For nearly a year now, I’ve had a PLAN. The plan is an over haul of my person: mind, body, soul. Truthfully, there has been some form of the plan in existence for so long, I’ve lost count of the years. It’s always resolved around: lose weight, fix the brain, be a better person. To be the best Lisa that I can be.
Sounds like a thing for a person of reasonable intelligence to strive for. Enlightenment of the self. A soul not in torment. A mind not turboized. A body, at any weight and shape, I could feel comfortable in.
Saturday night, I had the most vivid sexy times dream. I cannot remember the last time I had a sexy dream; I’ve had a lover for over a year, I was with TEH for six years before that — it didn’t seem necessary when someone’s cock, tongue, and hands were at the ready for my pleasure to self-pleasure except when my lover and I were in flagrante.
I’ve shied away from my own sexual pleasures for fuck knows how long, that even with my lover I struggled to tell them what I wanted. A stark contrast to my youth where everything turned me on and I had no problems announcing what I wanted; fuck you if you couldn’t please me. I once joked I could flirt with a flower and get aroused. There is something to be had for enjoying the sensuality of the material world and of your own (and lover’s) body.
(I told my lover we were destined to be together because they’ve been the only person to ever manually get me off. Twenty odd years of being sexually active and only one who knew how to take me to my knees.)
But things change, as they often do. What used to turn me on, not so much anymore. What I found attractive seemed like I was supposed to be attracted to that thing rather than actually desire it. When TheExHusband and I lived at Throbbing Manor, I would silently cry when watching passion on the screen: I never thought that could ever happen to me. Again. A 1000 times. A million ways. It was/is frustrating when you know that you CAN do and be that person, but you’re paralyzed by what exactly? Sometimes I have all the answers and others, no.
I’m straying from the point.
So sexy dream. It was so intense I woke up, thoughts of my lover in my head as I remembered everything about them from the breadth of their shoulders, the feel of their hair beneath my touch, the grip of their hands on me. Their scent holding me close.
So I would do what any reasonable person would do: I masturbated.
The orgasm was quick and powerful, after all I had created a dream scenario with my lover in my head of such extreme, it was hard not to touch myself. It was hard to not want to feel their phantom body over mine. I caught my breath.
Then I rolled over and went to sleep. (What did you expect? I was alone.)
(I loved the part this morning when I got up and there was my cum all over my panties still. It verified I can be a sexual being when I was alone and not a dried husk.)
I cannot say that I felt like my sins being washed away via masturbation, but I can say something resonated in me, alone and fingers engaged, for the very first time in a long time. My body reacted to someone I did want, that I did desire. It reacted to me desiring me.
Something buried so deep began to breathe, little by little.
I was told recently I am extraordinarily beautiful. I rolled my eyes. In the not too distant past, I was told my body was so primed for my lover’s, they could get an erection sleeping next to me. “Just look at your beautiful body!,” husky words pushing me closer to them so I could indeed feel their physical truth. (We always slept naked. We would joke as we got ready for bed about our 2AM meetings as one or both of us would reach for the other in our sleep at that time every night. It didn’t matter how much sex we had before bed.) Yet another person unrelated to my sex life told me I was classically beautiful. Another eye rolling.
(I’ve also been told I have amazing skin for touch. At least I have that going for me.)
Is it my self-esteem that doubts these words? Yes. There is the confidence that for a fat girl, I can get much desire from many. On the flip, it was always down to, “But WHY do they want me? What could possibly make them want to fuck me, let alone hold my hand?
Silently, over the years the self-doubt grows. I’m too fat for clothes. My bras are beginning to strain. My flexibility is lessening. My hair is getting too grey. My skin is getting blotchy thanks to too much dairy eating, early life sun damage, and age. I worry that as I grow older, I will never feel body love, that if I end up truly single, finding a stable relationship would be near impossible and I would just have a rotating cast of lovers over the years of half-hearted satiation. You can always find someone to fuck, but real body love? Rarely.
I worry the AARP is going to be knocking down my door.
I live too much in the past, I live too much in a future that has yet to happen. I need to live in the present.
I worry about losing the now fragile desire of me.
After that erotic break, back to the plan. The image above is of the notes I took this evening after I meditated. It was typical the plan would live in bullet pointed Times New Roman, 12pt; but I wanted to engrave it on the memory rather than type it out and have it in purgatory on my hard drive.
So I wrote it out, making notes a long the way. Some of it is platitudes, others are sketches. No step by step, just be. Here are the things I want to do. In pen. More has come since I snapped that pic, the red brick covering what is not for public consumption.
Maybe this time it will finally sink in. Maybe this time I can move forward past the pain, the guilt, the self-flagellation for my crimes.
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