I post. I love to write. I think it’s one of the most amazing things that I can do, and possibly one of the most futile.
See, what I post about, what I write about, are the thoughts I have. The ideas tingling within me, ricocheting around my head. And it’s only when I’m high that I feel I can truly describe them, list them, attempt in some way to quantify and categorize them. And I know, even as I’m doing it, that this is only valid for me, and not even all of the time – there will come times when I review my writings, my ramblings, and dip away from them, simply because they no longer make sense.
I could try to make them make sense, but this involves too much thought, too much processing and culling of my thoughts. Only when I’m high do I feel like I can accurately carry them over, because I am too overwhelmed with expressing the idea or emotion to get caught up in logical arguments and loops and questions of “will other people understand me”. I understand me, when my fingers are tingling and my eyes are lazily drooping, my mind sluggish and yet racing. And that is all I need.
When I am like this, in this state, it is not just that I stop censoring my words. I stop censoring my life, my self, my entire being. I spend too much of my time caught up in a maelstrom of doubt and conflict, never sure of what it is that I want that I can achieve – and this is a problem. I should not base wants and dreams on what I can definitely see myself doing. No, they should be desires and dreams, no matter how unrealistic, if they bring a smile to my face. But I don’t let myself reach that point, I don’t allow my own mind unfettered access to my imagination. Because like so many, I am caught in this vicious cycle of self-censoring to the point that I cannot even begin to know where my true thoughts begin.
Marijuana breaks down that wall. It throws a stick into the cycle, jolting me out of the rut that I have been running in. I don’t care any longer what others might think of me. I realize that I am truly the only one who ever has to live with my full decisions – though they affect others, I am the one who is bound by them. And when I am accepting myself in this manner, the shortcomings I see in me are no longer important. It matters not that I am pale, nor that I am overweight, nor that I tend to grow hair at an alarming rate – I feel confident in myself.
Every flaw I have is hidden, gently masked and softly lit so that they are no longer appalling, but appealing instead. My skin is not deathly white, it is alabaster, a faint glow like the radiance of the moon on fresh-fallen snow, crystalline and pure and pristine, begging one to touch it. I am no longer fat – I am rubinesque, a delight, my form curved and created to allure, to draw men in – from my breasts that rest heavy and firm on my gently rising chest, to the swell of my hips after the pinch of my waist. My thighs are round and soft, hinting of further softness to be found above. Even my feet, my typical spot of shame, are not to be punished. They are dainty and cute and oh so expressive, if ever one would look – my feet arch, going en pointe while I am still horizontal, as my body extends every bit it can, seeking more room to contain my pleasure. And when the body can hold no more, those toes curl, red lacquered nails dully glinting amongst the satin sheets as I quiver above, breathing hard.
My lover cares not that I have not shaved my legs since the previous morning, and that they are no longer silken smooth, but have faint texture to them. He delights in running his hands over them, up them, lingering in the oddest of places – at my Achilles’ tendon, to rub gently there a moment… to brush lightly over my patella, only to be drawn into figure eights on my thighs.
Even my flower is laid open before him, one of the few times I allow such – it is the only time, when I am like this, that I am not too caught in how odd I feel I must look, and thus he can see me as he rarely does. Resplendent in my repose, stretched upon dark sheets, legs akimbo and eyes almost shut, and I hear the catch in his breath, the slight raspy note as he speaks some incoherent but utterly comprehensible word, touching me. His hands are rough – odd for one who has worked almost his whole life at a desk – the calluses catch me and rub me oddly, in a way that I am familiar with but still find exciting. His fingertips dance in the moisture that paints my inner thighs, and he trails them up my stomach, leaving a wet line that cools, goosebumps tingling after his fingers.
And oddly enough, after all is said and done, and he has stroked me a few more times, before nuzzling next to me, replete and dozing, I find myself able to replay just those few sensations. I can pause them in my mind, feel the muscles and nerves responding to stimuli that are no longer present but which are no less compelling. And curled against his side, the bedroom fan gusting cool across my flesh, I place my hands under my head, and close my eyes tightly, and focus my entire being on those relived impulses.
Any touch now would be agony, ecstasy and excruciating pain all at once, for I am so connected to myself, so far in my own skin and pleasures and thought, that it is as if I can feel every pore on my body, and can open and close them at will. But that is distraction, from the sweet release I am working on. I replay those moments in my mind, imagining myself looking down on myself. I trace each movement, and each triggering response. When my leg quivers, I “see” myself from above, and watch the sensation come from the base of my brain, pale gold, down my spine and spiraling out to my hip and over, to lose itself in my inner thigh. An impulse, a flare of purple, and the muscle spasms, setting my leg aquiver. I feel not only the returned impulse to my brain that that muscle has moved, but every attached muscle and limb adjusting slightly. More than that, I feel the sheet rubbing against my skin, slipping and sliding but almost catching me for a moment or two.
The sheet is delightful, satin and meant for sex and fucking and wild romanticism and sweet love. As I writhe atop it, not touching myself but instead focusing on each sensation, my breath comes faster. My nipples, already so sensitive, contract and harden, my breasts aching after. My stomach tenses, my legs shift slightly but without ceasing, and I fight to keep my mind on these sensations, tracing their wild paths all over my body.
My brain is no longer the core, no longer what controls anything. My honey pot is where it all begins and ends, and each sensation, from the brush of air to the slip of sheet to the involuntary tightening of my abdominal muscles, reverberates here, finding its home and amplifying itself into a thousand sensations that race through the very core of me.
I can never take such stimulus for long, and always, within mere minutes of being in this state, I climax, hard and heavy and almost dying for the lack of air but gasping happily when the wave recedes enough to allow me breath. I have never before known that I could do this, orgasm, with no touch, no stimulus outside my own mind, before I got high.
This is why I get high. I feel so alive in my skin, like it is no longer a barrier to the world, but something that connects and exposes me to infinitely more of the world than I could ever really imagine. It is not some safe bubble, but rather a million eager hands, each one tugging in infinitesimally different directions, so that all I know is the sensation of being touched, affected, by that which I have never and will likely never see.
It is glorious. It is a grounding that is, to me, on par with that done by those who walk on coals and otherwise show their transcendence. And it is remarkable and heartbreaking, because I have felt it, this connection with anything and everything and nothing and all things all at once… and I do not know that I will ever be able to explain it to anyone else, to help them realize what this is.