Monday, 26 January 2015

sultry room

I push my head back, feeling the fingers tighten around my neck, in a strangular motion, as all deja vu is recalling and all feelings flare up, like a forest fire, my mind playing cards with too much flashes of PTSD, as I keep working in the said room, cigarette dangling as I manage to take the said mop and do a circle, nearly slipping in the needle heels, grasping onto the mop as if it were a steady source to hold, but maybe it is when you’re left in queue to find out whether how much would it develop and how should you greet something people tell you you’ll start enjoying

The head is pushed back in a thicker motion, as the music nulls my ears, as I spread my hands, feeling the emptiness emit from both sides as I have no sense of self anymore, just wondering how much more theatrical do I look for myself, wondering how much more pale will I look in the mirror, detaching the acne for a moment

How much more tanned will I even look when the skin only reaches the colour of snow under any fucking light

As more photos were hung in the night, as I were told to sit down, eating peaches, only watching the taken photos of him with partners in different sex positions and I would only recognize pieces I had seen on television

I know we’re both dead letters to each other, as I mop the floor from the blood which is the just innocence of the photos which were taken, as if the person walking outside would be the sultry evidence

“Let there be the countdown to our deaths, then.”

You’re always the same and you cradle my mind in your hands, I don’t even need to give you a face anymore, you toy with all my emotions, playing with every single essence I’ve given you and crucifying me with every belief of every religion I’ve been given.

I’m in love and it boils me down.

I don’t want you to let me go, because you’ve given me a warming image of yourself and you’ve stripped me down to know everything for you’ve penetrated my mind

and i’ve never realized how pleasant it may be

to be oneself.

I scrub harder on the blood, now taking the mop in hands, humming and spinning, as if I could clean the walls with it

As if the blood could be cleaned from a red room. 

And all the smells which had brought me misery will go away, because you’re here, you give me the belief

you give me the belief

of intertwining illusion and faith

crucifying me

explaining and feeding.

don’t let go.

detach the image that i’ve been a woman.

let me believe my mania is my body’s new defense to thrive life.

P.S. Push my head even further, my eyes will surely be closed as you play with my breath, the desire sultrier that any letter I’ve written as you dismantle me

And coital makes no sense as the photos are of us in different positions, I bite the mop stick harder, watching as your fingers barely touch my neck, but they feel piercing as the details of our clothing is more evident that anything we’ve ever done and I wonder how could you have taken the photos and how much have you even pushed me further, how much have I clung onto your waist, leaving marks, wondering how fragile would you be with every motion

every fucking photo has some articled detailed of clothing

me pulling your fucking scarf

you hiking up my new gold skirt

it’s all about the clothing and not the sex

and I wonder when had I stopped believing or when had you told me you had stopped loving

or had I never even wanted anything

the thoughts of doubt shift with every song, as I trace the photos for no truth, no ending, no false




and why you’ve put on red docs on my feet and why am I exposing both you and me,

for you have left in my head

you play with my breath, increasing the grip, giving me a heavier orgasm. giving me anger, giving me the belief when you play with yours and I wonder who was even the one dancing in needle heels

and how come I had gotten your mania

and when had we even started dancing with the mop.

they say a person is a soul split in two

so would our mania makes us two?

i don’t know how to end when there’s no end to us, just the dance we’ve never had at the beginning and I don’t like the ending so far.

please end it with your desires, because you’ve been me longer.

it’s not an outcry, it’s your love which stains the walls

and do you choke me?

i’ve realized i liked hypoxyphilia

play with me.

let me pull you by your scarf, fucker


I guess you've those works which make yourself blush, so I'm just posting this nearly silently. I had a manic episode this evening and I had written desperately, every single thought, realizing that all of the Axe for Cork Extraction and all my surreal things were written in manic periods and so is sultry room.

I really enjoy being sexually open, so I keep being so.

The idea came from me discussing how I had become a dead letter to a crush. I'm more than explicit and it's one of those works, just like many sex scenes which I publish and because they're too revealing you just close your eyes. That's what I wanted. 

I was thinking the other day of Poppy Z. Brite's Exquisite Corpse which I'm reading and I enjoy gore, but I usually cary on weird novels like this, so I'll keep silent. Then I started thinking of Jean Genet's Maids which is a play I had seen live entirely acted out by men which had left the deepest of impressions on me. With tumblr recently it's been rather rough being trans and male, so I guess theatrical things have been a big line of thinking for me. And in the said play, the encore had one of the actors dance in needle heels and that left a profound impression on me and I have needle heels myself but they're frankly hard to walk in xD so I've been I guess accepting my male-side and opening my eyes to many things and reclaiming things I've enjoyed as my own such as heels and make-up. 

The story itself is very explicit and I have heavy PTSD, bipolar so those were described and used. I didn't bother with characters, it's all very from the heart and open, I guess. I'm in love and when you're manic it's not the best of state to fully write love is great when you're in an odd place. 

The P.S. was done when I realized that I hadn't written about the sex photos which were described in the first part properly which frankly to be honest, I had the thought of in a euphoric/orgasmic state? That's fucking explicit, but we're talking bout sex here. I kept wondering why I had a fetish of clothing on and it was rather vivid. So I wondered if I should draw it and the idea ended with being used as photographs in a story.

And I don't edit so I like well, Jamie, suck it up, write more and I was getting anxious where do I end it so that's why it's so panicky. When I'm manic I really push myself to the limits, I would close my room up and listen to Penderecki and Ligeti, so this is even subtle, pushing to make a proper love ending if you must.

I just wrote the last line, actually, realizing that I was holding back on the scarf bit. I have a thing for people with scarves, being a scarf person myself, I even recall Callie's scarves with massive detail.

I was triggered by cissexism on a cancer post, so that's where the only speech comes from, bacasue I've got very strong cancer background.

I guess I'm rather vers, so I always openly spoke about it, so naturally I spoke about penetration. I don't always talk about me penetrating. 

I love the blood and red room line, I like my own lines ok? xD I'm in a manic state I barely think, I write every single thought down, that's how my stories come out xD

I recently got diagnosed with bipolar and well, you become one with the person you love at times, so that was a play on that.

Dancing metaphor as usual, it's my story, sex, dancing and death xD

I love the sex ending, I love how sultry and I kept the bdsm feel I had intended even if the story ended up being different, but then I might continue. I always write about gay men, so why shouldn't I ? XD

Thank you for reading on me talking about sex



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