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July 7, 2007

Animal Lust

The beast in me
Is caged by frail and fragile bonds
Restless by day
And by night, rants and rages at the stars

We were young lovers; not in love (well, maybe secretly, a little), but at least very in love with being young lovers. We fucked constantly, until one day he told me confidentially he was so raw he thought he might need to take a one-night reprieve just to protect the health of his poor, aching cock. And then, within minutes of having said this, he was fucking me again. And again and again.

He lived in a flat with others, so we would go to his bedroom when we wanted to be alone together. We always wanted to be alone together. And, since the wardrobe and his big bed took up most of his small, crazy-wallpaper-patterened, bay windowed bedroom, even when we weren't fucking, we more or less lived together in bed. We talked, ate, played, read, fucked, dressed, undressed, and did everything else together in or on his bed, surrounded by a floor strewn with books and ash trays and empty Bulgarian wine bottles made into makeshift candle holders. We fucked with the bay windows open, on purpose. And wondered who in the long rows of flats on the opposite side of the street had seen us.

But it is not him I want to tell you about. It's about a moment I remember that happened with him; a moment never completed, and one I've always tried to find since.

We were, one night, as all other nights, in bed. We generally slept naked but in this memory we had on some clothes. He had on some old sweatpants and I had on an old, worn-out t-shirt of his with some punk band logo on it. We were lounging around, chatting, doing nothing in particular, and then somehow, a pillow fight started. I can't remember who initiated; it is gone from my memory. It might have been me who suggested it; he was always far too intellectual and serious and, well, English to click into goofball play mode unless I prodded him a tiny bit--but I knew he was always dying for the prod. So I would prod, and then he was off. This was probably one of those times. "Let's have a pillow fight," I might have said, and I think, after some teasing and goading, perhaps it was he who first lightly, good-naturedly smacked me with his lumpy, worn feather pillow. I grabbed the other and smacked him back. We were laughing; he hit back again, a little harder. I jumped to my knees while he was still half-lounging below me, raising my pillow above my head to deliver a fatal smacking blow. While I still had the pillow raised over my head, he smacked his full into me, across my face.

And suddenly the air became charged. Delighted at his dirty fighting, I howled with the fake anger of wounded betrayal and pounded him with my pillow, seeking revenge. He leapt up out of bed and I pursued. We ran around the room and scrambled over the bed, smacking each other over and over, each time progressively harder. And each time I got hit, I loved it. And each time I hit him harder and harder, I loved it. It was like my whole life had been slow up to this minute, and now, now I finally knew what it was like to have blood coursing--rushing--through my veins. It was a delicious, delighted rage I felt. It was a heady insanity; an intense reverse evolutionary rush that changed us from adult to child to--yes, yes!--animal in mere moments. We ran, screaming and laughing and hitting each other harder and harder. And it was so good. I couldn't stop, now that I had found this feeling. I could feel him fighting and I fought back; it was so good; beyond words.

I hit and hit and hit and hit again, harder, harder, teeth bared with effort, noises coming out of my throat, hoarse and growling with delight... and it was better than orgasm; better than heaven; total release, complete freedom, no sense involved, just sheer rage-filled adoration and arousal---and I wanted to live there forever.

And suddenly he wasn't hitting back anymore...I heard him shouting something....I held back for a moment...and everything zoomed in to a hyper-suspended moment of stillness...

And there we were staring at each other...him barefooted, bare-chested, breathless, on the floor at the foot of the bed, looking up at me as I stood above him on the rickety bed, barely clothed, pushing my hair out of my face, panting, eyes locked with his. My pillow raised and ready to defend or strike, shakily balancing myself, watching him for any sudden move. I stared into his eyes, a strange kind of exhilaration coursing through me. I felt like a wolf, like a cougar, some wild thing, circling another of my kind, ready to run in for the final fight. And oh, I wanted it. I wanted to feel the moment of engagement. I wanted to feel the fight and the rip and the kill. I wanted to feel myself doing it and I wanted to feel him doing it to me. I looked deep in his eyes, ready to howl in ecstatic rage as we leapt at each other. And he looked back at me and I could see...fear.

No, no! I thought. Don't back down! Don't leave me here! Fight back! Stay up here with me in mad animal nirvana! Show me what you're made of! Make me fight you! Wrestle me down and roll with me on the ground, biting and scratching and growling and fucking and fucking and fucking me till we lose our minds.

I tried to say this with my eyes. But I could see the light had gone out in his; all I could see was fear. And then hidden close behind, anger and possibly disgust and...was it humiliation? But above all, a desire--a begging--to turn to back to normal. Not just begging for him to. For both of us to. For me to not be this thing I had become. And the feeling inside me, it was like a balloon slowly being leaked of its helium.

