I reject the oversimplification of stone identity. Physical impenetrability doesn’t even begin to cover it, and it isn’t true. They are inside me every time. My hands feel cavernous without the glove of their body. Aware of the absence of sensation. Their sweat comes from inside them, and then onto me, and then it’s evaporated- it’s nowhere. They touch my waist and ask me where I feel it. I feel it in that same nowhere.
So, what is it, really? What is stone pleasure, in less than a dense academic essay about queer history and more than a punchy conservative reduction that must be contained in a single sentence to fit in a dictionary as invented as any other reassuring false barometer for truth? Well, it’s this- they meet me at my lacking. They take the scenic rout to my satisfaction. It isn’t simple, and it doesn’t make sense. We engage in sexual dialectic, offhandedly on a Tuesday. Every Tuesday. Every Sunday too. It isn’t an orgasm, and yes it actually is. I am satisfied and left longing. Fill me, I say, and I mean with absolution. Penetrate me, I beg, and I mean in the way that brine penetrates meat and the word penetrates the spirit. Touch me, I think, privately in a corner of my own awareness, and they hear it despite the silence, and in the way that even I didn’t understand. I’m not aware of the absences until they bring them to me, when skin meets leather meets skin. I cum inside them and when they roll onto their back to show me, they are miraculously empty and unequivocally full.
I could fuck them for hours, and I do. And I come away from it trembling and still, needing to be reassured into my awareness of the tilting room, the mess of my mouth, and awake to sensation where my body usually sleeps.
