I often sit and wonder why the absence of Him I feel so keenly. I travel at breakneck speed through my subconscious in an attempt to understand the landscape of longing, searching for clues which make sense, and to which I can attempt to attach a stable rationale. But moving at that speed, the clues are but a blur, a kaleidoscope of fiery emotion, hysterical, impassioned, ghostly evidentiary traces without discernible substance or form.
I flip the question, what do I miss the most? But there is no most, only an everything, perfectly impossible to quantify. But if there is no most, then what is it that makes this longing, on occasion, so desperately hard to bear?
Should I think about needs, human needs, submissive needs?
Doing that simply adds an extra layer of complication with which my already overwhelmed mind cannot cope.


What do I crave when in the night I reach out and He isn’t there? When something is difficult and I need a moment to be wrapped up and held until such a time as I can carry on? When there’s a moment I wish to share with Him, so I reach out, but He isn’t there?
What is it I want?

The answer is stupefyingly simple.
His touch.


Tactility does not come naturally to me. If anything, I actively avoid physical contact with other people. I find unsolicited touching intrusive, overbearing, I don’t like it, get the fuck away!


I’m busy in the supermarket, minding my own business, mentally going through my list of things I need to buy. I’ve zoned out, I detest shopping, people, having to be surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces is challenging, for me, at best. There’s a woman to one side of me, and she’s trying to tell me something…..I smile politely, but I have no interest in engaging, so make to step away….I’ll come back to get that particular item later.
Without my permission, her hand comes to rest on my arm, gripping it, it’s icy cold. I can feel my skin recoil underneath, the shock of the intrusion sucking the air from my lungs. Her lips are moving, they must be, I can hear her voice, but I can’t stand to look at her, this woman who is in my personal space, without having asked me first if it’s okay. Motion ceases to be an option, my limbs have frozen as I fight to retain composure.

As quickly as it began, it’s over….she takes her hand off me, and carries on with her day. The whole exchange spanned less than a minute, yet I’m STILL standing there, aghast that someone took it upon themselves to take such a liberty at their own behest. The rest of my shop passes by in a haze of revulsion and a compulsion to get home and scrub the memory her touch from my body.


He touches me and I feel…..alive.
There’s nothing sexual in it, His hand simply takes mine, and draws it up to meet His lips.
It’s nothing really, just a wonderfully tender gesture, but it’s everything all at once.
He purses His lips, puckering up for a kiss, and smiling, I respond in kind, meeting His intimate demand.
It’s nothing really, just a simple gesture, but it means so damn much.
He pulls me close, and I rest my head on His chest.
It’s nothing much, is it? Just a simple connection, lover to lover, skin to skin.
He wraps Himself around me, nestled deep inside me, hungry, primal, raw.
It’s nothing really, He’s just sating His lust, but it’s absolutely everything all at once.

When we’re together, aside from those moments of solitude when we sleep, we’re always connected, physically, in some way. I’m still overwhelmed in His presence, still feel like a schoolgirl discovering this wonder of touch for the first time. It’s intense, no matter the circumstance, and I pour myself into it, getting purposefully drunk on it’s power. From Him, touch I accept, from Him touch I crave. I sate my need for this level of interaction, holding onto Him, leaning against Him, being near Him as much as I can.

Why do I feel His absence so keenly?

It’s simply the absence of this entity, the physicality, the need to be close to Him….the need to connect through touch.
I think that is why, one of the reasons why, I experience such a deep seated sadness when He isn’t here.
His touch is safety, it’s strength, it’s love and carnality and trust, it’s warmth and desire.
It’s innocent and beautiful, it’s a new thing for me to allow myself to experience.

So, what do I miss the most?
There is no most….but His touch means everything to me.