I have never found any man, ever, who wanted to stay there with me at that level of animal savagery; who didn't hold back or back down and stop it before we'd really gotten there--beyond. It is a crossing over, allowing oneself to be in that state, and one needs to be willing to turn certain things off to be brave enough to stay there. Most people are not comfortable with the absence of those things.

This doesn't mean my relationships aren't good. They are; the sex is good and very satisfying within the boundaries of how far the men I am with are willing to take it. I understand that most people don't want to go to this place. And I don't like my lovers to feel afraid or uncomfortable, and I like lots of the other places they do like to go.

But for me, the lack of someone who can understand and connect to this state with me often leaves me feeling like a prisoner who has been kept in seclusion for many years. I long for that feelng of release; but it will take at least one other willing person to make it happen.

No matter how many years you keep a prisoner in the darkness, though, she can still remember what a sunlit garden looks and smells and feels like.

I still dream of the garden. And of someone who also dreams of it, who gets it and who's willing to open the door to it with me.

I hope I can find him so the seclusion can be over. He's who I'm looking for.

Comments (14)

Juno Henry said:

"But it is not him I want to tell you about. It's about a moment I remember that happened with him; a moment never completed, and one I've always tried to find since."

See, this epitomises why i love to read whatever you have to write. You have a style which is unique and always delightful, and you write so damn well. Plus, in terms of content... always thinky fodder.

(And now i'm thinking animal savagery... rawwrrr.)

Dw3t-Hthr said:

(Hey there. When I've posted here before I've used my LJ link, but since I linked this from my blog proper I'm commenting under my blog identity. You may recall me as Darkhawk. ;) )

There's a hella trippy place out there on the edge, out in the wild -- and as far as I can tell, it's hard to get to, it's a place where I can't get when I'm looking for it, only a place that can be found when letting go of the even seeking.

And I've only ever been up to the edge, really; I keep wanting to get over there, into the great dark, with this aching impulse.

I scared the hell out of my ex with that one, with trying to find the edge there, the place of letting go -- part of it being that the ways I get there are beyond his comfortable kenning because he's not able to deal with the kinkspace, partly because he's such a nice, civilized fellow, with any feral impulses he might have well-hidden.

There's a lot of ... shouldn't go there, into the blood and dark ... out there. I've written a lot about the tension between the rational and the ecstatic, here and there, which is, I suspect, tied up in that whole fascination with the edge of the rational mind, the calling of that raw hungry "Wrestle me down and roll with me on the ground, biting and scratching and growling and fucking and fucking and fucking me till we lose our minds."

Hiromi said:

I've felt that feeling, but in its ugly mirror image -- the ecstasy and surrender of self-destruction. But what you describe sounds infinitely better.

Fluffy Cat said:

It definitely seems that some day you will find the person who meets you there where you want to be. If I've learned anything from meeting people, any obscure desire you might have, there is always someone who shares that desire. Just keep looking.

Buck said:

That sounds absolutely fucking awesome.

The Retropolitan said:

Every moment even remotely like that that I've had has always ended up with someone getting accidentally punched, stabbed, or otherwise wounded. It usually gets a lot less fun after that.

Buck said:


...I used to have an aftermath picture for HNT that showed my upper torso covered with scratches and bites. I was literally black and blue, and during the actual sex I was bleeding. And I loved it. and so did she.

So just because someone gets "punched, stabbed, or otherwise wounded" doesn't mean that it stops being fun. But I do get your point; some people who think they want something wild and feral, really don't. It depends on the individual. But, unless you actually go there, how will you ever know if you like it or not?

Anonymous said:

You'll have to look elsewhere for what you want. Feminism has extracted the marrow from the Western man....

Miss Syl added:

Hm, anonymous...looks like someone's got her/his cranky pants on today. What's this got to do with feminism?

As for everyone else, thanks for the commentary. Sorry I've been late in answering. Darkhawk! So glad to see you.

I think perhaps the post came off differently than I meant it to. It wasn't a desire to HURT someone or be hurt....it was a desire to keep those feelings of being transcended away from social constraint or convention. And it was about the struggle of a fight between worthy equals, and the joy and high that can bring--which we all know from watching or participating in sporting events, for instance. It's true that I happened to reach that state through smacking someone with a pillow, but it isn't violence I'm craving, necessarily. Though a tussle seems to be one way to get thereI bet there are other ways to g et there, too. And I think you'll note that I while the feeling arose out of being hit and hitting someone, I didn't feel angry during this; I felt elated, playful, joyful. It was not an act of violence or anger--not in the way were taught to undestand them, anyway. I guess I'll write more about that in a follow-up post and try to clarify.

Dw3t-Hthr said:

There's a raw freedom in just being able to *let go*, to run wild as it were.

