Naked

I did it.
It never plays as well as the fantasy.
Even blindfolded.
But I did it.
I made my demands,
laid them naked before us,
without ceremony,
without explanation.
I want…

If I’ve ruined anything
it was by taking and fucking.
Setting the stage for an expectation
that I don’t want to own every time.

I’m easy.
I know about pleasure.
My pleasure.
And so I know I am part of this,
This that I seek to undo, untie, unbridle.

I used to speak and not think,
now I think but don’t speak.
His withheld passion is a tourniquet.
Always his mouth is soft,
his touch gentle, tentative, waiting…

I take him.
I use him.
Waiting, hoping to be used.
So intent on the performing
he holds back,
keeping part of it from me,
or else why does every kiss have to have a moan, need
to need.

(And I ruin it some more,)
Shhh. Don’t speak.
Don’t make noises.
I say this.
To unhear gentle, passive.
I ask and my ask hurts.
I want to see the parts he hides away
that are scarlet and terrifying even to him.

A story I don’t understand.
The strong man made vulnerable, impotent from the simplest asking.
Honesty too bare and forthright.

I wonder.
If he had it to do all over again
would he free himself,
lose the judgment, the expectation,
Not put her on a pedestal.
Let her be real.
Not rescue her.
Teach her to fight.
To be free.

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