It’s been 48 hours without My Kitty.
At least in the direct physical sense…
She’s been with me as she always is – tugging on the strings attached to my most expansive mind, heart, and cock.

Being away is always tricky and exhausting. We are both unexpected scrappers. Seemingly quiet and casual, but always fighting some oppression somewhere…usually the one knocking on our door. When we are apart, we fight twice the battles when we cannot join forces, tagging each other out when one is starting to tire… just like they do in those scripted wrestling matches.

All pawns in a game – actors in the film.

When we scream out and dig in our nails, dig in our heels, stand up and demand a better way – it is to the face of one person who is made up of the masses – the mothers and fathers who taught them, the sisters and brothers who brought them, the dissenters like us who fought them.

Each battle gives a semblance of power in the war and a simultaneous staggering sense of loss.

If we keep fighting, will we eventually win?
If we keep fighting, will there be anyone left to enjoy the remains?

Licking the wounds of a 48 hours solo fight. 1 vs the fucking patriarchy. And I’m waiting to board my vessel to her. To respite. To the place where there is just me and her.

Where we leave it all behind and there is only room for her skin, her hips, her fingers brushing up against the place where our lips meet. Where our hips thrust. Where we come undone. And wound back up together – in each other. In ourselves. In spite of and at one with the world. All the same and all the difference.

This fierce love.
This maddening bliss.

It moves in hyper speed and in reverse, circles and swirls and pulses of electric impulse. Until it is everything and nothing.

I’ve missed you. And every time we are apart. I come back a little bit bumped and a little bit bruised. Until the marks begin to fade and the skin shows a bit of raise – whether from muscles or scars, it is a bit more hard.

And the brilliant return to you gets to bloom in the softness of contrast and contradiction.

This fierce love.
This maddening bliss.

It does not take vacations or lunch breaks. It builds and roots and shifts and moves – when no one is watching and when the world is captivated.

This fierce love.
This maddening bliss.

Is coming home to you, my sweet.

Even though it never left.

{Cock}Asia