Song of Myself

When in doubt, consult Walt Whitman. “Song of Myself” begins thus:

I celebrate myself, and sing myself, 
And what I assume you shall assume, 
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. 

I loafe and invite my soul, 
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

I loafed a lot yesterday and observed many spears of summer grass as I wandered the streets and avenues of this great metropolis. That’s an excellent thing to do when one’s mind is full of swirling thought clouds. The storm still rages on, though it keeps shifting and altering itself with each passing minute.

My marks from last week continue to fade, and I am learning exactly which parts of my body take longest to mend. My cock is fine. You wouldn’t know it had been through the Mitsu wringer. Not a mark on it. My belly, on the other hand, still has some traces of bruising and faint parallel rows of pinpricks. I treasure my marks, but my girlfriend is back now, so it’s good that they’re fading away. It’s also delightful imagining the marks to come.

The past and present wilt–I have fill’d them, emptied them. 
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future. 

I love my S&M explorations. I love my girlfriend.

I’m a submissive masochistic ass-slut. I’m a sturdy and reliable lover.

Do I contradict myself? 
Very well then I contradict myself, 
(I am large, I contain multitudes.) 

We all contain multitudes. Somewhere Mitsu posted something about being uncomfortable with a label as broad as “Poly Bi Switch.” There’s nothing that needs to be labeled or resolved or defined or decided. It’s all always changing. What I was a year ago. What I was two weeks ago. What I am today. All different, but still the same. New marks on my body. New marks on my mind. Same body. Same mind. Different body. Different mind.

Not sure where it’s going, but I am enjoying the journey.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, 
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.