Floating loose, wind passing through.
Then you appear.
With the past.
With unspoken needs.
With useless expectations.
Reaching out, trying to ensnare me, drag hooks into me.
Barbs of unhappiness.
Seeking to rip me into shreds, to bind your wounds.
No.
And no, again.
Without fail, you are working, seeking truths, hoping to find the inverse to what you know to be true.
In the realm of abstraction, I pull you off on a tangent.
Can you provide the form for the numbers, the slots where they rightly fit?
:the ratio of inches of dick to flexibility and accommodation of the vaginal canal:
:the apparent viscosity of breast tissue per sq cm of applied pressure:
and the amount of vaginal secretions needed to facilitate a frictionless stroke pattern for a duration of no less than 20 but no more than 30 minutes:
Will you?
Help me measure the factors involved.
:is a night of immense pleasure worth gambling away a possible friendship?:
:does the feel of your dick parting my wet swollen pussy lips really measure up to the joy of a friend upon one’s heart?:
:does sliding my lips ever-so-wetly up and down your turgid shaft supersede the meeting of the minds?:
Am I to stumble in the darkness alone, when I need your mind to provide illumination?
I think of your body, your overly erect penis and…
I only want to embrace our mutual bestial natures.
Lying there, quiet, waiting. Hair tousled, falling across your eyes.
A few strands fluttering with each delicate exhalation from your nostrils.
Drifting off, the only way to quell your fear.
+
His breath on your cheek, startling you. But his warms hands traveling across your shoulders provides solace.
Pulled to your feet, shying away.
His fingertips brushing your hips, teasing the curve of your ass.
Caressing.
Digging in slightly, as he stares in your eyes.
+
Anxious, hair in your face. Braced on your hands, taking most of the weight off your knees.
If you were standing, you would fall.
But there you are.
Because you should.
Because he asked for it.
Because no one has taken you there.
Because you are on your period, string neatly tucked into you, out of sight.
+
His fingers warmed the lubricant, before he slid in between your ass cheeks, before his fingers somehow pushed into your impossibly tight hole.
His cock was much warmer than his fingers or the lube.
Pushing.
Your brain says you are not dreaming.
Stifle the moan, for it drips with pain and all you want to do is give.
+
‘Tell me if I hurt you,’ he says.
But it hurts more to withhold, to deny, to refuse.
You have given your heart to him. That mass of muscle beats in time to his pulse.
What is a band of muscles, peculiar in tonic contraction, gateway to a tunnel that will take you deeper into submission?
Because he wants it.
Because you wish to give it.
Because so much lies beyond this opened door.
Shaking, breath rattling in your ears, your chest.
The slick feel of sweat on your neck, as you rip away the rope.
She told you not to do it without her.
But you could not wait.
Ever since she first choked you into submission, you need it.
So you think.
*
Riding you, late one night in your, during the heavy rain.
Suddenly her hands blocked your air, made you dizzy.
When the lightning hit the tree by your window, you thought it emanated from your sac, not the sky.
As your senses steadied, you saw the world with new eyes.
But truly, she blinded you. Took away your sight, replaced it with flickering images. A mirage of falsity.
But like all things that cheaply shimmer, it caught your imagination.
*
You asked her to do it more often. And then each and every time.
Because it was new, it felt good. Because…because…
Because it got you off in a way you never expected.
She became angry. Chastised you. Punished you.
So you hid your hunger. Like a petulant child.
*
Moving the small table to the side, you threaded the rope through the hook in the floor.
Taking the lush ivy down, already hard and leaking pre-cum, putting it out of harm’s way of your kicking feet.
Looping the rope around your neck, pausing to lean against the wall, so great was the rush of anticipation.
And finally, sliding the end of the rope through the ceiling hook.
Eyes closed, trembling like a pilgrim in front of a shrine.
Pulling, adjusting, stroking.
Rope, tension, cock.
Until right then.
Yanked it tightly.
Releasing, world exploding into a trillion pieces in your head, silence booming in your ears.
This is cumming, oh yes, this is cosmic.
But panic sets in.
You are losing consciousness, as your fingers struggle, lose purchase.
Somehow, you manage to stand a bit straighter, get 3 fingers under rope.
Air, blessed sweet air, pours in.
In the same manner the semen poured out.
*
Sinking to the floor, you began to cry.
Scared, relieved, ashamed, excited.
How much breath do you think you can stand to lose?
Such an endless day. Like all of late.
The sun rises, hangs in the sky and sets. But it seems that I am facing a blank clock with no numerals, no arms but steadily clicking off the seconds.
I hear it but my eyes are blinded to the variations that truly mark the knots of time.
Like the cicadas that I hear as I leave, as I return.
Here in the perpetual dusk, broken only by the yellow glow of lamps, give me sanctuary.
*
Open your mouth.
Take it away.
Take away the phones, reports, email, chatter, beeps, chirps, reams of paper that dog me.the voices, the shapes, the smells of people who inhabit my space yet really are only cogs in the eternal machine.
Enclose me, take me to the root.
Let me stand, leaning in the doorway, as your lips take my head away from the running numbers and into dead space. Let the hairs of my bush brush against your nose, as I feel my dickhead slip into the constriction of your sweet throat. Let my fingers rest in your silky hair, as you grip my weary thighs, sucking steadily and then fiercely.
Let me flinch from the gentle graze of your teeth.
Do I taste as silky to you, as your mouth feels to me? Does the slight musk of sweat clinging to my tightening sac inspire you to hum so gently as you suck me faster?
