Why Write?

The world grieves.

Yet, here I sit, 10:17 p.m. Sunday night, writing.  I had a brief discussion via email with a fellow writer, who feels much as I do, like being done with a world that lets such cruelty stab us in our soft and fragile hearts.

Why write?

Because we also need to embrace life. To get through the grief, the rage, the unmitigated horror of the world. I do that in a variety of ways in my vanilla life…as an earthy pagan, by going out and standing in the sleet tonight, and feeling connected to something deeper than myself. Some forces at work, not for good nor for evil, but just energy, moving through the area, heading elsewhere.

There’s been a lot of negative energy hasn’t there…and deservedly so. We recoil at an act so heinous we cannot comprehend the why of it.

Where is the solace in this?

For me, it is sitting here at my keyboard, and writing. I’ve woken up several mornings with lovely story lines in my head, and because I’m so busy with work and family…they haven’t been written down, even as a quick “note to self” and have blown away, more energy moving through the area.

Why write?

Because my nipples are under stress. Because He dishes out a hit of pain to me, and no orgasm tonight -thank you very much, (not) Master.  And I am reminded that I am part of something deeper than my pain. I’m connected to Him.

And through Him, to love.

Love is a force that moves through space and time…and my pain….it connects me to Him, though we are miles apart. He tasks me to pull that connection tight so that there is no slack there, grounding me.  And through my pain, my physical pain, I am freed to give voice to the sexual thoughts that continue in my head.

It reminds me that though I grieve, I live.

I breathe.

I weep, but still, I am a sexual creature.

You may think this is terrible of me (though if I recall correctly, many times after tragedy people reconnect to life through sex, and many children are born 9 months after heinous events) and I’m sorry for you if you do.

I am a sensual, sexual, emotional creature.

Sure, I could sit in front of the television and become mesmerized by the facts, the faces, the statistics….but why do I need to know what caliber of bullets were used to murder? I couldn’t tell the difference between a bullet caliber and rabbit pellets….we are super-saturated with information and to protect my own sanity, I’m filtering it down, stopping the flow, and retaining my personhood.

I.

Like.

Sex.

So you will see more sexual stories here. I will be that place you can come to and escape the media hype (and it is all hype now, really) and remember that you, too, are a sensual, sexual creature.

I hope you find some solace here.

Love and peace,

nilla

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(a small vignette is all I have time for tonight, dear pervy friends…but sometimes a wee touch is better than naught, eh?)

hands curled into fists

sweat beading her forehead, hair plastered in wild random abandon along her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, glued with tears, with perspiration, with cum

shivers running across her shoulders at the gentle touch along the curve of her ass, following the curling line of swollen welt

the rush of air against her skin, raising goosebumps as he steps away

the quiver of anticipation

the shock of sound in the silent room, the rush of air from a quick-drawn breath and the mewling cry as pain registers…

the flush of release as air expels in a whoosh, as flesh heats, and pain and lust collide

fini