Here’s some furry smut a friend linked me to that I really like.
I love getting to share this intimate moment with our mouse lady friend. It’s just so fresh and innocent and genuine. It doesn’t feel performative at all. She is enjoying herself purely for her own pleasure and there is something beautiful about that to me.
It’s such a human moment (irony acknowledged) , you know what I mean?
It even turns me on a little, which is pretty amazing for something with absolutely no penises involved at all.
I mean, it’s not even anal.
It reminds me of the amazing sex in the legendary Omaha, the Cat Dancer series. It’s some of the sexiest sex I have ever seen in fiction because there is something so raw and real about it.
It feels like this is how people really fuck. There’s no sense of a “camera” or anything being faked for your viewing pleasure.
I think the secret is that it has what most smut sadly lacks, which is emotional context. Lust is an emotion, not just an urge or an itch to scratch, and a powerful and amazing emotion at that. One with incredible transformative potential, especially when it is freed of all the bullshit artificial and unnatural restrictions society puts on it.
I mean it from the very depths of my soul when I say that consent is the only rule. Absolutely everything is morally acceptable or even commendable as long as there is consent. And nothing is acceptable without it.
Everything else is just a bunch of bullshit rules invented by people afraid of sexuality’s power over us and terrified of the adulthood that comes with it so they had to try to practically extirpate it holus bolus from human existence.
That’s what the whole “only in marriage and only for the purposes of procreation” nonsense is all about. It comes from the anti-sex sheep painfully and grudgingly admitting that some amount of sex is necessary to perpetuate the species.
Thank goodness this all came into being before we had test tube babies and in vitro fertilization and such things, or they would have ditched sex entirely and all of us would have been conceived in a petri dish.
Hell, those crusty old fossils and scared little children don’t even want you to masturbate. As if God gave his children sexuality just to torment them by telling them never to use it for anything ever.
As if God made a huge mistake when he gave us sex instead of just getting Adam to reproduce by mitosis or some shit.
What an unspeakably obscene thought.
The same goes for other things pertaining to the wet and squishy reality of our physical forms, like bathroom functions and other effluvia.
Some people are still being raised to never, ever, ever speak of those things, period. As if forbidding the mentioning of something negates its existence.
This results in massive amounts of unnecessary human pain and suffering when people raised this way can’t even talk about problems they are having to their doctors.
One of the most shocking things I learned from The Vagina Monologues and its attendant media was that a woman can go her entire life without once so much as having a good look at what she has “down there”.
Men can’t do that. Ours demands attention. Or at the very least aim.
I am very grateful to my often neglectful parents for at least making sure their kids were not exposed to that toxic garbage and therefore grew up with a lot fewer than average hang-ups about sexuality and bodily functions.
Amen to that!
More after the break.
A long way home
Another day, another agonizingly long trip out of bed.
Because I didn’t really want to get up. I wanted to stay in bed and ignore the world and stay all wrapped up in my own little world with just me, my comforter, and my tablet.
And even that would have been just a way to pave my way back to sleep.
So yeah, that’s depression all right. As I predicted, my psychological excavations are causing things to get worse before making them better.
Actually, I guess they’re kind of happening at the same time. Which makes sense.
Life rarely accommodates our desires for linear order.
I feel like I am unpacking problems that I had packed away in the deep freeze of my soul a long time ago in order to “function”.
Inasmuch as I ever did.
But I packed them away wrong. I made a huge, hurried mess of the job, and now I have to unpack everything, throw away the useless or toxic garbage, clean off what’s left, and pack it away again, neatly this time.
Come to think of it, I need to do that with a lot of things in my life, both inside and outside this all too commodious skull of mine.
That means I have to actively grapple with my depression and I am not used to doing that. One of the benefits of being so numb for so long was that it kept things (artificially) quiet and calm and predictable inside me.
I was dying on the inside and the clock was ticking as my life passed me by and something deep inside of me was screaming, but it was calm. Kind of.
But now I have to face the storm and fight my way through it. I can’t go back to sleep, and furthermore, I don’t even want to. I want to finally reach the surface of the water and swim my way to shore and lie on the hot sand of the beach when I dry out.
And wait for my skin to stop being all prune-y.
And I know I can do it. I have found the fires of stubborn and spiteful defiance in me and they are ready to fire up to face any challenge by my depression and burn it to a crisp.
The problem is static. My determination is not.
It doesn’t stand a chance.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.