Prisoner of The Mind

Awakening, my mind felt its way around the room using my eyes as hands and feet. I was then confronted by the vibrant neon green digits on the wall clock which read 6:37 AM. The sun crept into the room by playing peek-a-boo, forcing itself through the slithers between the vertical blinds hanging from the ceiling. I could have been laying in a cave for as crisp as the air was, or for as damp and clammy as the sheets were. Still and in utter darkness, I feel a figure beside me who shamelessly exposes the smooth grooves of his masculine frame. He is solid, secure, thick-skinned. Despite the deep, violent snarls erupting from his trembling lips, he is harmless. He did in fact come in peace and with ease.


Even in peace, my ego takes anxiety by the hand and says ruin it. With orders followed, the internal questioning ensues.


My heart feels at home, but where is my mind?


Anxiety forged a one-sided conversation by asking a question that my heart would have loved to answer. Therein lies the biggest reason for specificity. I had to hold myself accountable for inquiring about the wandering mind, and not the heart's security. Though mighty, matters of the heart aren't as dangerous or exciting and certainly don't smell as sweet as the dried nectar between my fingers.


My mind was still and in utter darkness, where I was free to be the object of his desire. I had the courage to withstand the pain of his acceptance. He loved every inch of my imperfect canvas and orchestrated the most artful showcase. I was his amusement.


He taught me how to swim, to dance, to sing, to paint while he watched me, only his breath on my neck. The world completely out of the equation. He was the director and the audience. I was the muse meant for his musings. He showed me with his bare body how to interpret art and how to be art. I trusted him to carry me into the deep end without letting me down to drown.


We danced atop waves with our limbs intertwined. We practiced balancing the shift of weight on his memory foam California king mattress. We composed and decoded compelling lyrics while singing in glass-shattering octaves. The gentle giant softened his touch as he was determined to match the rhythm of my flow. We feverishly consumed the juices of forbidden fruit. Still and in utter darkness, I hung from his vine, inspired yet reluctant to accept his invitation to plunge into uncharted territory. Waters were raging, and I couldn't decipher if his smile was deceit or delightful, but I took a chance. I let go. The warmth and fullness of his welcome inspired the sweet hum of falsettos. Our movement similar to synchronized swimmers coordinated an improvised combination. All of our parts fell into place. With bellies full of forbidden fruit juices, and lungs full of blueberry haze, we belted in unison, chorusing pure bliss, melted in our bodily maze. I was now in command of the very waters he led me to. I let him lead me...


That's where my mind was; still and in utter darkness. The neon green digits vibrantly project 6:56 AM, and I have yet to clothe myself and go.


Why haven't I left yet? Because I secretly want to see how he gathers himself after the night I put him through.


Why haven't I gotten up to leave yet? Maybe because I'm enticed by the idea of morning sex. Or perhaps I secretly want to engage in playful banter like the battle of the morning breath while we get dressed for a pancake breakfast I have zero business having.


Why haven't I moved? Gravity wasn't a factor while we danced in the still and utter darkness, but here I lay, rendered motionless in the comfort of his bed. Trying to grasp a reality that was both conjured and destroyed within hours. Clinging to the oxymoronic notion of our affair being a calculated risk. Our indulgence cannot happen frequently, because I can't imagine subjecting myself to such a pure connection. I don't want him even though he's every bit good for me. I manifest perfection and I deprive myself of it.


I believe in myself to neither be enslaved by emotions nor a prisoner of the mind.

I don't know where I am, or where my identity lies.


---


7:00 AM finally rolls around and to no surprise, my body hasn’t moved an inch—of course, that’s if we’re not counting my nimble digits who’ve proven to be their own entity. And at no point would your majesty be interested in giving him or his beloved member a break. Every so often (regardless if someone is or isn’t watching), my nimble digits casually saunter across his torso to administer blows below the belt that aren’t the least bit offensive. To his chagrin, only when his back’s down is when he backs down. He can’t resist the way I put him to sleep. And so still, he lays radiating in the sherbet glow from the sunrise that now permeates the entire room. He, too, was my sun as he filled me with his ominous glow.


Rejecting peace, my ego low key hoped that he would have been running late for a meeting way over on the westside just so that he’d awaken in a haste, spark up, pour some orange juice, put me in an Uber, and be about his business. But that did not happen, and worst of all, I really didn’t mind.


Together we laid, my mind’s eye opened. He stirred, often mumbling phrases that could be defined as incoherent sleep jargon, or a projection of dreams. I couldn't differentiate, and I didn’t bother waking him to find out, either. I had front row seats to watch my latest inspiration just BE, and no amount of anxiety was bound to obstruct my view. I just love waking up to him in the morning. From seeing the rise and fall of his chest, to the way he involuntary flinches during REM sleep. I'm weak for the way he pulls me tighter by the waist and tucks his hand in the crease of my thighs. Just crazy about the way he adamantly indicates when cuddle hour is over by having to turn his back to me. He said even the space I give is A1. I love his subtle gestures like when he uses his fingertips to lightly trace his initials in between my back dimples. He's ready then. I’m fluent in his body language. He knows how, where, and when to reach me.


But damn, why can't I ever be satisfied?

Is this not what I asked for?

No strings attached, only hit me when you’re mad for it?


Staring at the ceiling, I realized I'm lingering like I’m never coming back. Maybe I'm not. Do I even want to? Experiencing this perfection might be too hurtful in the long run. Something like this I'll want again and again, and again... Cue the waterworks but don't fall.


Please, for the sake of your image and sanity you can't fall.


I identify and share a similar sentiment with my tears. This is what I wanted to avoid. This moment was bittersweet; the bitter dominant. The weight of my want to leave did not exceed the weight of my want to see how he felt when I didn’t jump to flea before the sun came up.


I never considered how that made him feel before so why's now any different?

Well, it's just... I really wanted this one to be different.

Different than what? Different than whom? Different how?


He's a completely different person than the man from yesterday. Thus, the change had to come from within. But who did I think I had to be in order to fully enjoy him? Why would I be under the impression that I had to be any more or less than my usual, Purple, salacious self with him? I let that marinate for a bit, staring off into space. The journeying mind was disrupted by the sound of the airy duvet shuffling. He thrashed his body about, settling into the right place, ejecting his left leg for ventilation. The image before me matched his temperature.


Early in our affairs, reading him wasn't easy, but fun. I fancied his unpredictability. He had a way of conveying that he was grounded, but was always unclear on where he stood to perceive me. His ambiguity manipulated my lust for travel. My inner centaur was a slut for wanderlust, and his mannerisms provoked my imagination. He wasn’t a man of many words, though he always spoke his mind. He never said he loved me, though he displayed his affection behind closed doors rather fluidly, never publicly. He was limitless. The perfect combination of brazen and tenderness.


Maybe he serves as the rich and delightful pancake breakfast I have zero business in having. But what was that to say about the rest I imagined?

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