I identify as primal.
I find that sensual headspace easy to access…especially at different parts of my cycle where the veil parts more easily and also when the drums are drumming and the beat is pounding; or something in the air. Like a resplendent propensity for trance or seismic shift in consciousness with the sleight of hand of a magician.
The thrill of the chase, my pulse beating through my wrists; my world being reduced down to a single focus – where smell, taste and vision all collide and pare down to one sole alignment. Sentient sensual sensing satisfaction.
That palpable weight in the bottom of my stomach. I’ve ached for it. Overpowering me, forcing me; down.
I’ve missed spreading my legs for pleasure, for the greater good; for purpose. I’ve missed the heat in my lungs and the growl in the air; and the resonance of meeting those who get it.
That boundaries and oneness are sacrosanct; that the act itself of consciously presenting and holding space for that oxymoron is possible. That my pleasure is my pleasure is of service to the divine.
I do not want to give up so easily despite knowing the cost of dancing with the god of lust, my frontiers are highly defended.
Yet the past week; since the tipping of the year into the heart of fertility – Beltaine, she calls to me. Reminding me of the pirates to run away with, of the call of the wild, of my kin.
The untamed spoils of life still to be named and explored. Bushy again, my sense of self shifts towards that feral wildcat. Encased in the hourglass body of a femme I’ve long been hiding away – shapeshifter, changeling, I edge forward into my last week of this experiment….not knowing about ending and integrating yet but trusting that I will do so.
My autonomy is my own to give. Whether I do or not…She knows.