Mind sex. That’s how I referred to it at the time. Of course… if there’s a definition of some hybrid consisting of making love + fucking, it’s probably the more apt description.
I’ve always said one thing I love about writing is the end result, creating something from absolutely nothing. I have the luxury of playing god, the creator, the one who can sadistically pull the puppet strings at will. A world of your own creation is a wondrous in its eccentricities, its rules, its flaws… even its darkness.
Yet that’s the thing about art; whether written, painted, or other, it will always be subjective. Generally speaking, that’s a good thing. It’s an innately human characteristic which offers one ability to draw their own conclusions. More than that, it’s what allows them to connect with us as artists.
Of course, that same subjectivity is what makes it abundantly clear that they’ll never be in your head; frankly, there are many times that you come to realize they aren’t even splashing in the same puddle. Then seemingly out of nowhere, someone gets it. Gets you. That alone is a high.
And then you both begin to explore the worlds you each created. The realization that someone can interpret your words, even those that shouldn’t make sense, is terrifying as hell… at least at first. The next thing you know it becomes exhilarating. And freeing.
And when you have the luxury of playing in their world? They possess you far beyond the rush and exhilaration; they are in command despite the entirely absent aspect of physicality. Yet there you are with your lips slightly parted, occasionally forming a perfect ‘O’. You feel a chill, your blood turns from boiling to ice with the flip of a page. Every nerve ending, every fiber of your being thrust in to high alert, wanting, waiting, not wanting to know what’s to come.
First instinct says to reach for the safe word, stop the madness. Yet that’s the thing about possession: you can’t.
Fear laced with excitement sweeps over you, silky yet demanding, a silent reminder of your vulnerability… a quiet whisper that says they already know your triggers, how best to disturb, how to make you cry. Your only option is to finish what you started.
When they stop, after you’ve touched up your make up and put yourself back together, your mind is still foggy. You float aimlessly between your world and theirs, occasionally dipping a cautious toe back in to the real world, it’s so-called reality.
Make no mistake, it isn’t over.
You relive it long after they’ve gone to sleep, your own rest coming in sporadic bursts until you’re seeking, panting, and breathless all over again.
Despite their ability to read you, to exploit your weaknesses, your vulnerabilities… despite the fact that you know they could fuck with your mind in ways that are guaranteed to break you, make you come completely unglued… you know they won’t.
Societal taboos have no place here, in your world, in theirs, in the one built by the two of you, opting for prose and common ground as mortar. Malice is left in reality, in the real world. Neither party is seeking sadistic or even masochistic pleasure in raping your mind simply because they can.
And though it’s all connected, though all are multiple pieces of that which drives me as a creative, it’s that last part that never fails to get me off.