A friend recently told me she was upset about a recent breakup, not because it was the wrong thing to do or because she felt shafted, but because the person was someone to whom in the heat of passion she could speak her monsters. Her fear around the breakup was that she would never meet another someone who could handle her sexual truth, and that she may never feel the liberation of soothsaying at the risk of possible sexual alienation again. Not being that kind of friend with her, I couldn’t offer her much along listening to intimate shadows, but I knew exactly what she meant. Inadvertently, she crystalized many of my feelings around A’s death.

I think it’s rare to experience a slice of life, self and sexuality with someone who can hear your monsters, let alone perhaps help you manifest and sustain their delicious tension. This depth isn’t getting-to-know-you ‘do you swallow’ intimacy or even the ‘I want to pick up homeless people to fuck in short order kitchens’ kind (or maybe it is?). Rather, it’s the closely whispered deep, dark needs and desires that you think will render you judged unworthy by the person you most want to kneel before. It could be fumbled vanilla Daddy’s Girl spankings or being gang banged by mythological creatures. It doesn’t matter. The emphasis isn’t acting it out, but the power to confess hidden sexual desires to a witness. The power in that, emotionally, psychologically, hell even chakrally (I think I just made a new word) is transcendant. The church figured that out a long time ago. Ironic, that
My writing ranges from bubble gum hand jobs to, ahem, pansexual mythological creatures on orgiastic rampages. Admittedly, I’m more out of the box than a lot of people, sexually speaking, no doubt less than others. Have I done everything I write about? Hell no. Some of it I never want to do or learn has been done, even when there were still horny mastodons. Scorecards aren’t the point, either. No, it’s those secret words that waft just by the shell of your ear in twilight, that rise from the pits of bellies on moans that scare the neighbors, that leave you gasping and spread by the power and humility of your own honesty.
Maybe one day I will have that in someone new. Until then, tell me your monster.