yes, this morning, both times I got up, I was amazed at the pain in the left side of my ass and hip. I made a sound I didn’t expect, and was like, “Jeeze–can I walk? Yeah, I can walk.” The scary pain was only at the beginning. It went from an alarming ouch of 6 out 10, down to a 2 pretty quick.
I always think movement is the best thing for my injuries and pains–to increase blood flow to the area by increasing blood flow in my whole body. Intuitively, movement seems healing.
So I’m grateful I could unhook movement from the drudgery and guilt of “exercise,” as I was taught to see it, as a kid and young person. So glad I could reclaim health as something I can define and do on my own terms. When I think I should walk for a certain amount of time, at a fast speed, for a certain heart rate, I feel depressed and angry. When I instead walk around casually and enjoy life, I feel happy.
“I guess I’m bad at writing grants,” I said. “I can’t think what else to spend the money on. A spreadsheet, to track each sex injury? Spreadsheet lessons? I can’t think of anything I need but love.” We were holding hands.
Yes, my material needs are well provided for, at the moment. The things I don’t have, I don’t want.
I got the sex injury last night. We arrived home from being out for some hours, and I was exhausted. But he came to me naked.
We were gratitude jouraling about one another. “I’m grateful that you’re not controlling, to me,” I said. “You help me be exactly who I am.”
“I’m grateful for the moon,” he said.
“Wait! We’re supposed to be gratitude journaling about each other!” I was laughing. “Am I the moon, now? I guess I could be…”
Then he read my last post. I asked if I could touch his balls, as he read. They were so soft and sweet. His dick was hard right away, but I concentrated on his balls, so lively, in my hands.
When he got to the frenulum part of what he was reading, I gently touched his frenulum. And I made that slow circle around the ridge with one finger, like in the post feelings. “Oh, god,” he said. But he could still read.
Afterward, he told me he liked the art I chose to go with it–he liked my writing. “What’s your favorite part?” I asked.
“The part about your fantasies,” he said.
“Yeah, I thought you would like that part,” I said. “What do you think my fantasies are?” I asked. By then I was rubbing his dick more energetically.
He could not hazard a guess. But something was exciting him. I guessed he did have a guess, but not the energy right then to articulate it. His thoughts weren’t wearing any language. That’s fine with me.
Love to your sacred inner life, sweetheart, and all that happens there.
The last three times we had sex were three blowjobs in a row–today, yesterday, and the day before, pretty similar. The kind of blowjobs where I’m propped up on the bed, and he’s fucking my mouth a lot of the time. So I’m getting yesterday mixed up with today.
The other main blowjob style is where I’m standing by the bed, bending over. I take my time and alternate blowjob with hand job. He’s lying back, and I act on him.
I think if I drink more water, I’m less likely to sex injure myself. My muscles getting tense and crampy, right before I come–it’s exacerbated by dehydration, I think. This desert is not easy.
My preferred rate of sex is once or twice a day, so these blowjobs are good for me. Sex is a way to increase bloodflow also, so it’s funny how the thing that can give me a sex injury, can also heal me.
“Tell me I’m pretty for you,” I asked him, while I masturbated and he kneaded my tits, then rubbed my nipples.
“You’re pretty for me,” he said.
“Do you like how I suck your dick?” I asked.
“I love how you suck my dick,” he said.
“Does your dick love me?” I asked.
“My dick loves you so much,” he said.
“Kiss me,” I said. He kissed me, and I was present with him.
When I came today, there was a wave of grief again. But it’s father’s day. My dad is dead–his dad doesn’t speak with him, and his kids, who are young adults, may or may not call.