The Bones are Horrifying

Photo credit: The Artidote

I wrote the bones. It’s been a struggle for months and this weekend I did it. I wrote all about sex with my ex. All the things that I had been suppressing, throughout and since our relationship. All the things that I had been holding inside came out.

 

I can’t figure myself out right now. I’m exhilarated and gleeful to have written all I did. I am proud of the writing that came from it. I am proud to have been honest and authentic and raw in all the ways I’ve been struggling to in my writing.

I am grateful to the man who prompted it. The man I wanted to explain myself to, the one who I have known for 20 years but haven’t seen for 20 years. My pen pal, my erotic long-distance affair, my sweet dear sub, my little dark-haired one who is always there for me when I need a reminder of my true sexual and passionate self.

He hasn’t understood these changes in me that have happened over these last 5 years and I didn’t know how to explain to him that I was me but not me until now. The me that used to be there, the one he met so very long ago who introduced him to the welcome world of guilt-free sex positivity, was struggling. But he read what I wrote this weekend and he understands now, and I am grateful. I know he will help. No matter what, he is always there for me, to remind me how powerful and passionate I am, and how much pleasure he will give me if and when I choose to allow it. He reminds me the option of being a sexual being once again does exist for me. I am in control with him, you see. Always. There is no reason for fear. This is why he is so special to me.

But I won’t see him, and I won’t be made love to by him. Not now, possibly not ever. He is worlds away and I am not so frivolous that I might take an unplanned vacation, hop on a plane and go to him. Someday I’ll see him again, I’m sure. Not now.

Now, I am sitting on my couch. It is early afternoon. I stayed in bed until noon. I called in sick. I took a mental health day. I needed today to recover. I couldn’t go to work without skin on my flesh. I couldn’t be there feeling as raw as I am.

So, I shall sit and re-watch Downton Abbey for the rest of the day and eat far too many Oreos while I try to get away from the thoughts and memories and feelings my writing has conjured. It’s not altogether a sad day, though. I am overjoyed to have finally written down the bones.

One thought on “The Bones are Horrifying

  1. Pingback: My Little Dark-Haired One – A Twist On Life

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