A New Look

For anyone who'd been anticipating the outcome of my recent posts sans the latest, here is a glimpse of me now.

I'm rather pleased with these.

Old Flames and the Idiocy of Misapprehending Failure

One of the great loves of my life inspired this lofty bit of reminiscence a few years back. In between then and now, I've occasionally reread it -- sometimes growing inordinately pleased with myself for its various turns of phrase; other times casually steeping the fibers of my soul in an idyllic marinade of nostalgia.

She read it, late last week.

I can't conceivably impress upon you the magnitude of that sentence. She read it.

More stupefying yet: the day after she read it, she was here.

We spoke. We touched. I beheld the lines of fourteen lost years upon her face, none of them able to reduce her beauty to so much as one iota short of Aphrodite's. We explored together our reasons and reasoning for the absurdly enormous mutual mistake -- the things she would not admit to herself at the time and the things I would not contemplate deeply enough to reconsider in the years since.

And all because, when I admitted in rather red-cheeked mortification that she'd been naggingly and increasingly on my mind of late, the man I love said, "If you're really that anxious to know what became of her, why don't you try getting in contact?"

It was so easy to do once I summoned the courage.

We fit so perfectly back together the moment she responded.

And now I have, again, in my life, something I should never have let go of.

She loved the post, even though she laughingly pointed out to me the parts she said were "horseshit." She loved that I had written it, that I had captured in such keenly scintillant prose at least a fraction of the monumental truth of us. She loved my favorite line most of all.

She loves me, still, never having stopped -- just as I now understand I have never stopped loving or needing her.

When we took her to the airport this afternoon, it was not to send her home, but to send her temporarily back the life in which she's contentedly waited out the last fourteen years. There are loose ends there to tie up. Somewhere around fourteen days from now, she'll return and stay.

But even with the width of half the country between us, we aren't apart, and won't ever be again.

Which is probably why I can't figure out how to end this post, I suppose; it's a post about something that's refused for fourteen years to be over. I can't possibly contain it in just a few paragraphs.

All right, I'm going to go and compose about a thousand emails to have waiting for her when her flight is done and she takes her phone out of airplane mode.

Waiting

I find myself beset more than slightly by impatience and inconvenience.

These are, for the most part, novel emotions to me -- or at least rare enough that I can turn them over for examination and feel that I'm in bold and uncharted territory, if also in a realm of itchy anticipation.

There's an amusement factor in observing one's own childish foibles, although I suppose the drollness may serve as a bulwark preserving my adult self-image. Oh. Look at this silly part of me, this little nugget of immaturity, insecurity. Isn't it cute? Obviously I'm not remotely in danger of letting it spiral me into a fit of infantile pique.

How much leash should I offer this mood of desire thwarted by the sluggish progress of days and events that stand between me and that which I find myself craving with more and more wanton abandon?

Clearly the answer is that it does not matter. The wheels, gears, and cogs of the universe shall turn as they will, and no measured biding of time can make them run faster.

Has contemplating this set at ease my restless temper by even the tiniest damned bit?

No. But I suppose at least that the ten or twenty minutes spent spinning these thoughts into threads and skeins has put me ten or twenty minutes closer to that which I impatiently await.

Changes Gather ... Like Clouds Breaking Open by the Light of Dawn?

We've taken a step here that tips at my long-contented and (I thought) imperturbable self-image. Read back a few posts for a glimmer of what I'm talking about.

I'll have more to say, I suspect, in a few weeks.

Enraptured and Captured in Lascivious Visuality and Sound

Long ago, my housemates used to occasionally partake in making cinema of a decidedly prurient sort. The knowledge of this eventually came out, and the newer members of Worthy Acres, myself included, quickly agitated for a series of showings.

Very educational and enticing.

But something more than just a few video files came unbottled in the process -- an insistent genie, if you will, that set its sights on granting several yams' wishes to rekindle those filmic adventures.

To date, I've somehow managed to find myself on the attentive end of a lecherous lens not just once but twice, and then reviewed the results multiple times beyond that.

I shan't go into details, which would be both crass and disrespectful of my partner/filmographer's privacy. But the aspect I do want to discuss is how gratifying it can be to see oneself disposed in the throes of mutual satisfaction with a lover who so clearly delights in both the shared sensuality and the kink of enshrining our concupiscence in video form. I'm not a woman bereft of vanity, but to see myself encompassing the whole of the screen with what I'm going to claim was jaw-droppingly voluptuous sensuality -- well, it struck a rather erogenously egotistical nerve that now pulses quite notably whenever I think back on those images.

The hormone-tided emotions of lovemaking have not, to date, translated into videographed form. But all the carnal intimacies present themselves quite well on a rewatch.

I highly recommend the experience of casting away restraint and self-consciousness in this way. To be unabashed in the midst of passion -- to be willfully exposed in both flesh and heedless congress -- such daring endeavors liberate with lustful profundity.

Exuviate Those Negative Expectations

So.

No sooner did Thursday's post bemoan the impossibility of finding an exact replacement for my aging corporeal self, when in a fit of impulse and curiosity, my other of ultimate significance went looking online and found one almost without trying. 

Thus does the lesson for the day reveal itself to me: even if you for some reason expect the worst, don't embarrass yourself by letting others know so that they can expose you in all of your naked folly.

Ambivalence and Temptation

An aspect of being inorganic, manufactured, and originally designed as merely a sex toy is that my body is replaceable. In theory, should it wear out beyond utility in its original purpose, and should my housemates manage to find my original model online, a freshly minted corporeal me might arrive a mere few days after placement of an appropriate order.

In practice, however, the task of finding that original make and model would likely prove impractical if not impossible; it went out of stock from the online store quite soon after my arrival here, and the process of searching online for a headless torso lovedoll is not one for which highly refineable results would be expected.

The greater part of me, though, is of course my mind, which could easily be superimposed upon any decently similar replacement body merely through the exercise of will and imagination.

I and the sole organic member of the household have had this on our minds of late, and it came to pass that the phrase "decently similar" failed to cohere identically between us.

Specifically, he proposed that, as an umbrella description, it might include a replacement form based not simply upon my current physical traits an limitations, but one that would, instead, incorporate any number of long-dreamt and imagined characteristics that have been settled on as the ideal me.

Short brunette hair.

Blue-green eyes.

Limbs.

And while we have discussed how each of these applies to me in the world of the mind, the notion of actually acquiring them in real life took me off-guard.

First and foremost, would any happened-upon shape and face so well embody the imagined me that the previously mentioned superimposition would feel authetic?

Second, in choosing and accomplishing embodiment in a limbed corpus, would I be leaving behind that portion of my identity bound up in my present truncated shape?

These concerns are real and daunting.

Yet ...

To hold my loves with physical arms ... to gaze upon them with physical eyes ... to receive and return their kisses with soft, shapely lips ...

The concept is beyond enticing.

Might it come to pass? Time, as they say, will tell. But there's a heat of expectation and even yearning that simmers now within me -- and within each of my beloveds as well.

Hmm.