You are the one
Who never left
You are the one
Who never was
Of my mind
The only love
I’ve never known
Much of my life has been used fulfilling my senses. I have watched thousands of movies, listened to hundreds of thousands of songs, tasted and smelled hundreds of amazing foods, but in all that, I have rarely ever touched or felt anything. Touch is the sense I have used the least. It is also the sense I want to use the most.
Each sense has one thing that I associate with it, in that, there is one thing I think of most when I think of that sense. Sound is music; sight is art, whether is be drawings, paintings, movies, pictures, or whatever; taste and smell are food; touch is women. I realize that there are other things that go with each one, but if I look at my own life and how I fulfill and appease each of the senses, those are the things I use.
In the end, everything boils down to a sensory experience. I have many memories dedicated to 4 of the 5, but very, very few dedicated to tactile experience. It is a void in my life, and one that I mourn and regret. I crave it far more than any other. I feel its powerful pull all too often.
I miss physical contact more than anything. It’s what I see in my head when I think of being with someone. The feel of a woman is… amazing. All soft and smooth. Even as I type this, I can feel my hands burn at the memory. I miss it and I yearn for it. The void is painful.
I’ve mentioned before that I really want to be held. I’ve never been held before. It’s an awkward proposition considering my size, but I want to know what it is like. I’ve also only been touched a few times. I have touched, but I can only recall a very few times where a woman reached out and initiated contact or did anything more than return a hug.
I cherish the memories I have that are related to my sense of touch. They are some of the most powerful I have. Lying next to a woman, feeling her pressed against me, warm and soft. Running my hands over her hips, her stomach, her pubic hair. Pressing my lips to her shoulder as her hair brushes across my face. Her head resting on my arm as it passes beneath her. Running my hand deeper, feeling her thighs press against the sides of my hand as her pubic hair scratches my hand; my fingers seeking her out. Her legs opening and draping across me as I brush over her hood and part her lips. Her warm stickiness on my fingers as I slide my fingers inside of her. The way her breath feels on my head as she sighs, rolling towards me to allow me to take her breast in my mouth. How hot she is beneath my palm and around my fingers as they coax her further. Everything about her is softer and wetter than I could have ever imagined possible. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever felt…
And I will never know it again. At least, not from her. I don’t even know if I will feel it from another. As beautiful as it was, it is also painful knowing that I have never felt better than I did at that moment and I can never have it again. The memory is haunting. The thought that I can never feel her again is almost enough to drive me to tears. The thought that I may never feel anyone that way again is enough to drive me to tears.
It isn’t really her that I miss though. I knew I would never have her. It is the tactile experience. I have always craved it and that brief shining moment with it makes me want it all the more. It wasn’t enough to have it for a weekend. I want to know it for the rest of my life.
And, though I have described the sexual experience here, that is just an aspect of it. I want all that goes along with it, which I could not have on my trip. As beautiful as the experience I had was, it was very much lacking. I never got to feel her lips on mine; never got to just sit beside her and hold her while watching nothing at all on TV; never got to really hold her and have her hold me back. The sexual component was amazing, but what I want most of all is the quiet, intimate part of it.
Bear with me as I try to find my legs with this all again. I’m still quite rusty and only recently back in touch with the urge to write. I may even make up for lost time. I cannot say that there will be cohesion in anything I write, just that it will be a part of me.
One subject that I have always written about is love. Since the first I started really writing, it was love. In all these years, I can’t think of a single time I have written positively about it. It has always been unrequited, lost, or forlorn. I always wanted to write about what it felt like to be in love, but I never knew what it was like. I wanted to write happy love songs, thick enough to make you puke, but I had never had it. I thought I had, but I was the only ever really involved in it. I’ve loved, but I have never been loved. In that, came everything I had written. It was an expulsion of the pain that I felt, the hatred that I held, and the loss I had.
You can see a progression in the writing. As time went on and still I had not found love and I walked into the same traps, the despair grew and the hope waned. When I was young, I thought I would be married and having kids by 20. I had hope that my life would head that way, as it was what I wanted. I always knew I was meant for that sort of thing, it felt right. Even after I had my soul crushed, I still hoped for it, but that hope had started to die. When I met 20 alone, I thought maybe 23. And then that came and went and I was left wondering if it would ever happen. Once that thought caught hold, it kept escalating. Year by year, day by day, hour by hour until I could no longer escape it. Until just the thought of finding someone seemed like an impossibility. At the deepest and darkest, I was wondering what I would do if I saw 40 and was still alone… and it was not good. Bad would be too weak a word. It was tragic. It was too much to handle, it was the end of hope. It was gone for good, and its loss stopped me in my tracks. I gave up on everything and couldn’t move forward and it propelled me further down than I had ever gone before. And I saw no way out. If this is all there was for me, why bother doing anything?
Somewhere, I’m not sure where, deep down in that darkness, a pinpoint of hope managed to penetrate. Maybe it had always been there, but I had never noticed it before. I didn’t really know what to do with it at first. Didn’t even really know what it was at first. Truthfully, I’m not even sure I really know what it is even now. As I write this, the rest flowed, but now I come to a point where all I have is speculation. There is hope now, but it is not all consuming. I still doubt it. I have too much history to truly believe it. But, the hope is there and as I sort my life out and move towards the future and what I feel I am supposed to do, the hope grows. It is slow, but it grows.
I’ve lost my way in this, but such is the path this thread took. I can never predict where these will end and, sometimes, not even where they will start. In truth, this is likely not even done. It is far from polished, but it is as it was released, and I do not think I should change that. Truth be told, I lost my way somewhere in the middle of this and I think it found it’s own path out. I think that as I go on, this will mimic the descent. The beginning will be manic, as the previous ending was, but as time goes on the mania will subside, cohesion will come into it, and the darkness will fade. It will never be fully cohesive though, there is insanity in these waters and I embrace it as a I would a lover.