Grotto of the Grotesque

Cream Pie

Corresponding with a friend of mine, a psychologist named Emma, I began confessing everything, every nuance of my emotion, my curiosity, my doubt. I thought I had said it all when I remembered the aspect of the grotesque. I admitted to her my sense that someone would experience disgust at my licking ritual, probably lots of people would, but I live with it gently as I relax into my journey of self acceptance. One more thing to relax into.

I once explored this crevice in a phantasy session with sister Didi. I was in the tub in New York and she was on the phone in Frankfurt. We basically got onto the thread that some of the girls who I think are the hottest might be the most disgusted by what I do. She described them to me as I masturbated, with a round mirror on my belly. I groaned as she talked, selflovemaking.

“She’s a small young woman with little breasts & brown eyes. She has long straight hair, dark brown. She’s serious and horny but doesn’t let it show. You know the type, the kind of girl whose ass you want to eat. You want her at the first glance. And she might do you, she might let you fuck her snug pussy, but not if she finds out. Not if she finds out your little game.”

I slipped into the pleasure of wanting her, and being craved back in her sanctimonious way; then surrendered to the recognition that I might be denied by someone so beautiful. I could have to give her up to have myself; and confront that my need for myself might repel someone I want or need. Or, that I had already chosen, that any possibility was in the past.

Didi’s sweet, seductive voice spoke to me, guiding me into this forbidden territory—the space of conscious self-reproach.

“She might fuck you if you get lucky but not if she finds out you eat your cum off of a mirror. Even if you don’t do that around her, if she finds out, she’s going to be repulsed. She’s not going to want you…what you’re doing is babyish and egotistical. It could be queer.”

With those words I was free.

“Yeah,” Didi said, “that’s right. Make love to yourself even though she won’t. You can’t fuck her but you can want her. And it’s okay if you don’t have her or if she thinks you’re just a little weird but too weird for her. You have yourself.” I kept moaning in rhythm, taking in the words and their feeling.

Secretly I knew the dark girl was curious about my escapades and would take herself in the silence of night as the images play in her mind. Then in an moment of abject letting go, it occurred to me that I was doing this because I needed her to reject me, and this was my chosen way; my chosen pleasure to reveal to her that would obviate any hope of getting near her, or into her. The emotion of that admission became a long, hollow sounding moan and I was pulled under with a steady tug. My pelvis squeezed in its delicious way and my penis throbbed in my hand and ejaculation was happening. The mirror on my belly flooded and before I know what I was doing I was watching myself lick off my already cool, thick liquid as Didi listened to the orgy.

Over time, a crystal palace forms; parallel to a space in my interior. In this grotesque act of relating to myself so directly, a space opens up inside me; I become someone different.

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