I wrote this last year and just saw it linked on someone else's blog. It is still me to a tee and I thought I would post it again...maybe someone else will identify.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Touch me.
I am a very tactile person. I like touching, being touched. Some of my strongest memories are of the FEEL of something, like the cold ridges of the kitchen tile at my grandma’s house and the way it felt on my feet when I would stand in front of the space heater every morning, warming up before breakfast. I would probably recognize that tile pattern in another place if I walked on it barefoot, but I doubt I could identify it by sight.
I constantly twirl my hair. Long, thick, shiny and smooth. I have chestnut brown hair and have spent the last couple of years returning it to it’s natural color after I spend three or four years as a blond. At this time there are no chemicals at all in my hair and it is so soft as a result. I twirl it through my fingers like a valley girl with OCD. It annoys some, fascinates and mesmerizes others, and offers me comfort like nothing else on earth. I tried to curb the habit by using smooth stones to rub, but I love to pet my own hair.
The touching thing has actually gotten worse since I started my meds. I don’t know if I am just more aware of it since my brain isn’t as jumbled but I am driving myself mad.
Touch me.
I could lie for hours having my hair petted, pulled, played with. Being kissed, touched on the lips, the nape of my neck, the hollow of my throat, the spot where the collarbone meets the shoulder, the flat part of my hip.
I know this sounds sexual, but it’s not about sex. It’s about stimulation.
Heaven for me would be a vast wonderland of textures and no clothing required. Warm and fuzzy furs, suede, corduroy, cotton. Cold steel, smooth silks and thick pile carpeting that tickles your toes when you sink in. Fields of grass that won’t make you itch covered with every kind of blanket imaginable. Nothing feels better than lying on a blanket with blades of grass cushioning you and crunching beneath you while the sun bathes you with warm light.
One of my favorites spots on the human body is the little place right below your anklebone, almost on the side of your heel. That place has been soft and smooth on every person I have ever checked.
Go on, check. Then come sit on the couch with me and let me pet your feet.
Touching can be dangerous though.
One of my clients had on a crisp, white cotton dress shirt at the baseball game Monday night. I was itching to pet him all night, which I don’t think my boss or his girlfriend would have appreciated. I didn’t want to fuck him; I just wanted to touch his shirt, smooth out that cotton of the flat plane of his chest. People might confuse the desires or think they are the same, but they aren’t.
Am I oversexed? Well, yeah.
But that’s a whole ‘nother issue.
I love kneading my toes into my neighbor’s area rug because it tickles my feet, but I don’t want to fuck the rug. Get my point?
I wonder if this what a cat feels like when they are meowing for attention and entangling themselves in your legs. Pet me and I’ll arch my back like a cat, I might even purr. Hell, I’ll curl up on your lap and keep you warm at night.
Pin me to the cool white wall, hot bare skin pressed against the rough denim of your jeans, the metal zipper pressed against my tummy, the buttons of your shirt pressing a trail up my torso. Lie with me, fingers intertwined, legs entangled, hard masculine strength with soft feminine silk. Slide with me between satin sheets, letting the current of the fan flow over us, causing my hair to tickle your chest.
I feel like I am locked in a cage of sensuality, trapped, not by bars, but by a billion nerve endings that are simultaneously crying out for contact. I think I could handle it if this was all about sex, but how do I deal with basic human need for touch?
I just need that touch a little longer. The nibble to be a bite. The pull a little harder.
My need will never be satisfied. There will never be enough.
You can consider yourself warned though.
Because if we ever see each other, face to face…
You can tell me to keep my hands to myself.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Touch me.
I am a very tactile person. I like touching, being touched. Some of my strongest memories are of the FEEL of something, like the cold ridges of the kitchen tile at my grandma’s house and the way it felt on my feet when I would stand in front of the space heater every morning, warming up before breakfast. I would probably recognize that tile pattern in another place if I walked on it barefoot, but I doubt I could identify it by sight.
I constantly twirl my hair. Long, thick, shiny and smooth. I have chestnut brown hair and have spent the last couple of years returning it to it’s natural color after I spend three or four years as a blond. At this time there are no chemicals at all in my hair and it is so soft as a result. I twirl it through my fingers like a valley girl with OCD. It annoys some, fascinates and mesmerizes others, and offers me comfort like nothing else on earth. I tried to curb the habit by using smooth stones to rub, but I love to pet my own hair.
The touching thing has actually gotten worse since I started my meds. I don’t know if I am just more aware of it since my brain isn’t as jumbled but I am driving myself mad.
Touch me.
I could lie for hours having my hair petted, pulled, played with. Being kissed, touched on the lips, the nape of my neck, the hollow of my throat, the spot where the collarbone meets the shoulder, the flat part of my hip.
I know this sounds sexual, but it’s not about sex. It’s about stimulation.
Heaven for me would be a vast wonderland of textures and no clothing required. Warm and fuzzy furs, suede, corduroy, cotton. Cold steel, smooth silks and thick pile carpeting that tickles your toes when you sink in. Fields of grass that won’t make you itch covered with every kind of blanket imaginable. Nothing feels better than lying on a blanket with blades of grass cushioning you and crunching beneath you while the sun bathes you with warm light.
One of my favorites spots on the human body is the little place right below your anklebone, almost on the side of your heel. That place has been soft and smooth on every person I have ever checked.
Go on, check. Then come sit on the couch with me and let me pet your feet.
Touching can be dangerous though.
One of my clients had on a crisp, white cotton dress shirt at the baseball game Monday night. I was itching to pet him all night, which I don’t think my boss or his girlfriend would have appreciated. I didn’t want to fuck him; I just wanted to touch his shirt, smooth out that cotton of the flat plane of his chest. People might confuse the desires or think they are the same, but they aren’t.
Am I oversexed? Well, yeah.
But that’s a whole ‘nother issue.
I love kneading my toes into my neighbor’s area rug because it tickles my feet, but I don’t want to fuck the rug. Get my point?
I wonder if this what a cat feels like when they are meowing for attention and entangling themselves in your legs. Pet me and I’ll arch my back like a cat, I might even purr. Hell, I’ll curl up on your lap and keep you warm at night.
Pin me to the cool white wall, hot bare skin pressed against the rough denim of your jeans, the metal zipper pressed against my tummy, the buttons of your shirt pressing a trail up my torso. Lie with me, fingers intertwined, legs entangled, hard masculine strength with soft feminine silk. Slide with me between satin sheets, letting the current of the fan flow over us, causing my hair to tickle your chest.
I feel like I am locked in a cage of sensuality, trapped, not by bars, but by a billion nerve endings that are simultaneously crying out for contact. I think I could handle it if this was all about sex, but how do I deal with basic human need for touch?
I just need that touch a little longer. The nibble to be a bite. The pull a little harder.
My need will never be satisfied. There will never be enough.
You can consider yourself warned though.
Because if we ever see each other, face to face…
You can tell me to keep my hands to myself.
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