“You fuck like a god, I both love and hate that about you.”
(Because you act like a god too. Uncontrollable, only appearing when you feel like it and not when I need you, which is often.)
Feels awfully strange quoting myself, paraphrasing really.
But if you are gonna fuck gods, and I do, you gotta play by their rules. Which morph and change on a whim.
“God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players [i.e. everybody], to being involved in an obscure and complex variant of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.”
― Terry Pratchett, Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch
I got the following message from Our Sara of Lords
“Notes for a post
Every 3 months
Jezebel in hell, the rest.
You said to remind you.”
I replied, “Thank ye, the Pan thing reminded me already.”
Her – Me too. Lol. Thanks be to Pan.
Me – Always.
‘Who’s your daddy’ just popped into my head.
I need to buy a vibrator.
Left mine home.
Her – ‘I want your sex’ popped into mine. Lol. We’re ridiculous.
Me – (It’s because) we’re closer now.
She is my touchstone. She who knows all of the things I have done. She is the eldest and wisest of my three weird sisters, the one who made it safe to speak all my truth out loud. I can message her day or night and tell her I need church and she is there for me. She listens to my ridiculousness, my imagined sins which are actually just me enjoying myself and feeling some weird misplaced puritanical guilt over it. A holdover from Salem I suppose, when we had to hide what we were.
I am done hiding, mostly.
I mentioned in a prior blog post about how, although 2016 sucked god’s sweaty balls, I had an abundance of seriously next level sex.
Sucking god’s sweaty balls is what got me through. Well, that and the spectacular, otherworldly sexcapades that the ball sucking was foreplay to.
Seriously, somehow 3/3 of my top three were in this godforsaken year of clowns, gorillas and death.
Maybe it’s me. Getting more comfortable in asking for, nay, demanding what I want. As much as a submissive demands I suppose.
It’s all tied together. Having Her to confess to making it easier to open up.
If you judge me for the things I ask for, I don’t want to fuck you anyways, so there’s that then.
Ask and ye shall receive.
Bacchus, Pan and Dionysus.
Father, Son and Holy Ghost.
Trifecta of sex gods.
I call one of them Daddy and he likes it. As much as I do apparently, so A LOT.
Another was my Holy Ghost, he who leaveth room for Jesus when he hugged me. Zeus and lightning sex mixed with Charon, the boatman for the dead. In the mythology that is my sex life I can mix metaphors and make as many hybrids as I chose, it’s mine. He is all of these things to me.
And the other…not ready to talk about that just yet. Sara knows and that is all that matters.
Let’s go back to Daddy.
I messaged him yesterday and inquired “do you like this shit too or are you just doing it to make me happy/wet/squirt/cum?”
“Oh I like it” he said.
Thank fuck, been waiting for you for a while now.
I just realized what is happening here, True Blood Season two. I am Maryann Forrester a devout follower of Dionysus, a magical creature in my own right and I am (not so patiently) waiting for the ‘god who comes’.
Because, when he does…it’s worth it, it’s divine, I have this some of the time. The way she shows me I’m hers and she is mine. Open hand or closed fist would be fine. The blood is rare and sweet like cherry wine (Hozier)
It all comes back to Dionysus. The sex and wine, the debauchery, orgasms of such intensity that I leave my body and I am left thrumming and vibrating at some ethereal frequency. Heaven for heathens.
I am also Jezebel in hell, so much fucking waiting in between. The version of Persephone I am is longing to go back into the dark. That is where the giant couch is. That is where snuggles turn to sex like the flick of a switch, from tame to beast mode.
Waiting for my sex god to come down from Mount Olympus (up from Hades or out of the woods or wherever it is he goes) and bless me with his devil dick.
Beast mode sex god monster cock.
I don’t just give blowies, I worship the thing.
‘Just hold my hair and let me suck your soul out’ head.
‘Mascara running making me look like a panda’ head.
The penitent [woman] shall pass.
Penitent…humble before god.
Penitent…kneel before god.
(I watched an Indiana Jones marathon Christmas day, hoping god would show, but he didn’t)
I was poised to kneel, atone for my sins. Worship.
I am still waiting.
Love is a demon and
You’re the one he’s coming for
Oh my Lord
Could I be Your Girl?