A day in my brain

It is difficult for me to write about sex every week, but I’ve committed to myself until the end of this year and then I’ll probably evolve again, though I honestly hope this blog stays online, I don’t know in which form that’s going to happen. Honesty is not about truth, not for me, so it’s gonna be ok. I’ve changed the content of this domain so many times! Some of you probably remember me from my modelling days, and oh boy I did that for more than eleven years of my life and I know I did a good job and learned good stuff, I became very sensitive and receptive, I can spot a creep from the way they structure their emails. Isn’t that a life skill? It can save your life if what you do for a living is taking your clothes off, whatever that job is. And I still do, and I will for a while, in different ways, trying to be honest, honest to myself before anything else.

So, I know I tell that every damn time in my newsletters, but I am trying something different here, so this page should look like my journal, if I had one. I love to be honest and open, and for some reason I like to share my thoughts with the world, with you, I like to take you to a safe space and explore with me, or just say hi to each other at a crowded party, do you know what I mean? It’s like having your best mate who looks at you across the room to make sure you’re ok on your big serotonin and dopamine trip you thought was a great idea twenty minutes ago but now you wish they were meticulously analysing the texture of your hair instead of rubbing their dry hand onto your clit, or your dick for that matter. I am the friend that bangs on the door shouting your name, dragging you out of that, making you tea and then we can also make out a little bit because we know it doesn’t mean we’re in a romantic relationship now.
This blog is that feeling, a quiet morning and a soft come down, everyone is asleep, someone is preparing for work, and we are here, in this mess, we’re tired but have still so much to say it would be outrageous to pass out now even if in each other’s arms.

I remember this one morning in 2013 in Kazakhstan (that’s where I was born), there were Denis and I after a night out, I was coming back from a tragic but cringe break up with someone I dated for two weeks, he played a gig and then came to rescue me. I was so glad to see him! And I wasn’t high, nor drunk, I wasn’t expecting anything, I just wanted that person, at that moment my life did feel perfect.
We walked the dark streets of Almaty, talked about buildings, flats, people in the flats, us, he seemed sad I was leaving the country in a couple of weeks, I wasn’t surprised, we could have had a wonderful relationship. We finally approached a 24h café, had some kuksi, he had some more whiskey, I had coffee and then we watched the sunrise and I will never forget how the light bounced from glass to glass, to his eyes, to my skin, I felt so infinite it hurts and my heart misses a beat each time I close my eyes to remember that feeling.

We then called a cab and went to his place and spent an hour playing with his kitten (I know how that sounds but it was an actual cat), we then had sex, and it was weird. It was great! But it was weird because what I felt at that shitty café was so much more than this. I was talking to Alessandra the other day, and she reminded me again that not all the sexual tension is meant to be untangled and consumed, and I agree now... but can’t explain exactly why. I don’t think me and Denis are compatible in bed, he is too dominant and, I don’t know, bold, harsh, dry? He is great but I like it slow, sweet, very wet and always on the edge. In my head, dry and wet are also a state of mind, not only a physical condition. I love it raw and strong but it has to change, it has to have a dynamic as schizophrenic as my mood, and even though I like a more dominant presence, I’d rather have it more fluid, constantly changing who’s in charge, who is in control, who can let go... I’m queer and fluid, fickle and unpredictable but I always know what I want and try my best to communicate that. I can’t go thick about sex, sex is not a piece of wood, sex is water and I am the Moon.

Anyways, without going too philosophical about my life, I am having fun, and I sometimes cry too and that’s fine unless it’s because I didn’t listen to myself, to my body, to my mind. And I’m glad to share that with you but not all you read is true. It’s honest! But not always true. So take it easy, I’m a writer, maybe not a good one but there is not much else I do as easily and freely so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for a while. You are here after all. But take it easy. I love you.

Listen to the dark room

I walk in and look around; I don’t see much, there is someone’s leg over there, that shape is of two people kissing, I’m not sure. Someone just touched my right arm, it’s a sense of longing that I don’t want to be part of, and so I keep walking.
I get to the sofa in the end of this corridor of mystery, I sit, I close my eyes, I listen to the moans and whispers, it’s a background of pleasure and if I listen carefully I know exactly what is going on.

He is slowly getting inside her, it’s the best part, it’s the only conscious part of the whole fucking, when her body is awakening for the second time to his presence, when it opens to him a bit unwillingly therefore each cell in the body freezes and their atoms oscillate and vibrate a bit differently for a fraction of a second. They are not them for an instant, and they would look into each other’s eyes to find themselves if it wasn’t so dark.

I recline my head and just feel the sounds. The air is so thick it’s like I am having sex with all these people.

He is still slow, she holds her breath and dies in his arms to be reborn a second later in his exhale. She is very wet, it is perfect to go faster but he keeps holding so she has no choice but to move her hips forward. It’s that sense of longing I don’t want to be part of, so I shift my attention to a person standing alone on the other side of the corridor, right in the corner so no one can see them. Who is the real voyeur, my friend? Is it you hiding like a thief, or me pretending I am not here in plain sight?

