Once More Into My Mind (BBW, sex, romance)

[Ghostly-Spectre]

An overly honest snapshot into a mind.

~

Nothing in my life is more ghastly than the haunting specter of fear. Fear enshrouds me, pushing me into a small little corner that I loathe existing in. Fear shackles my body and paralyzes my mind. Fear rules my psyche with an iron grip.

Of course, it’s not just fear, although it is the chief mastermind. There is also a voice of reasonableness that says I should listen to the fear. There are the painful memories of times in which I have freed myself from fear only to run into the situations I was so sure would come up. These factors all work together to produce a person who lives their life with extreme caution.

I have to credit myself with understanding this and admitting it. I don’t think most people are able to understand their own problems. But one thing I just don’t grasp is what part of my fear needs to go and what part of it needs to stay. I’ve been well served by my frugal and fear-based spending habits, for example. Those probably don’t need to change. But what part does? I know I need to be more comfortable with other people. Which people, though? It’s hard to say.

I know what I want. It has taken years to understand what it is, and I still don’t understand why. (Though I’m still working on that.) What I want is simple enough, but at the same time incredibly rare in our world.

What I want is human connection. Physical, mental, and emotional. That is it in its most simple form. Oh, sure, I can complicate it with a bunch of specifics, and I often do – but that is it in a nutshell.

Perhaps these specifics are the first wave of fear. They are the first thing that is my obstacle between what I want and getting it. They are cruel and hard. They mercilessly remove people from my world until I’ll all alone. Yet, I still don’t know if they are my fault. Part of me says they aren’t stringent enough.

I don’t want to be told I’m going to hell, and I don’t want to be told that I’m incomplete unless I’m a drug user. Those two seem eminently reasonable, yet these two filters seem to have swept away thousands. Most people I meet can’t pass that simple test.

Beyond that things get a bit more complicated. Perhaps that’s why I wanted to write a story – to illustrate that which I need. And to get it out of my mind so I can have a moment’s peace.

I’ll have to create a character, I suppose. I’ve been rather enjoying the chance to simply vent and avoid any tedious dialogue, but I can’t keep doing free association forever.

Ok. Damn. I’m cringing just thinking about this. Do I get to make my perfect woman, or should I create a character more realistic? Heh, then again, what’s perfect to me might be someone flawed and realistic to another. And listen to me! “Do I get?” I’m the one writing. I “get” to do whatever I want.

Ugh. I’m distracting myself from the task at hand again. Time to get to work.

I’ll just be honest and go with what’s in my mind. Her personality is far more important than her looks, but I’ll get to that later. For now, she needs an outer form.

She’s tall – almost as tall as me, and a little bit taller if she has heels. In fact she’s just a big girl, period: she has a naturally large frame, large shoulders and hips. She’ll probably also be a bit chubby – big enough to look cuddly but not so big that it inhibits her movement or health.

Her hair is blonde or a warm shade of brown, and cascades down her back and shoulders. She’ll have a round, heart shaped face. Her eyes will be very intense and her smile will be enchanting

This is just one imagine of one girl that I keep in my mind. There are plenty of others that I like – for example, I often tend to like girls that are athletic and tomboyish. But when my mind requisitions a picture in my head of the hypothetical perfect woman, this is the image that always comes up. I could probably fall in love with a girl who I find physically unattractive and not even mind, but my preferences do exist and they do affect me.

There’s probably a certain posture that signifies assertiveness and attractiveness better than any actual physical trait. I’ve often admired the plain, shoulder-slouched shuffle of someone who doesn’t care about their appearance at all because at least it’s honest, but that’s not what I’m talking about.

How would she walk? She would hold her head up high and walk with a deliberate, confident step. It isn’t the twitch of a girly-girl trying to get her ass noticed, nor the swagger of an over-confident man, but a measured, sure pace. She knows where she’s going and she’s not afraid to get there. Her eyes aren’t at all hesitant about making contact well before she’s arrived to start talking. Staring into them would probably paralyze me in fear, but I don’t think I’d even mind. If I was totally frozen, I wouldn’t look away. She’d get closer and closer, and I’d try to be polite and not stare, but I might fail at that. I’m not sure what I’d say when she actually finishes walking up to me. Would I just stand there and stupidly say nothing?

“Hey. Hello?”

Am I still not saying anything? Come on, I can respond.

“Hi.”

