Archive for November, 2010

I don’t hate you.

Posted in Love, Men, Prose, Relationships on November 9, 2010 by alisonadventures



About two men

It was the passion that drew me.

The smouldering look in your dark brown eyes. How your hands would brush oh so gently over my body, breasts tingling, icy waves of pleasure at your barest touch.

The tormenting tease as I was tied to a pole, subjected to the stares and judgements of strangers, whipped harshly by black leather, cooled by the black silken glove.

I was your slave, your object, your plaything. I drawn into your power. You owned me in mind, in body, in spirit. I was an extension of you.

Master.

The sweetest surrender was to give myself to you totally. You calmed my jittery nerves, made me know everything was going to be ok. With you my stress melted away leaving me calm, whole. When you whipped me it built inside of me like waves, spilling out in cries and moans like an orgasm but higher, pain at its peak, the purest form of pleasure.

Our affair was brief, but the closest I have ever experienced. I had given myself so totally to you. When you left me I was devastated, myself once more, empty without your love, your assurances, your control.

Broken.

Thin girl scared girl panicky girl bones girl dead girl

Like a rough cloth doll I repaired myself, stitch by stitch, patching myself up where you had torn me, stuffing back the raw woollen cotton leaking out.  The smile a bit too thick, thread a bit too red but I made it. I survived.

Pick yourself up, wipe off the dust, put on the corsets and top hats and makeup, go for cocktails with the dashing young gentleman and maybe you don’t instantly fall for him and maybe your too much yourself with him, never letting the stony walls down. Maybe he never sees the real you, small and pink and raw.  And maybe he isn’t your other half, the missing part where you soul bonds with another’s like they have never parted. Maybe.

But he is real and he good and he is devoted. His smile sheds warmth and he makes you laugh. Maybe this is good, this is real this is healthy. Maybe.

It was the intensity that drew me.

Your slate blue eyes compelled me, sucked me into your world. We were surrounded by others but with you I was alone, together in our own separate galaxy. Just the look in your eyes when you glanced at me made the warmth rise to my cheeks, made me intensely aware of my appearance, my speech, my bearings. Like a schoolgirl with a crush, I was never at ease around you.

You spoke of travel, of business, of pleasure. Completely self employed, the world was your oyster. I envied your lifestyle, craved it for myself.
You were a magician, hypnotizing minds and perceptions, shifting others thoughts to fuel your own desires. I wanted to assist you, tour with you, be with you and apart from you. I wanted you I wanted to be you.

With you it was the passion, the energy, the lust. It was the ambition and the hours of conversation, the build up before the fire, words fanning the flame. It was the shared interests, the music, the sweat, jagerbombs fuelling our adrenaline rush. I did not submit to you but matched you, word for word, thurst for thrust. Supernova.

We were the stars of the future, rising faster and faster. Destined to crash and burn.

You used me.

Promised me the world, then walked away.

You enchained me, swept me away with promises, and I surrendered to the sweet release of your power.

You spoke of great cities, tours, performances. Lost ideas, drawings, plans that faded gently with the morning light.

I gave myself to you and you ended it without a backwards glance. It was just me, me with my text books falling to the floor of the brick campus courtyard, phone clutched desperately to my face as the tears streamed down my cheeks.

Broken. Shattered. All by myself. Myself. Myself.

I left everything for you. Relationships, friends, duty, self-respect. Everything to feel your touch as your possessed me. Everything for the solid warmth of your arms around me, falling asleep safe holding you.
Did our conversations mean nothing to you? Hours spent in each others company, the plans, the hopes, the dreams, was it all just a game to you? Were you scared? Did you become frightened by our intensity, how quickly we became one?  How I must have  looked I gazed entranced into your eyes, the expression on your face after your image had shed, the rockstar poser gone, all witticism and pretensions vanished and it was just you, stripped bare, lying naked next to me.
Maybe it was too much for you to handle, maybe you couldn’t quite surrender the way I did, desperate for the fire, the meaning, the one to rock my world and make me forget the banality of my own existence, my own suffering, my own pain.
Was it I who was the fire, and you the worshipper who left before you could get burned?
Betrayer. Asshole. Wanker. Fucker. Twat.

These are the words my girlfriends use for you,  these are the things I thought when you left me, hurt and bleeding and empty. These are the things I still feel, at first, when some unseen image of your enters unwelcome into my mind, when I find your Tshirt or mirror in my apartment and the hurt, held in check by loosly woven threads, gushes out of the floodgates of my mind.
The pain comes in spasms as strong as the pleasure did before it, the tears racking me like waves as I yearn to despise you, damn you and denounce you.
But I cannot.
How can I hate you without poisoning the things we did together? Our embraces, the events we went to together, enhanced by the feeling of you enjoying it with me, the wild parties and music and alcohol transformed into something higher, something purer because I was experiencing it all with you.
I was giddy with the intoxication of your hand in mind. I was drunk on your praise, on the promises, on the fantasy of being with you.
The beauty of the collar that never was, the trip that never happened, the performance that shall remain in sketches and smoke, ideas and ideals crumbling slowly over time, gathering dust, forgotten by you perhaps but not by me.
Are the bittersweet memories of all that never was made even more beautiful by the fact that they shall  remain ever unfulfilled?


Am I a fool, a romantic idiot clinging to the times we shared, times you so casually brushed aside?

Maybe.

But to me they were real. They were exiting and thrilling and heartbreaking and dangerous but dammit they happened.

I will not forget.

And I cannot hate you.

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