Yes. This is dangerous.
We knew we had an expiration date when we started seeing each other. We are both polyamorous, and each of us have experience loving more than one person ethically at a time. “I’m not staying here, and I’m about to have surgery, and I won’t be having sex.” I didn’t pull any punches. Cards on the table.
He said he wanted what time was left. I wish I’d met him sooner.
Two months later, I’m laying in his arms, running my fingers over his chest. I am tripping over the words dancing on my tongue. He’s waiting for me to say it. “Read my mind..” I murmur into his neck.
He lifts my chin… “I love you.”
We both know how this will end. In two weeks I’m going to be 1,880 miles away, back near my hometown to heal from my hysterectomy, and reconnect with my community. He will be back to his life, and his girlfriend. I will be back to my love, and trying to build a new career. The benefits of sexual freedom are bittersweet sometimes. When love is dynamic, the changes can take time. It hurts to adjust.
We’re drifting towards an event horizon instead of orbiting a sun eternally. We will shatter. The time will come. Things that might have mattered don’t matter. Our politics are less than parallel. But he likes it when I tease, and I like it when he draws the line. We enjoy the moments. He makes me laugh when I’m nursing my wounds. “Babe, stop making me laugh, it hurts.”
“I’m sorry… Dead babies,”
There’s not many people who can live in the darkness I reach. Deep sea divers exploring monsters. We bare our teeth in laughter.
He understood me. I want to remember those moments.
Sex was great therapy. Two weeks into my recovery period, I can't have PIV (penis in vagina) sex, but my partner is a master at oral and super gentle with me. I've been a pampered princess lately too, so it also made me feel good to give something back. I love bringing pleasure to other people. Our foreplay included coloring, and putting Star Wars stickers on his face. Also I have a chain fetish the way other people love rope, so just hearing the sound and having him run the cold metal against my skin was exciting.
Someone asked me if I was having sex already. The answer is yes. Just not in the way everyone has been conditioned by patriarchy to believe what sex is. PIV won't be possible for a few more weeks, but I'm so grateful I have partners that understand how therapeutic dopamine and oxytocin and other pleasure induced brain chemicals can be, and that BDSM play can be sweet and nurturing, and not all about pain and subjugation.
I’m lying in his arms, his hand at my throat, and I’m trying to capture the moment on my iPhone. I close my eyes and think about what our dynamic might be had we time to keep going on the path we’re on, if there wasn’t an end to the space and time we could share. Photo flashes of what might have been, our life in growth of what was just budding. I was enraptured.
I let the emotion wash over my face, and tremble down my body to my fingers out of frame. He squeezed the sides of my throat gently, just enough to restrict air flow without injury to my trachea. I felt my pulse quicken on his fingertips. He whispered words that affirmed my fantasies, and built on them.
Later, we laid in bed and laughed at some of the pictures with my ridiculous facial expressions. “What the fuck were you looking at,” he teased me. We picked our favorites. “Gawd, you’re sexy.”
“Fuck. You are, love.”
“Babe shut up. You’re so fucking sexy.”
I only came out as a Kinkster two years ago. I haven't always been posting sexually suggestive photography on my social media profiles. Far from it. I've been hiding most of my identity from most of my friends and family, like many other people have to do when they life alternative sexual lifestyles.
I don't hide anymore. I want to be a sex-educator and writer that helps people see BDSM as something other than anti-feminist and violent. When I look at the picture of his hand on my throat, I don’t see violence. I see him at my side for three days in a hospital. I see him holding me up when I couldn’t walk three steps away from the bed to use the bathroom. I see him helping me breath through panic attacks. I see every foot rub, sponge bath, and celebration of one more step down the hall. I see make-out sessions on the edge of my hospital bed, and waking up in his arms to find that my nap had become four hours of drooling on his chest. I see the reciprocal care that is present in a healthy power exchange relationship.
I let this man who never left my side during my hysterectomy, who spent every hour filling my most painful days with smiles and comfort and love, place his hand around my throat.
I let him take my breath away.
Yes. I play dangerously. I dabble in pain. Sometimes I dive in head first and fall, and fall, and fall…
Sometimes I have marks to show for it. Sometimes tears. But I am always risk aware. I knew this would cut deep. Elective surgical removal of a piece of my heart.
But let me always be a disciple of love. I am not afraid of the edges. That’s when the love is at its most refined.