I could spend here the whole night and collect people’s stories, and never understand why I wanted to be part of this when it’s fine to sit back and observe myself in others. Do I have to feel sexual to describe sex? Do I have to be sad to talk about my feelings? Do I have to be joyous to smile? Can something be intrinsically beautiful without arousing feelings? Can I be part of this without touching anyone, not even myself? Do I have to be here for my mind to be stimulated? The answer to all this can be –no-, but will it ever be enough?

A sunny day

Are you checking me out? Are you listening?
I don’t know what I’m saying and I think I’m dissociating whilst in reality it’s just my mind wondering how it would be to kiss you midst smiling to something I said, to something you did, to something we avoided the eye contact about.
I can feel the sweat on my chest, and there is a little drop running down my back; I am focusing on that and I am not listening, and you are not talking, we’re just gazing away and I like the way your hair gets in the way of my straight thinking, I can feel it with the corner of my right eye.
I want you to obfuscate my entire view, to just sit on me and hug my body with your long legs and squeeze until my ribs hurt and my dick hardens under your weight.
I want everyone to see you chose me on this sunny day that could have belonged to anyone but it’s mine, and I am yours because I belong to no one and a moment matters only that much.
I want to lick your salty neck and put my sticky hands on your back, your belly, slip my fingers into your jeans and feel that you want me too, that your body is connected, and my brain is aching because there is no blood left to nourish my confusion.
It doesn’t matter, fuck it doesn’t matter anymore, for now, here, when I cannot distinguish your smell from mine as we’re breathing onto each other and it feels right, don’t you think it feels right? Why are you here? How do you cum? How do you sleep? Where will you go?
“You know when you want to laugh so hard but you can’t cause it’s inappropriate? Doesn’t it make you laugh harder?” you ask. Oh I know what makes me harder, I think, and I stare at you like an idiot. I’m sure you’ve noticed my absence but it’s only because I am actually closer to you, I am in fact in you, in every way, in every instant, how can I be so distant when the only thing I want is to reduce the meter between us to zero?
“Shall we go? I’ve got my appointment”, fuck, I think, fuck.
“Can I walk you there?” last chance.
We walk and I am trying to come back to myself, so I don’t know what I’m saying, I know it shouldn’t be so much about me. I’m lost in you to the point that I forget where you are, because denying pleasure neutralises you. But I am me again, pressed against the wall of your friends’ house, with the cars rumbling still at the traffic lights, you kissing me again, your hands running on my skin, a mercilessly soft touch I can’t delete from the archive of my favourite sunny days.

That was fun

“Do you like to kiss women?” I ask her.
“I don’t know, I’ve never tried” she says all chicky, she keeps dancing.
I stare at her, puzzled. I’ve never needed a proof I liked people of my same sex but I guess it’s different for everyone. I see myself stand up; I take her hand and lead her downstairs.
I think I fucking hate this room, it looks like a wannabe BDSM playroom but the final result is this cheap Ninety’s porn set. It doesn’t matter, come on, it’s dark anyway.

We start kissing and I just feel happy, I like this person, I always did, it’s a cool way to connect, I oddly think that I’ve always liked her voice. Someone else is here, I sense it, it’s that guy that I will date for a month or two afterwards, he’s a douchebag, much older than me, always shoving his age into girls’ faces to patronise them but cannot date his same age people because they would call his shit out. Why is he here? It is her that I want, I want her so badly... I want her so badly I decide to give it a go all together, of course ten years from then it would have been “sorry pal, we want some alone time”, but I am nineteen and silly.

I don’t know what’s going on, or I don’t remember, my brain tends to erase threesomes and foursomes. Because that’s what it is now, a foursome, because that Bowie boy joined us too but I would rather fuck his brain, even literally but please don’t take me anywhere close his dick, I really don’t feel like it. Of course we’ll fuck on some separate occasion again because back then I don’t know that it is not necessary to go sexual any time there is a mental connection... but you know that, you read “Boundaries”, didn’t you?

We are on the bed now and the older guy is fucking her and I am staring and I am jealous, he’s ruined everything and I am dissociating. Only eleven years later I will learn how to take my voyeur moment during an orgy without frying my brain on some other galaxy’s sun. This is literally how it feels right now. I am in it but it feels like something that’s happening to me, not something I am actively doing. I’d never thought that but I’m bored, and I hate sex in the dark.

I just want her skin against mine, I want to taste her and listen to her voice tell me stories after sex, smoking a cigarette and looking at the ceiling, I want to go down on her softly, slowly, until she opens her legs more and starts moaning. That’s not happening, someone else’s dick is in my face and I don’t want it; it’s not the dick, it’s the owner of the dick, the owners. I nonchalantly move the dick on the side. It’s not the dick’s fault after all, no need to be rude.

“That was fun but it was impossible to get to C.’s pussy cause your fingers would already be there, all the time” says the Bowie boy the next day as he’s picking me up from mine to go to a fucking shopping centre, and thank fuck it’s all a blurry memory of a mix of bodies at someone else’s house party. I’ll tell you about a good orgy one day but it is not this day.