Recording my stretching sessions

As I’ve written, when you stretch with me, when you open your thighs for me, when you put your ass in my face in cat/cow, I want to keep it. Forever. I want to press record on Screencastify and capture your beauty, make it mine.

I want this because I want to jerk off to you at a later moment.

I want this because, if you allow me to do it, you are trusting me.

I want this because, in some small way, it allows me to defy mortality, to deny the evanescence of the moment, the transience of my experience of your beauty, to keep it, to keep you, forever.

I want this because it inspires me. To write. To feel.

Most confusingly, I want it because on some level, it feels incomprehensible to me that you won’t grant it to me. Because none of us ever should do anything on screen we aren’t prepared to be captured for posterity by the person or people with whom we are on screen, because technology is such that, by being on my screen you already are trusting me. I feel a cognitive dissonance at your trust that I won’t record you (I won’t), that I’m not recording you (I’m not), even as you don’t trust that, if I did, I would protect you (I would). 

I just. Can’t. Wrap my head around the particular combination of trust and fear/mistrust this stance reflects. I don’t understand this logically. Or emotionally. It registers in my body as a grave insult.

The word “inspire” comes from the Latin in (into) and spirare (to breathe).

When you inspire me, you give me breath, you make me feel alive. And on the flip side, your preference that I not record you – a preference I entirely understand on one level – leaves me hungry, cold, alone. The hunger isn’t the good kind, the insatiable kind that demands and demands and demands, delighting in my attempts – doomed – to date it. No, this hunger is more akin to what I imagine the late stages of starvation feel like: passive, lethargic, enervated, catatonic. Like an infant, overtaken by lassitude.

This explains my tropism in stretching toward Diana, Celeste, Jo. Each of them inspires me differently. 
All the others you’ve read about – and a couple you haven’t – make me feel a curious combination of aliveness during our time together, hope – that they’ll change their mind, allow me to defy death with their trust, and a sad, resigned, nearly dead distance that, in the end, feels increasingly toxic to me.

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