Mouth to Mouth

We resuscitated it. Ha ha. You probably saw that coming. Honestly, I wasn't so sure.

The last time we got together, it was short lived and kind of cold.

This time, it was warm. It felt like he surrendered himself a bit more and, maybe, so did I.

He said he wanted to touch me, kiss me - and that he did. There was tenderness mixed in with the fucking. It was one of those beautiful nights.

He slept over, he would roll over in the middle of the night and wrap his arms around me. We were both without walls.

There is one small wall remaining though.

He loves it when I have an orgasm. Of course he does. Only, he loves it so much it's his mission: fuck me until I orgasm multiple times. Which means knocking on that thick oak door that my voice is locked behind - for safe keeping or protection... .

I mean, I think I always knew that that was the case, but I was wholly okay with that. I've found tiny voices over the years but only in very small cases, cases where I've been willing to challenge myself after years of proof that I was safe to do so.

But, it's a voice that feels so utterly foreign to me - I think that's really the biggest issue. It's like a muscle that I've never used, a line I've never had to cross because no man I've ever been with has ever put my pleasure at the top of their priority. They weren't assholes for it, it's who they are. I probably subconsciously chose them for that.

But this man wants, needs me to speak up, to tell him what feels good and what doesn't.

Jesus, he has no idea what he's asking of me. He's asking a mute to speak, but not even just to speak... to speak up.

I guess, as a child, that was the ultimate betrayal, when he would not only engage me in humiliating acts, but demand I state how much I liked it, and in those moments, I betrayed myself.

I think it still feels like a shameful betrayal if I say what I like. That or, the person that would say those things is not an integrated part of me, so if she speaks, I am no longer there. If I am no longer there... I am dead.

"Where did you hide me"

That was that dream I had when I was about 11, I was shaking the asshole stepfather's mother, screaming with urgency in her face... "Where. did. you. hide. me?" I had to go back and find something that I left there -  I think that's what it was.

From a psychological  standpoint, in the years to come, I would assume that it was the wounded child that I had left there, but maybe it wasn't. Maybe, it was my voice that I left behind.

And now, I have invited someone into my life that is literally giving that locked up part of me mouth to mouth.

Ima let him.