I am putting a content warning on this strange little post for grief and death. I have a feeling that this is only the start of a conversation. Would be really interested in what you think and am very much open to response posts from you, the reader.
So much death around in my life this year. Young, old, expected, utterly unexpected, I have lost seven people this year.
Usually this would be bad enough, but when you are chronically ill, it hits you on another level. We try not to think about it too much, but it is unlikely, what with the conditions I have, that I am going to make old bones. I mean, none of us are getting out of this alive, but we, disabled people that is, feel this more keenly than others do.
And it isn't just the physical. My trauma riddled body always craved something to fill the emotional void by filling my, well, voids. I put myself in thrilling, wonderful, dangerous situations with thrilling, wonderful, dangerous people and how I came out from those times alive, I will never know.
So why did I do it? Why was my first reaction to my father dying to eat SH's ass while A rammed me from behind?
Emotional regulation.
Because, let's face it, when you are likely to die below the average age for your assigned gender (though there isn't any data on being enby and how long that gives you), and other disabled people die around you, reminding you of your mortality, and people die unexpectedly, reminding you about the sheer fragility of life, your emotions are going to be all over the place.
When my dad died my alexithymia kicked in and I didn't know how to feel or how to name what I was feeling. The only thing I did know is that I needed to fill something. I was restless. I wanted to go for a run, go to the gym, I wanted to kick my punchbag until I was too exhausted to do anything else. I wanted to get into the ring with my friend Yana and punch the shit out of each other until I could get some endorphins, some dopamine, some fucking serotonin.
But I couldn't. I am a wheelchair user with chronic pain and chronic fatigue. The days of running 10k to just clear my head or kicking the shit out of something or someone are in the past. And they will stay in the past. Most of the time I am as ok as I can be with that. I miss my physicality, I miss the rush I get from it so when I lost my dad, I went for the easiest route to the goooood brain chemicals.
I fucked two men at once. It is documented that I had a REALLY good time but what isn't said in that post is how much I needed to have it.
When I sucked A's cock, I took it further down my throat than I had ever done before. I wanted to choke on itm, not just for his pleasure, but for mine. I felt every vein on that cock in my gullet and afterwards, it was swollen and scratchy and it still wasn't enough. A's hard boundary was that he didn't want anything going up his arse but his arse was so tasty I slid my tongue right up it. The tongue is a muscle, and though it is the strongest one in the body, it can be over exercised. And that is what I did with it. I had two cocks to suck, two arses to lick, suck, fuck with my tongue. By the time I was done it was aching and swollen. It still wasn't enough.
When SH and A took turns to fuck me while they spit roasted me, I wanted it hard. And that was how I got it. They grabbed me by the hair, threw me around, pulled it backwards so my arse was high in the air and my back felt like it was breaking. They held my arse cheeks open so they could fuck me harder and deeper. And they did. That kind of fucking that makes your bones rattle and your cunt feel bruised, sore, used up.
And though when I came, I did so loudly, squirting and flooding, it still wasn't enough. And it never could.
The only thing that could have helped me in that moment was complete oblivion but the closest thing to it was screaming at them to fuck me. Fuck me till I feel.
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