v u l v a l i c i o u s
i need you to tell me i'm real, that i exist.
let me wrap my hand around your wrist and hold you until i can feel the difference between our pulses thrumming.
swear to me that i'm more than just a possibility. tell me i'm already here, that i am in progress. not process, not becoming. but happening. here and now.
sometimes i'm afraid to speak my fantasies because it makes it so much more apparent that they don't need to be fantasies. like writing it down or saying it aloud is a reminder that This Could Happen.
could, but isn't. the distinction between fantasy and reality. but if my fantasy is someone else's reality, why can't it be mine too?
i am not even spelling it out here in this quiet corner of the internet, because spelling it out makes me nervous and sad. but i will, because it's after 3 am and it's a new year.
i am a genderqueer identified, cis presenting, queer-ass dyke, and from the first time i heard someone talk about having "psychic dick" approximately 1 million (15) years ago, i knew just what they meant. and then i used a strap on a few years later, and i knew even more.
fast forward, and i swear i understand. i have femmecock. sometimes i wear my soft pack and i look down and think yes, that is my cock, and i can almost feel it because it's so real to me.
and when i fuck with my hand it's an extension of my cock, so much so that i can feel the strength and tightness as i push forward. it's in my hand, and it's between my legs.
but i swear it's not real anymore. it's a faraway illusion. and honestly i'm too tired to write about it, but i don't care. i'm here anyway.
because i tried writing something and then i got sad. because i thought about femmecock for too long and i started to feel like i was just adrift and alone. and not real. not real at all.