At my reply, her lovely round cheeks swell with a smile. My heart is already throbbing.

“I’m glad you could make it.” Make it? Make what? Our meeting? By definition, how could I not have? Or does she mean this story, perhaps?

I’m feeling awkward. How long have I known her? Years, right? Yet, it’s hard for me to touch her, to give a hug or a hold her hand?

Fortunately she’s there for me. She doesn’t just stand there and let me suffer in silence. She makes the first move and hugs me and alleviates my fear. For a moment I feel very safe and at peace as she hugs me for a brief moment

Then the fear is back. This time, the fear is redoubling back and feeding on itself: should I worry that I only like confident, assertive, dominant women because they’ll help me overcome fear?

No.

Without my fear, I think I’d be able to love such women more freely and without reservation. I think it’s just an added bonus that I get some help doing things that are so hard for me to do.

“Why are you so afraid?” Her question cuts me to the core. It is, of course, not just a question about my fear of her but my fear of everything related to human contact.

“I don’t know? Because I’ve been hurt?” I meekly offer a false answer in hopes that I will appease her.

“Have you?” Again, she hits on it. I avoid eye contact.

“No. Not really.”

“Then why was that your answer?”

“It’s an answer that works, an answer that makes sense. But you can see that it’s not so. I alienate myself from others so effectively I that I can’t be hurt.”

“Tell me about it,” she coos as she grasps my hand. My first instinct is a twinge of uncomfortably: How am I supposed to hold it? Should I squeeze it or not? Gently, though, she runs her fingers over the top of my hand and my fear begins to dissolve. The warmth of our connection begins to seep into my being.

“Well…I had a very close family, but they raised me funny. I never have fit in with people. But my strong identity and solidarity with my family originally made me want to do things my way instead of the ways of others. I never bend for other people. I never cut them slack. But, they don’t deserve my change or my slack, anyway.”

“They don’t?”

“No. They couldn’t accept me for who I am. They picked on me. Why should I make myself someone they’ll tolerate? Why should I pretend like they haven’t hurt my feelings? They aren’t worth it.”

“Well, at least you have your family.”

“But that’s just it! I don’t, not anymore. The older I got, the more I found it necessary to emotionally deaden myself around my family, so they couldn’t hurt me either.”

“I thought you said you were close.”

“We were, at first. Or maybe I don’t remember it right. All I know is the older I got, the more I felt they didn’t quite like me either. So I had to sever my emotional connections with them in order to act in a way that didn’t result in conflicts. That’s the worst part of it – I had to lie to myself, and to them, and cut them out of my heart in order to have things functioning properly. If I acted how I felt I should act I’d fight with them really often.”

“So, now you are all alone, and you hate it, and you think it might last forever?”

“Yes.”

“Think about this. You are all alone. But you haven’t had a real traumatic experience like you know others have. And your loneliness is of your own doing. You are better off than most people, and you are responsible for your own fate, yet you are still upset?”

I pondered this for a moment.

“I’ve got it! I’m upset because I’ve been forced to make a hard choice. I’ve been forced to be alone, even though I’d rather not, because I know the consequences are worse. When my family hurts my open heart, I dislike it. When I try to put up with others, I feel dissatisfied with them or them with me. I’m totally alone, and yet I could be worse.” It sounded too ridiculous and petulant to put it like that. If things could be worse, and have been improved by my own volition, then I should be happy with myself, not upset. Yet, that didn’t ring true. It wasn’t just that I wanted to win the argument; it was that I needed to justify how I felt in my heart.

“You’re wrong.” I bowed my head and braced myself for the logical assault that would surely obligate all rational justification for my inner pain but leave the feeling itself intact. “You aren’t alone. You have me” At this, she gently strokes the underside of my chin and lifts her face to meet mine.

“No, no. I can’t do this. I can’t think this. I can’t love you.” I quickly turn away, hoping that when I look back she’ll be gone, but also fully knowing that the instant that occurs, I will want her back.

“You can’t love me? Or you shouldn’t?” She inquires. Right now, I fully know that I can’t beat her. But, I also know that at least on some level I don’t want to.

“Both. I can’t because you are just an ideal, and I shouldn’t, because it is foolish to chase after something like that.” She smiles, knowing she’s won. She knew what I’d say before I said it, for how could she not?

