Broken Ribbons – sex and secrets
So sex and mental health is something I think about a lot – I flirt with it in some of my pieces – like The One – but this is more about wanting to share all of yourself with you lover but stopping short of that one thing. That one part of you that you worry would scare people away. While researching, I found out that this year’s Mental Health Awareness week 16-22 May is around the theme of relationships – click HERE for more.
So if you are sensitive about these issues, please read with caution x x x
I can visualise the soft rise and fall of his frame beneath the duvet. The gentle sleep-warm fragrance of his body and breath. I imagine every detail as I sit in my office room tap, tap tapping on my typewriter with its broken ribbon.
I don’t repair it. It’s where I tap out my truths.
We have become so close, he and I – physically and spiritually. We share our bodies and our souls.
My mind though, I don’t share that.
I begin to write to him.
“My new love, it feels like I’ve known you before I knew myself. As I type, my arousal is swelling through my body. My body you know so well. You know to touch the inside of my elbow first, that’s it, right there.”
I can feel him, his breath at my neck as he stands behind me reading my words.
“Your fingertips trail like silver feathers up to my shoulder, raising goosebumps. My head falls back into your sternum as you reach round and grab my breasts and knead, knead, thumbing my nipples.”
I’ve stopped typing and have my tits in my hands. I’m holding them as he would, tight and a little rough. My neck is pulled back, exposed for his kiss… or something else.
The scene flashes red with the real point I want to make about the raw skin of my throat with fluttering arteries, but not yet. Not yet. I snap my head back and keep tap, tap tapping my truth.
“Your hungry grasp hurries to my belly, my mound, nudging my thighs and I separate my legs wide and easy for you to prise my lips apart while you still nibble at my neck. I’m wet. So wet. My cunt drips over your eager fingers and you tug me wide, plunging a digit from each hand inside, groaning as you do. I groan too as you finger fuck me here at my desk, rubbing my peaking clit with your thumb. I tense and hang in the abyss – suspended weightless and free, before everything rushes back to earth and I come hard, convulsing and giggling as I always do when I orgasm. I slump into you. You ruffle my hair and gently leave.”
I put my hand to my neck wishing I could type the next bit.
The bit where sometimes, I imagine pulling my own hair so hard my head hangs back with my throat exposed. Only this time I’m alone and I drag a knife across it, not his kisses. A recurring vision. But I can’t type it. He might worry and that’s not why I want him to know. I want him to know because these thoughts are part of me. They always have been but they would sound strange to normal people. The compulsion to hurt myself but the knowledge I won’t. I would just like him to know all of me.
Even my broken ribbons.