Why in the world would someone do a search using the terms "crps rsd porn xxx"?It cheered me immensely that a visitor from LLeida, Spain found me via this interesting and insightful method.
Creo que tiene buen gusto, mi nuevo amigo! Bienvenido a mi blog.
I am Number 1 in "crps rsd porn xxx"! Who knew that my ravaged limbs were actually eye candy?
Interesting that the post you'd think might catch the eye of Google's roving bot --XXX Porn Live, Totally Naked Women! XXX Porn! -- actually comes in second, behind a post whose obscenity the discerning little bot did well to perceive: The Hammer Dance: A Terrifying Update.
CRPS is certainly obscene. I don't even need to think twice on the matter. But am I willing to consider this degenerative neurological disease as participatory in the more acceptable category of pornography? Is it possible that there is any aspect to it that sexually excites?
I imagine the foot fetishist taking a gander at my right leg, at The Thing posited as its purported end.
I imagine said fetishist reaching out a quivering hand to stroke my beleaguered foot.
In my mind's eye? I see the poor deviant flying through the air (with the greatest of ease), having not sufficiently accounted for the violence of my allodynia.
The endings to "Blow in my ear and I..." provided by CRPSers are all likely to include spontaneous dismemberment and attempts to impale.
(Wouldn't My Allodynia make a lovely long lost title? The manuscript just recently discovered tucked inside the crinkly brown-paper backing of an understated masterpiece's understated frame? Writ longhand by a Brontë, it is the story of misfires and agonies, pain quietly endured by a quiet life -- on the quiet, requisite, heathered moors.)
So much of what I do out of deference to this disease has to do with The Sensual. I can only bear the touch of the softest cottons -- flannels, preferably, though my climate does not always allow them. I no longer can sleep under sheets, not even under the amazing linens I searched out in the early days of CRPS. These days, I am sandwiched between a soft, soft quilt and one that is so worn its batting is mostly entirely gone, that has been washed over 650 times, and that I drape carefully over just my midsection. Occasionally, when it is very cold, I will cover my arms. From just above the knee, down -- there can be nothing, no sheet, nothing. Lounge wear is just about my only-wear, though the one or two times a month that I go out, I do make efforts to look nice.
I focus on things that cannot hurt me: perfumes, perfumed lotions, jewelry (though the agony of rings and watches can be overwhelming).
For some perverse reason, I began to collect socks shortly after acquiring this disorder. Today, I am always barefoot but, periodically, I enjoy getting out my socks, remembering how I got my hopes up for this pair, pink and open-gauged, or for that pair, which promised to improve circulation. For a few years, I could wear a sock on my left foot but as things advanced, those socks joined their partners in the cardboard box tucked in the closet beside shoes unworn since 2002.
It has become the height of sexual fantasy for Fred to be able to hold my hand, and when he forgets and reaches for me, the pain in my heart eclipses the burning, stabbing predictability of my various neuropathies and dystrophies. Our kisses have become so chaste.
So, yeah. Okay -- it's fine by me if you should find something of desire here.
Talk dirty, why dontcha, and tell us about it.
