A Rock to Turn Over in the Roof of my Mouth

I don't mind the fucking. I don't mind our sleepy bodies wrapped together under a blanket, kissing. It has none of the pornographic attitude to it, and so puts me in a mindframe of a kind of equality. Neither of us are very big, so in moments like this I pretend we are living in a sort of innocence, where we are humans before we are genders.

Most heterosexual men remind me of me, of how I have been in the past, with boys, the boys who remain uncounted and remembered mostly for the curves of their hips, asses, their faces while they came, a brief sensation of silk on fingertips. The pornographic quality was what I was going for; a hypervisual concentration on skin, rhythm, the way they looked with me in them. It was an ego trip, a seamless indulgence, absolutely enjoyable, and empty.

You laid me out naked in front of you, you were between my legs on your knees and I was somewhat in the air, my back and head resting on the floor. I am completely and terribly naked. I experience this briefly, and then this is replaced by another sensation. I feel like I have been severed by a knife; there is singular, blind, forcible shutdown of my presence on a level akin to shock. I am conscious and yet not conscious; I experience my body as a sensation of pure violence, during which I am present somewhere in the background, separated and unharmed.

What causes this? If we consider that gender is a point of attention on a vast continuum of experience, and there is a discontinuity between the gender experienced on this superphysical continuum and the gender perceived on the physical continuum, a tension is created between the two points, a ripping and rifting. It's hard to know much about it, because of the tearing that occurs and the way that I stop feeling, reacting, thinking, for a moment. I would think its nothing less than a roundhouse kick from physical reality rendered to the delicate incorporeal spirit.

I think I rolled over and wrapped up in a blanket but I don't remember for a while after that moment. In my traceable memory, there is a block of warm darkness etched over the next five or ten minutes. I know that you wanted to know what, why, how. What do I want, how do I want it, what can you do? I am flustered and vacant in the face of your insistence, my mind is some flair, some rushing of mechanisms, reminding me of an abstraction of a circus, whirling and crashing. I want you to stop asking. I'm begging unconsciously pleasefortheloveofgodunderstandthatIcan'ttalkrightnowthatIamnauseous
thatIamdamagedohfuck

I try to speak. "Please...this is extremely hard for me, please. I'd like to explain, but I've already told you everything and you're not satisfied. Please try and understand that this is extremely hard to say and I don't think you can understand it when I do say it, I'm sorry, but I cannot say this right now, I am too vulnerable."
"Yes, but this is kind of extremely important."
"I know."
"It's kind of really important. I need to know what you want to do."
I'm thinking to myself only that what I need is to not talk about this. If we don't have to talk, it makes it less real. I don't tell you anything except "I don't know"s. You jump on them and tell me it's not alright to not know. I wish you'd give me a moment, a fucking moment to think, a minute to say 'I don't know' so that I can tell you. I want to die, I want to die. I can't breathe and I am choking and I can't breathe.