A Thirst for Closeness

Lovebound before now lovesick or maybe sick of love, I put distance between us, drew a line.
A way to let some feelings grow, a way to let some others go.

It comes in waves, like trauma days or shivers down the spine on single nights in mid-July. I beget rancour, I look inside for lifelines, threads, grasping, grazing through ancient pains like cows through straw, I, long but forgotten in the cough of fights.

For months I visited, beseeched, in no practical order the advice of friends, foes, doctors, therapists, energy healers, helpers, shemales, shamans, shams, so as to better understand the standing of my feet, the polyrhythmic thumping one gets to call ‘alive’. It ceases, then it speeds, silent, then shamelocked, rapacious, altered and proper and uneasy, and sometimes all at once. An acrid taste invades my mouth as I deeply inhale those left unspoken, the foot of something holding down a shrill and shrivelled tone that rarely sounds like mine. Then fades.

Sometimes, I’m everywhere at once.

We’re distant from each other and this was not a choice. The dawn of spring revealed within us a sly and distanced winter. We hold on for the long sleep, thirsting for closeness, closing our eyes, at times eyeing our close ones, weary, fondness postponed, searching for fingerprints on glass that match. Learned helplessness, what remedy or draught for lusting at a distance, for going deeper than the last buttplug you got. Emotionally ransacked, searching for close encounters of the eight kind, whilst reeling in a racy mind, aching to be discharged.

Reviving dirty talk, with digital defibrillators au lieu de vibrators; you’re talking smut to me and slowly and methodically washing your hands, fingers and palms, and touching only where it hurts, the Guilt spot. A whirlwind of expressions and emojicons and animated giffies, say things that turn me on: apologies that lead to better future choices; the names of everyone who did you wrong that wasn’t I; the chorus of that song from that one band that only has one good song we listened to and fucked. Somebody else: let’s focus on the positive, instead of counting days since we have been apart, let’s count the days until we’re reunited. Let’s take this time to heal.
Oh, wait, catch 22. White basic range of lies, IKEA, just like these e-caresses. And castles, sand-blasted by hope, while finger-blasting sexts to you. Folie a deux.

Oh, isolation, great equaliser, low psychological distress over long distances reinforces certainty, this in its turn making us more and more excited about planned outcomes. Time management for stress spillover, diving inside you with my gloves on, due to alexithymia; a failure to communicate emotions; instead an urge to act them out. Refrain from stonewalling and escalating into personal attacks. Take heed that vulgar words become so because they are the language of the serfs, of those submitted and subdued.
No word is ever stained at birth. No skinsack guilty for its life.

I keep a thing from you, reminder of those other times when touch was plenty and alive and fundamentally dyadic. Loved scents improve the quality of sleep without us knowing, an opportunity to link a link to the real you, including who you truly are, emotionally draining.

If senses be the vehicles for our desires, how come we car crash often on the highway of longing to connect? Boulevard blowjob speedrats in autopilot vans?

Alas, there’s hope. There is some evidence for heightened sexual attraction under conditions of high anxiety. Erotic pictures or words attract attention, we’re less aware of the fast track of time, the pictures seem to go too quick and we only wish we could look longer. So, I guess, thrill me at a distance or taze me with your smile. I’m ready to be ravished into nonsense verbally, orally, so to speak. Or else, over-protective, we’re covered in rubber head to toe, zipped up, our breath holes covered, and slide on each other with help of antiviral spray against all odds, distance allowing us to see less and less and less perceived alternatives. The beauty of one-point perspective, endlessly regressing to our primal selves.

I remember a time when saying we were out of touch for way too long was a metaphor, and the gap between what we expected and what we wanted was only a thigh gap away, few distressed inches or white lines. Persistence breeds Commitment. I met Persistence once, and she loved strap-ons.
Though I have yet to meet the r e a l Commitment.

The longer we wait to see each other, the greater the communication and the admiration grow. When having positive illusions one will see one's ████████████ in an overly positive manner, which shapes how one thinks about the ████████████. The more positive illusions people in the ████████████ have, the longer the ████████████ lasts. Make sure you foster your illusions then, sharing in shared delusions is beneficial in the long run for a deep-bedded sense of Jenga® self-esteem. About the blanks, try spit, if one fits, they all do. Plus we have yet unknown minutes to spare, long listerines that make your mouth go wow, banned indefinitely from provocatively popping our chewing gum balloons in public. Add to that your rejection sensitive dysphoria, princess, wear it with a crown! Tickled by the silent violence of rhythmic grunts and pants from mild asphyxiation under the mask one ought to wear outside to selflessly protect his loved ones. From himself...

Technology is your best friend. Stick to a schedule. Set clear rules & boundaries.
Remember, the safe word is meters.
Do stuff together, even when you’re a part.


If OBSO is an emotional space of mournful learning and an exercise in hope mediated by loss, then its opposite & counterpart, 0830, is a space filled with questioning, doubt, resolute in its isolationism, relishing confinement.