There is something about the moment of truth when kissing someone hard, our hands on each other's bodies, and you encounter fabric when you crave skin. At least for me, there's a flutter of destructive passion, a desire to rip through any and all layers to get to what's beneath as quickly as possible.

Or there's also beauty in the glinting of a knife against cloth, the tip sliding between the fibers and splitting them apart, knowing full well that to shift even a centimeter could mean to cut layers of skin just as easily. The flick of the blade locking into place sends a shiver down my spine as I lie there, waiting for the first slit.

Showing up on your doorstep and telling you that everything I was wearing was destroyable was erotic beyond belief. Having you use your hands to pull apart my stockings and my dress made me wet for you, as I oscillated wildly between wanting to be ravished and wanting to tear into you with teeth and nails. When you ripped your shirt in two, exposing your bare chest, there was nothing else in my head but lust.

Who needs meditation?

This is a lesson in impermanence, as you tear my stockings away from my cunt and cut my panties from me. Why cling to the preservation of Things, and Stuff, when letting them go can be equally as beautiful? I'm learning how to live in the moment, not to grasp, but to relax and open my hands and heart. I can breathe deeply, enjoy the perfume of my squirted juices on the remnants of a stained dress, and then be rid of it. I know, I know, it's wasteful, which is why I restrict my reveling in this pleasure for clothes that are too worn to be wearable. I may want you to cut my clothes off me, strip me slowly while you let your gaze wander over my skin, your hand around my throat- but I still have my ethics.

It's about sex, sure, but it's also about evolving, learning, growing.  I'm new to this idea of loving without clinging and I'm drunk on it. Caring for someone without feeling terrified, trusting them, not waiting for the other anvil to drop... it feels a little fresh for me. I'm still a bit raw, but I'm comfortable sitting with that, here, and now. It's not just about the clothes, either, the femme layers I wrap around myself for safety, though the way you fuck my makeup off my face could be read as symbolic. I don't feel the need to hide, or wear armor. I am aroused, and undone, by my willingness to be exposed to you.

Sometimes, I do worry that I enjoy it all too much, that I'm too intense, or too invested. I have not been allowed to indulge my desires freely for most of my life, and have kept my fantasies contained. I'm afraid to want, afraid to ask, afraid my meeting your libido with my own will scare you off. Sometimes when we touch I can't believe it, it seems unreal and I want to pinch myself to check that I'm not deluding myself. My heart beats faster.

But when you tear holes in my stockings to get to me faster, I accept, and I trust, and I let go.

I don't need to rehash the past, and I don't need to plan the future.

Just be in the moment- you, me, and that sharp knife.