Poet of Dacia

Touch is perhaps (to me) the second most important part of a relationship, platonic or other wise, after emotional connection.
This is especially true for me after I have established any amount of trust with a person. It is few, and far between that I meet a person who I feel comfortable enough emotionally, to move into the realms of physically. And here I must be clear I don’t mean sexually in anyway.
I thrive off the casually given contacts with people; a arm around the shoulder, a leg pressed against my own, or even just an occasional brushing of a hand. These things reassure me that I am welcome. That I’m not intruding.
I must admit the after I have established an emotional relationship with someone, I feel as though to have them pull away from touch is rejection. I didn’t realize until very recently how much it means to me to have someone willing to platonically “cuddle”, for lack of a better term. I am aware of course that this need, and feelings of low self worth from the withholding of this need probably speaks much about my own self worth. That coupled with my inability to communicate this need clearly has caused me a marginal amount of pain recently, that has led me to some rather enlightening realizations.
At this moment in time I am not at all seeking a sexual relationship. I’d rather a few close, platonic relationships…time for me to understand who I really am while flourishing under the emotional satisfaction I get for the comforting touch of those I trust. This involves play as well, I’d rather play with a few and allow those more experienced to teach me; then to play with many and risk putting myself in an emotionally damaging situation.
Which as good as a plan as that seems I must admit that after having played with someone I craved physical contact more, and to have a person like this pull away brings up worries of self disgust, and often times the debate over something I could have done wrong.
Which leads into the considerings of how emotionally immature I possibly am, or rather emotionally damaged.
As a conclusion, this note is really just an emotional dribble of garbled things I’ve no clue how to discuss, nor express clearly enough, I think, to avoid pushing people away rather a way to get these thoughts out of my head tonight so that maybe I can find some sleep…

Predator and prey

The club is dark, lights are dim low and the first room you walk into is full of couches, the wide screen tv before them playing porn. The room is empty we are early, probably the only ones here beside staff. Even still I stick close to my companions and follow them through another door, this room is dark lights flashing make it eire and the music is low…growly. It’s a dungeon, or suppose to be the walls are painted like stone, there’s a Andrews cross, a bed and a pony. We don’t stop there, but keep walking.
The next room is better, same theme without the cliche decorations. We park our stuff here, beyond the roped off area under the sign that says, “Private play area.”. I feel unsure, but safe and reassured by those I accompanied. That night I felt like prey, I avoided eye contact with others and didn’t stray away from my “Pack”. I watched them play quietly, absorbing the atmosphere, at that moment I was a voyeur of the intimacies they shared. In that moment I wanted to be hunted. I jumped at the chance of a smoking break in-between sessions.
The cold air was shock enough to wake me up to return my thoughts to linear coherency. I dragged on my kool like a life line.
I worried a small bit about the next part I must admit. “Knife play”, is beyond my understanding, even now it’s a little beyond me. My knife was my friend for a long time, but I’ve never seen another go under a blade.
I watched on in silence as my friend was laid down on the plastic, he Masted seemed calm. He ignored the growing crowd, the nymphomaniac voyeurs touching themselves as they watched the scene grown in intensity.
You couldn’t tell how deeply the slave was being cut until the blood welled up. Her Master was covered in it, just as much as she.
I didn’t realize how I was reacting until a quiet, “Are you okay?” Came from my left; I began to nod, before shaking my head and moving from my chair, curling up at her feet. A cool hand played with my hair, and brushed the back of my neck.

It took me a moment to analyze my reaction, to realize in that moment I wasn’t reacting to fear, or a bad memory, it wasn’t envy that made me tremble.
I didn’t want to be her, she who lay down covered in her own blood wounded, bleeding.
I wanted to be him, covered in her blood, wounding her, devouring her. The blood was the end of the hunt. She wasn’t my prey but she was still prey; brought down and being devoured by the Alpha. The first to eat. The blood was intoxicating.

The distinction between predator and prey in this place is slim. Some people you can’t tell just by looking, unless you know what your looking for. There’s no firm line, and they blur…blending together until there’s no known defining factor. Only action and reaction; in an ever evolving, fluctuating dance. The reasons for coming here very, and in the end perhaps you never know where your next step is going to land, or when you’ll fall to be devoured by the wolves.

• girl: i'm pansexual
• me: what's that?
• girl: it means that i would date anyone... gay, straight, lesbian, bi, trans... etc..
• me: doesn't that mean ur just desperate
• Excuse you? Maybe it means that gender doesn't matter when it comes to love and sex. Maybe it means that pansexuals don't really care if you have a penis, a vagina, or both. It's time to grow up.