“I have you beat on both counts. First, you certainly can love me because you already have: you’re written fictional stories about me at least a half-dozen times, and you’ve danced with me in your head a least a half-million.” My cheeks flush with embarrassment as she continues, “Secondly, you know your heart aches because you cannot have what you want. Well, I am what you want.” For a minute, she strikes a beautiful pose. Not the servile, revolting affectation of a playboy model, but instead a stance which looked confident and capable.

I can imagine now we are sitting together on a bed. Hers, mine, it doesn’t matter. We are probably starting at each other and the tension has actually ceased being awkward.

She has a faint glow in her eye, and a mischievous grin. I almost feel a bit like being with her is forbidden: after all, she’s strong and assertive, I am meek and cautious. She is large and I am thin. Hardly the comparisons that people are supposed to have in traditional relationships. Yet, these distinctions and these roles excite me, and I know she’d feel the same way.

From this she slowly wriggles herself forwards until her body is mere inches from mine. Her delightfully large frame rises up, and her round shoulders eclipse mine as her soft chest press up against me. I’m overwhelmed with excitement, and her lips linger near mine. She kisses me only with her breath, however. Instead, she gently presses her forehead against mine.

“I’m in your head.” For this blissful moment, the double meaning is fortunately lost on me. “I’m right here with you. Every intellectual endeavor you’ve contemplated, I can be here for you. Every secret passion and fantasy of every nature, I too have shared. Every emotion I understand better than you yourself. Every time you have felt alone and wished someone was feeling what you felt – I have felt it. How could you possibly think of denying me? Of giving in to shame or guilt when I’m everything you’ve ever wanted without all the ugliness of the world to taint me?”

There is of course, no defense to this. Not to my lonely soul. She could have been speaking a language completely foreign to me and I still would have fallen. The fact that I understood and my mind had needed to hear this my entire life just made it more persuasive. I, pillar of reason and skepticism, the man who puts logic and calculation above all else, who despises the masses in part for their unquestioning faith in pathos…here I am, felled by no more than a rose growing in the garden of my mind.

I barely begin to signal to her what I want – a soft squeeze on the shoulder, a faint outline of a smile – when she starts to do what I desire. She presses me against the wall and plants her lips upon mine. The kiss is tender and romantic at first, but quickly becomes hungry and animalistic. Her arms are hard at work pulling off my shirt, while my hands are busy expressing their appreciation of her delicious curves.

It all feels so natural, so perfect. When she eyes my nude form, her expression changes to a look of greed and lust. Her body is that of a Goddess, a perfect embodiment of Rubenesque beauty. Delicate, creamy, juicy looking thighs that one begged to be wrapped up in. Spacious hips, and with them a moonshaped backside. Soft, billowy tummy, above it two gorgeous breasts. Heaving, large, and maternal, these two feminine orbs practically steal me of my breath.

She positions herself atop of me. I know my place; I revel in it. It is not of inferiority. She likes hers not because she proves her strength, but because she appreciates my vulnerability.

The traditional roles of men and women have been completely reversed: just as I like them. The pleasure grows and grows as she grinds her heavenly body upon mine. When it is over, we yell, we laugh, and we cry. We cuddle. I kiss and suckle her large breasts as I enjoy the warmth of her body. I am loved, I am protected. I am satisfied.

As she delicately strokes the top of my head, a tear falls down my cheek, and she recognizes it as being a foreigner in the land of tears of joy.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“I’m afraid again.” I’m trying not to cry. I’m failing.

“What are you afraid of?”

“At first I was afraid to let myself go. No I’m afraid to let you go. To leave this bed and venture out into the cold, hard, unforgiving land that is my reality.”

“Who says you have to leave? I’m always with you.”

“But that’s just it! You can’t be with me forever. No experience will ever seem worthwhile by comparison.”

At this she shrinks from me.

“Give up your dreams because you are afraid of bad contrast with people who have mistreated you all your life?”

“I need to live! I can’t exist in my head my whole life! I can’t have you!”

“If you don’t have your dreams, what do you live for?”

Once again, I am defeated. But it is less sweet than before. Perhaps it is because even if I truly wished her gone, I know that I could never will her away. She will always stay with me: a beautiful expression of what keeps me alive in my patches of sorrow, and the cause of some of the sorrow itself: her absence from my reality.

I am alone, and if trends stay to their present course, I will continue to be so. All I have is the woman in my head.

But, she’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

~
End

 

[D square]

 

[Heidke]