Things that are empty

I have been non self loving. I have been neglectful.

I can remember the last time I serviced though, so the situation is by no means dire. But it has been a while all the same.

I found myself retreating from myself for a while, maybe part of the comedown from being so physically vulnerable. Vulnerable? I allowed myself to be open with another, allowed myself to share pleasure with another. Opened myself emotionally. You have to. Or I have to. That’s what sharing is. Or does. For me.

It ended, not particularly badly. He went his way and I have gone mine. But there is a comedown period.

Lust is drug like, sometimes emotionally, sometimes physically, sometimes both.

So I didn’t go near myself for weeks, couldn’t. Then I found myself going through emotional upheaval, and no, not over this. Other things. Extra life things.

Anxiety. I made the decision to try AD’s for a while. A prop really, that’s all the ever are. I found myself still at odds with myself. Sexually they didn’t alter anything, they just made me feel like I was in a permanent E state. I was quick to get off them, again.

Side-tracked.

Back to the post. Self love. There has been one afternoon. Listening to others, and feeling myself. An afternoon where I escaped.

The past month has been an emotional ride, artistically forcing myself to be consumed with others orgasm, others pleasure, battling with my own. It’s been an amazing self journey really. Hard to explain, and I’m finding it hard to find the words I want to explain it.

Weekends spent consumed with sounds, loud, in my living room, speakers up high. Small honest sounds. Feeling aware and embarrassed of what my neighbors are hearing through paper thin walls. Finding satisfaction in this also. Moving through spaces of other peoples intimacies and finding flaws in my own.