as i picked up my laptop and laid on my bed preparatory to writing this post something happened. i had, in my head, a lovely post about a fall afternoon that mr. big and i passed together recently and by the time i opened the writing window here at wordpress something entirely different had come to mind.
never fear, you will hear about our fall afternoon very soon but not today.
you see, as i brought myself to a comfortable lying position with a computer on my lap i noticed my sheets. my burgundy flannel sheets in fact, and what i noticed were the places that were not burgundy.
i noticed the wear on my favourite sheets of course. i mean you have to expect them to begin dying when you wash and reuse them constantly rather than in fact using one of the four other sheets you have available to you.
i noticed the places where the mattress was beginning to show through and the places where little tears were starting and even the spots that my cats use as scratching posts… not to mention the drift of hair where one of my cats prefers to sleep.
but more i saw my trophies.
i saw the little patches scattered about this sheet that i changed less than a week ago. little patches of white droplets telling the story of his welcome to me upon my return from a few days away. further such droplets recounting my leave taking a few days earlier and still more little white patches of droplets enumerating pleasure that he has given me in the times before and after.
these then are my trophies. the marks in telltale white that recount our sexual escapades in dna splattered sheets.
the moments, if you will, where my body surrendered to him it’s most secret of fluids. those which can only be found in pleasure most intimate and almost but not quite only by a partner.
yes, of course, i can make myself gush but not nearly as well as someone else can and nearly always i don’t bother. a little clitoral orgasm is enough to scratch the itch, my g-spot is not required for such things.
even with a toy my ministrations toward mine own self are somehow faster and less drawn out and most definetely have fewer small peaks on the road to the cliff we must all fall over.
thus the trophies.
the marks on my lovely sheets which only ever see the light of day with someone else. the marks which force me to wash my sheets when really i would nearly almost rather bronze them.
unfortunately it is time to start sharing the load of the trophy making with my dark green sheets now since my poor flannel ones are wearing thin… and are of course now at their most comfortable.
is it strange that i am somehow tempted to take photos of these remnants of my most secret fluids before i wash them once more from this earth to flow down and mix with human waste of all sorts in the sewers of my fair city?
is it odd that i wish almost to make a collage of such images if only to see if anyone realizes what they are?
i treasure these displays of my most secret releases in a way that i consider most unusual and yet i know them for what they are. the signs of my body’s willing surrender to the tender ministrations of another.
if that isn’t treasure then really, what is?
