No Fear in Da New Year

*Editorial Note: Below, I write "Last year, on December 31"--I mean December 31, 2007. Not 2008. I posted this post a couple days after I wrote it and intended last year to mean 2007. You can find the post about said butt sex under Happy New Rear Parts 1 & 2. Tada!

Hi there everybody. And Happy New Year.

Last year, on December 31, I had butt sex for the first time. That was a pretty awesome way to spend New Year's Eve afternoon, I'll tell you what. It took about two hours to get an actual cock in my ass, but when it finally happened, it was like "Yay! I'm capable!" That's always a good feeling. Realizing you're capable of something. It doesn't even have to be "oh, I'm good at this." Just being able is good enough sometimes.

I'm capable of brand new things now. Feelings, mainly. Feelings that blow my mind every direction until next Thursday.

Despite new feelings to be written about, the endless "I'm having trouble writing this blog" issue continues over here. To tell you the truth, I have five or six posts. But they're all sort of, um, romantic. Still about sex, yes, of course, but mushy and shit. And I have a problem that if I don't post something as soon as I've written it, I don't want to post it later. The awesome thing about blogging is that non-self-conscious feeling that comes with it. Spit it out, write it, post it, no holds barred, no fear. I've never really revised a post. Never held back in writing one. And the problem right now is not not being able to write, the words are coming--but the fear of posting. Because now, the things that I'm writing about--well, let's be frank--they mean a lot more to me than a lot of the casual sex I've written about in the past.

But a friend, who knows about this blog, gave me some good advice the other day. He said something like, "Your current romantic feelings or whatever, it's like the next step in this whole blooming process. It's not out of line with the thesis of your blog." And he's right.

So I'll start out slowly. With just this...

We'd just finished fooling around for the last time that night. The room was pitch black. It was probably 4 am. My orgasms had been neverending, and my heart was beating a million beats a minute, and my head was pounding from prosecco and fucking and fatigue. Suddenly, I felt the need to lie on top of him and just feel his body close to mine. And then the tears came. Rushing. Huge tears, snot, sighs, gulps, the whole nine yards. I wept into his chest and he wiped away the tears and patted my hair and sighed and was not afraid to have me crying on top of him. I wanted to say so many things right then, but I also wanted to be quiet so as not to ruin the watery moment. But I did find one thing to say, something I thought to myself, would be okay, would say enough about what I felt:

"I just feel so lucky."

So lucky.

"So do I," he said.

And I stopped crying, kissed him on his temple, and went to sleep.