expecting breath

Most of my lovers have been able bodied (and middle class, but we can analyze that another time). altho i’ve had a couple of lovers with what i would call disabilities...whether they acknowledged them or not. but this is my first crip lover. that is, this is my first crip on crip sex.

the consciousness is everything.

like a series of caves i’ve entered, one room leading to the next unexpected room.

sex, like life/survival, is so wrapped up in the pretense of ones ability to perform “well”. to impress with feats of mind boggling proportions. and believe you me i haven't been immune. relative to where i’m at i can pull off some fantastic hoop jumping antics if i’m turned on enough, or for whatever less than ideal reason like insecurity or competition or good ol’ internalized ableism.
its that super crip that kicks in when i just need a little more more more....to hell with the repercussions, i’m gonna fuck this person to a sensless puddle, or let them fuck me till i’ve surpassed reason and pain, leave my own bedazzling mark on their memory.

but sex is also when the monsters rouse from sleep. scars rise to the surface red and singing. adrenaline and endorphins penetrate the well protected pain of everyday life and carry it to the edge of the body, the rims of the eye lids, the tip of the tongue and fingers.

open. its dark and i’m using all my senses to find my way along the walls.

i’m getting too old to pretend anymore.

here under the steady gaze of this lover the sudden flood of tears or pain or memory or exhaustion journeys into and out of pleasure weaves brilliant tapestries of real fucking life exists outside of everything expected of us.

everything expected of us.

the shaking gaping aftermath like rings rippling on still waters surface. undiscovered, we enter the next dark dank room.

in this place,without the harsh light of pretense, breath is the only thing expected of us.

i won’t go back.