kalischild

(reposted from my LJ, cause I'm like that.)

LJ username: Kalischild

So, it happened again last night;

I got called a hooker by a complete stranger.

This is strange, as it came hot on the heels of my being dropped off at my elegant downtown studio, all by my lonesome, and feeling a trifle down about it, le sigh.

Just to skip any accusations of the emo, allow me to say that it's been a fabulous weekend; all told, I've had one the best times I can remember having had in what feels like forever, and the fact that I'm finally coming out of the long, dark tunnel of an pretty damn unhealthy relationship has had a lot to do with how good I'm feeling. I'm cheerful, more outgoing, laughing more, and telling stories; I'm feeling like the performer that I am, and I'm finally in a position to cheer up others, rather than being an emotional black hole, sucking the all the light and enjoyment out of the general vicinity. All in all, I'm feeling FANTABULOUS; better, I'm actually starting to feel like an Indigo for the first time in a long time, rather than just "Some Random Girl's Problem Boy".

But I'm a little miffed that during the very last hours of last night, I found myself being almost desperate for a moment of elegant flirtation, of eye contact; I neede d touch. I wanted to feel like I'm not a ghost to anyone other than my friends.

And then even more miffed to have a stranger call me a whore.

Kids, I just want to feel like a healthy, living person. I've been broken, and wretched and wrecked, and for far longer than I knew. I've done the Orpheus trip; I pursued my lover through the death of or relationship, and in the end, I looked back and lost. But Orpheus was the lucky one, he was already standing at the threshold of the light when he lost his hope; I had a long road to walk to find myself here, standing in the sun. But now I'm out, and sane (or as sane as I EVER am), safe, and whole again.

Albeit quite clearly mad.

I'm still not ready to be anyone's partner, and I won't be until I spend a significant period of time being my own, but god DAMN; I want to feel life under my fingertips, and soft, dusty skin. I want the incredibly HEALING feeling of warmth, and lips, and eyes I find beautiful.

I'm not a 'slut', bitches.

And I'm not all about "sex and unicorns", either; my ex never understood that.

I am a sensualist, I always have been, I always will be. Sex is not (and never has been) a playground for my fears and insecurities; sex and sensuality are the gates through which I experience and enjoy life, the longest point at which the switch is set to 'on'. The richness and intensity of sex and sensuality are the quantifying factors whereby I actually feel ALIVE.

And of course there's more to life; I'm a fucking human, with a rich life both behind and ahead of me; and, though I'm bored out of my mind, I'm FAR from shallow. I love the cold, strong feeling I get when I'm climbing up a rock face, and feeling my body becoming a part of it as I inch, a second at a time, towards an edge that seems like it's a thousand miles away. I've felt the wind in my face at a hundred and fifty miles an hour, with the air screaming in beneath my visor so hard it was like needles on my skin, tears drying a second after they left my eyes, screaming because I was living oly seconds away from dying; I've walked the lost highways of this country, and I know where the sky is the same color blue as my true love's eyes; I've filled an emptier silence than you'll ever know with infinitely high walls of throbbing, logarithmic bass. So don't tell me it's all sex and unicorns with me, shorty.

All of these things, these experiences reek of power and passion and life; for stolen seconds at a time, or with the volume slowly, so slowly ramping up to nine, or even ten, you feel the cold crystal burn of why you are ALIVE...

But I'm sorry, children; seduction goes up to eleven.

For me, when it comes to skin, everything is honey and penetration and wicked dark smiles; the rush and pull of hunger and desire, sugar and salt and dark clouds over the ocean at midnight. When it comes to two spirits coming together to drive and grind in a dance so old that it goes back forty million years, a game of hunt and pursuit where both are predator and both are prey, and no-one dies and everbody wins...

These are the moments and the minutes and the hours and the nights that bring me to the level of intensity I lust and yearn and live for for.

I'm not a slut.

Sluts are desperate and have no taste.

If sex is boring, or overrated, or dirty, or depressing, or lame,

Well in the words of a psycho death-cowboy of my aquaintance who preaches out in the dust, out there at the end of the world:

"You're doing it WRONG."

I'm not a slut.

I don't know WHAT exactly I am, but I'm VERY good at it.

Baby's on fire.

And kitty has very sharp claws.