It's one of those things that I find profoundly sexy, the whole going past the boundaries and being able to just *be* in the space with what's there.

It's hard to explain, it just ... defies language.

Miss Syl added:

EXACTLY. Your friend linked to a post about rough sex that expressed some of that very well. I have been meaning to write about/link to that. Sometime soon. I've been a lazy blogger.

BA said:

Stumbled across your site, and this post...

It seems wrong to get academic on a feeling/desire that is trying to get away from that pesky brain, but what can I do? Obviously there is a very, very fine line between our desire to fuck someone and our desire to hurt them - we see the line blurred constantly in the words we use to describe both sex and fighting. Interesting side note: have you ever noticed that dance moves and fighting moves are often exactly the same? Violence slowed down is sexy. Both urges seem to come from a need to connect physically and leave constraint and rationality behind. Often, the more we blur the line, the more satisfying it is. It's as if both urges are actually two halves of the same urge. I think we all want what you want.

But your search for a man to embrace his "wild side" might be a difficult one. Now, I'm speaking in very big generalities here. Women (generally) are not raised to be violent. This is mainly because it is not "lady-like" or "becoming". A woman who wants to embrace her "animal lust" has only to fight against her upbringing and societal expectations. This can be pretty easy to do, especially in the private, sexual realm (where taboos tend to be broken frequently). A man's education in violence is a little different, though. Violence tends to be a more accepted part of a man's reality. Fighting, rough-housing, contact sports, etc. However, men are taught that their violent instincts have to be controlled. And not because it's "proper" or "unattractive" to be violent - because it's dangerous. We are taught that our bodies are dangerous weapons and that we must always be conscious of our urges. "Pick on somebody your own size" is a perfect example of the code that men learn. We must be selective and careful in choosing when and with whom we engage in violence. And while men are more and more often being raised to see women as equals in terms of intelligence, job performance, political power, etc. we are still taught that they are not "our size". "Don't hit girls" is still a commonly understood rule for men. We are reminded by rape and domestic violence statistics that we have to be on guard or somebody (read: a woman) might get hurt. This is why a man who is totally comfortable playing a bloody game of football with his male friends might be squeamish about having "rough sex" with his girlfriend. As I said, women have only to buck societal expectations to feel comfortable with "animal lust". Men have to fight a much greater force: guilt. This may be what your anonymous poster meant about feminism. And maybe he/she is right. Maybe raising our awareness of the rampant misogyny inherent in Western culture has castrated us, made us incapable of giving into our "animal lust". I don't think so. I think it's just made it harder. And I think that's a fair trade for all the good that's come out of that awareness. Better that it's difficult to access that place than too easy.

So, to conclude a very long post with a practical answer to your question: looking for a man who's ready and willing to embrace his animal lust might be the wrong way to go about it. You'll probably be much better off taking the time to "un-train" a man. Get him comfortable with you and teach him that you're "his size" - that he won't break you. Teach him that he doesn't have to worry about your safety: you can handle yourself, you know your limits, and you can and WILL stop things if they get out of hand or you feel uncomfortable. Help him to see that "in the bedroom with you" - like the football field - is a safe place for him to access those animal urges. It may take a little while, but I'm pretty sure it will be worth it - for both of you.

Happy hunting!

Darkneuro said:

YAY!! Here's your questions:

1. If you were going to be involved in a crash, what vehicle would be in? (if it has wheels and moves, it's a vehicle)
2. Vanilla or chocolate (take this as you will)?
3. What is your favorite cuss word?
4. What scenario from "A Christmas Story" most resembles your own childhood and why?
5. What are you most afraid of?

Natosha said:

I completely agree with BA. I am a strong dominant woman who has had to "un train" and Re train men for over a decade. It was easier for me to accept who I am and what I am capable of, but men whom I've had the pleasure of playing with, it took months and sometimes a year before they could totally accept their animal lust and be able to express it in a safe knowledgable environment. The last man, who has my heart, is a perfect example.
He was raised in a very tense atmosphere, fending for himself and his mom/sisters since age 6. He learned all forms of martial arts/weaponry, Art of war basically, but was brought up with the mentality that you never harm a woman. He went so far as to forfeit a martial arts match with a woman...
So, when he arrived in my life it took alot of time, patience and understanding. Reteaching him open communication and most of all: making him face his ultimate fears in order to conquer and rise above. That included me seeing his Wolf. For me? That was one of the most important and dammit Spontaneous orgasmic moments in my life. It took 24 straight hours of constant stimulation from every direction but he and I both agreed it was the best damn day/night we ever experienced.

I hope you can one day find someone like Angel..even if its for a brief period of time.

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This page contains a single entry from the blog posted on July 7, 2007 9:11 PM.

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