soft core smut for a strong centre

You may have noticed I’ve been dormant for a while. With the exception of the odd twitter burst and a self-portrait or two, this winter has been hard on my psyche.

The last time I wrote anything to completion was in November when I talked about the astrological tendencies of my sexual partners. I hardly count that. I already had the data; I just turned it into a handful of sentences.

When I say I haven’t written anything, I’m talking fictional prose. Stories. particularly smutty ones but any story would do right now. For months, I completely lacked any interest in writing. I had idea upon idea! But nothing more than creative fog that dispersed as soon as I dared try to catch it. Not that I tried very hard. I had no desire to write either. I felt inadequate, which only made it worse.

What kind of smut writer didn’t write, and was miserably content in having lost the drive to hone her craft?

But I couldn’t let that get me down… I’ve been at this long enough to know that the words don’t just go away. They’re being held back by something. They just need to be wiggled free.

So, I’ve been in the habit of freewriting and journaling every day for months in an attempt to jog the energetic blockage that has been damming the prose since before the snow first fell.

And I’ve swung to the other end of the spectrum.

Now, I’m finally desperate to write. But in a cruel twist of irony, inspiration eludes me instead.

I’ve been overthinking it, that’s for sure. I keep compiling lists, looking back on the old ideas that have been collected and seeded over the past few years. Nothing captivates me. When I try to drum up any kind of brainstorm now, I’m met with a drought.

I’ve arranged virtual writing sessions with fellow wordsmiths. I’ve had ongoing chats with the friends I often bounce ideas around, with the intention of trying to come up with… anything. I’ve carved time out to do it. Turn of the notifications. I try different hours of the day — mornings, midday, afternoon, evening, well after dark…

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

The writing mind is as much a muscle as any and when left still for too long, it will atrophy. I can feel it when this happens. When I move past the rest period and slip into stagnation. It’s been too long since I’ve encouraged myself to really stretch. Over these past couple of weeks in particular, I’ve felt the stiffening.

I’m also doing my best not to force it; that’s how we cause injury. These are trying times and being kind to ourselves if important to our survival and wellbeing. It’s a delicate dance of determining which is the kindest option at a given moment. 

But we can only so much rest before it does become laziness and causes damage. 

So the question now is: how do I warm up enough to stretch into my full range of motion again?

Last week, I ended my 14-day quarantine after having been abroad. That entire fortnight was riddled with anxiety while I worried about loved ones and waited alone to find out if I’d contract the virus after sharing a plane with a family of critically infected folks. It was also my birthday and I always get a little squirrel because of the cosmic clusterfuck around that time, for whatever reason.

Now that I’m on the other side of all that frenzied unrest, I have reached a sensation of near-stability that I have not experienced… in a very long time. In fact, yesterday almost felt like a “normal” Sunday.

This didn’t happen by chance. Over the past four weeks, I got serious with myself and held myself to it. It started because I was just trying to keep as healthy as I could just in case I got sick; I didn’t want it to be any worse than it had to be.

But habits I implemented the from cutting out alcohol and caffeine to meditating everyday; sleeping regular hours to spending regular quality time with my tarot deck and the i Ching; journaling every day through my quarantine to keep track of any possible symptoms, but also keep myself tethered so as not to float away on the vast sea of panic that surrounds… 

It’s taken this long for things to even start working. 4 weeks in, I’m starting to feel human again. Or perhaps for the first time in years. But first signs of these seeds are starting to break ground now.

I still can’t get excited about writing smut but…

Flash-forward to this evening.

Seeing as it was my birthday recently and that I’ve been saving a nice chunk of change by not interacting with the outside world, I treated myself to a few things that I’d been putting off for a while. Namely, a new makeup palette (the one I had prior to this has been with me since I started uni…) and underwear (most of the articles I had were at least 5 years old, and I’ve changed shape a lot since then…)

They were things that I put off because I decided the expense wasn’t necessary. For years and years and years, I decided this…

Not anymore. It’s self-care time. Because if not now, when?

My goodies arrived somewhat unexpectedly today — I expected longer shipping delays given this whole *gestures at the world* situation. I found them on my doorstep upon reaching the end of my workday. I decided then, without much thought, to take a shower for the first time in days (I’ve been bathing because it calms my mind as well as my body) and did a thorough scrub down of everything.

At first, it wasn’t intended as anything special — simply removing the film of the past day or two of existence. But it grew more mindful with every stroke, or rather, I chose to be more present with every movement and found greater peace with every repetitive pass.

When I got out, I slathered myself in unctuous lotion. I didn’t rush. I took my time to get every inch of me, massaging with care, almost reverently. After wrapping myself in my lush bathrobe, I sat down at my vanity. I intended merely to dry my hair. But I did one better, styling it and everything for the first time in nearly a month.

My new makeup palette winked at me then, encouraging me to take a little peek. “Oh go on then,” I thought, and dipped into the sparkly new colours.

With a fresh face, smooth skin all over, and the terry cloth robe draped over me like a royal gown, I already felt more decadent ever. But there was one more thing…

I went back to the kitchen where my packages lay and pulled out a matching set from the lingerie bag — black lace. My favourite. I slipped into both pieces. A perfect fit.

I didn’t have to look in the mirror to know I felt good in my skin. But when I did take in my reflection, it was even better:

I felt powerful.

The simplest, most mundane things are where I’ve been finding my pleasure in this discombobulated time. When I fantasize about reuniting with a lover, it’s not a wild, raucous fuckathon. I dream of making and enjoying a meal together and curling up on the couch after it’s done. I imagine running my fingers through their hair while their sleep and I sip tea and read poetry. I yearn to be distracted by their breath in the next room while I do my morning meditation. Soft, comfortable, intimate shared space.

When I ask my trusted idea-inspiring friends “What should I write about?!” they often suggest I talk about my yoga. But I find it difficult to go there because most of my yoga is invisible. I don’t do much in the way of asana practice, going through poses. My yoga is the journaling in the morning. It’s washing the dishes after preparing a delicious meal with my own hand.

It was that shower. It was carefully daubing my eyes in that deliberate shade of purple.

It’s whatever brings me back to centre, where I can remind myself to come back to when I realize just how much the strain of being astray is pulling on me.

Writing erotica can be my yoga too, which is why I’ve been a little let down by not being able to work it into my practice. Erotica is as much for empowerment as it is for arousal.

But power comes in all forms and magnitudes. Sometimes, it’s soft, quiet, unassuming and you need to lean in a little closer to feel what it’s telling you.

Spending this quiet night with myself, treating myself with kindness, giving myself permission to experience pleasure and joy how it fits for right now. That is what smut looks like for me right now. That is where my power sits.


Masturbation Monday is the smutty brainchild of Kayla Lords

For more of what’s heating up this week in Smutlandia, stroke this little purple logo right here.

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3 thoughts on “soft core smut for a strong centre

  1. Wow ~ this post resonated with me in so many ways — especially the dance of “ideas/no writing and want to write/no ideas.” I am distracted by all the wonderings: is this lifestyle is our “new normal?” How long is “temporary?” When is it going to get here?

    But I also appreciate (and can finally connect with) the opportunity to extend some kindness to myself. The present moment is powerful. And safe.

    Thank you.

  2. Learning to listen to my body is something that I always really struggle with. I’m getting better though, and it’s amazing to sometimes actually notice what it’s asking for.

What do you think of that?

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