Look up at me, take me into the velvet darkness of your eyes.
Your tongue swirls, as you draw me deeper and deeper.
Until I fall into a momentary oblivion, gliding on a series of spurts that push the breath out of my chest.
*
Take me away from everything that is not you; your mouth, your lips, your hands, your skin.
Until I drop my head onto the pillow, only to rise and go back to the ticking, faceless clock. Marking off the path of the sun, in a rhythm that I cannot master.
When you were born, I held you in my hands.
When you died, my hands brushed you face and raised the sheet that served as your shroud in that oddly quiet and sterile room.
I always had such a way with living things: people, pets, plants, words.
Everything I touch now seems to dry up and wither away, since you have gone.
Yet somehow, I have not succumbed to failure to thrive.
Why?
The candles are lit.
The treats are passed out. Footsteps fallen away, like the leaves skittering past the door.
Leaving out the silent meal, we wish well upon those who lost to our touch but not forgotten.
Here in the darkness take my robes and leave me bare, as the trees that line our streets.
Closing my eyes, leaning against you chest, I imagine that you are rising higher than I can see, majestic in the night.
Let all that has hurt us fall away.
The pain dissipates.
Taste the pomegranate from lips and feel the grasp of eternity.
I step out of youth into sunset; you are the sacrifice that feeds us both.
Time out of mind, over and over, the circle unfolding.
When you have been denied, you cannot rest.
Your dreams do not offer succor, only a harsh reminder of unmet need.
Waking from them into the grimness of the pre-dawn.
Mouth empty.
Heart empty.
Folding around the rumpled pillow, sigh of despair creeping out of your nostrils.
Falling back into troubled sleep.
Burdened with waiting during the day. After day.
Yet one night, you turn, tangled in your sheets.
To find her, see her.
There.
Half in the darkness, half-illuminated by the street lamps shining through your window.
Unbuttoning her blouse.
Beckoning your lips to clamp around her dropping swollen nipple.
Arms wrapped around her, cradled against her, you suckle and drink.
Your cock: harder than you think it could be.
Her sweet milk, filling your mouth, warming your throat.
Eagerly, you go from breast to breast. Afraid to stop, afraid she will be gone with the dawn.
Even you can be filled, can be satiated.
To slide into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Finally.
You are the target.
He cannot help but watch. Every night, he walks and walks, a tiny voice urging him that salvation lies a few more blocks ahead. Or around the bend.
Looking around corners. Stopping at the sight of pastel blue flimsy curtains blowing on a dark night, struck dumb by the illumination spilling out, beckoning.
Do you mind that he stands, silent as the tomb you will one day molder in, watching?
Or gazing, if you prefer that word. For his eyes caress your exposed skin ike hands. His eyes are like mouths feeding on your exposed breasts, nipples hardening at the joy of being free.
His breath, caught, as you rub your nipples, easing their tension. Yet you feel your areola’s pucker and then send a text to your clit, which cc’s your juices to flow and your hand to hastily reach for the shiny silver vibe in the drawer to your right.
He watches. He is riveted.
Are you pleased that he sees you lean against the wall, brace your thighs and pull your panties to the side? He sees you there, lost in need, as your concentrate with all your might to coax your clit to knock your breathless.
Just for a few minutes, just for a bit…
In his mind, there is nothing but you and as you come- shuddering -he does, too.
Leaning his forehead against the tree, until his legs stop shaking.
So are you.
You walk away to clean up.
So does he.
You couldn’t control yourself.
Neither could he.
I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
~ Edgar Allen Poe
You have been recalcitrant.
Itchy, antsy.
He knows how to soothe.
*
Wrapping the blindfold over your eyes, plugging your ears.
Placing your flat, feet in stirrups.
The purr of the machine hums gently, purring so sweetly.
A gasp you can’t hear escapes your lips. Floats in the air then dissipates slowly.
Followed by another and another. As the oiled dildo slips between your eager squirming pussy lips, the gasps solidified into moans that only rise briefly in the air and fall to the plush carpet.
15. 20. 50. 70. As the number of thrusts per minute increase, so does your resistance.
80, 90, 110.
Until the fiercely vibrating metal knot reaches your clit.Held firmly in place by his fingers, as the machine blindly and obediently does the job it was created for.
Back arched, hips thrust forward.
Shakes you out of you security of obstinacy.
The rhythm drags you along.
Vibrating.
Plunging.
Until you are no longer coherent, solid or liquid.
You have become a state of being–orgasmic waves the pulsate from the place where your body should be.
And then…
Nothing.
Who remembers anything while unconscious?
*
Waking up, cradled in his arms.
How soft and relaxed you feel.
The itch gone, anxiety healed by the aloe of fucking.
You ask him if you looked divine, cumming and cumming.
He smiles and turns on the TV screen. Hits ‘play’ on the remote.
Tells you to watch for yourself.
Piling up. Time.
Hours, minutes, seconds split into fifths.
The days folding neatly into each other.
The ragged edges only appear at night, when I go to bed and your voice does not track softly behind me to say goodnight.
The leaves are turning, like the world. Without you. Me with you.
Standing at the top of hills, at top of stairs, on balconies, I wonder.
Wonder if you will catch me if I willingly fall.
Will you ghostly arms cradle my soul, as I my body loses the fight against the hard surface?
Or will I wake, even more broken, dragging my ruined body like a dog left to side by the side of an abandoned road?
Bits and pieces of the flotsam of the universe after all; walking, talking, living, dying.
How does the my world function without you?
But then again, why would it not?
“To be alive is to be burning.”
“The insane do not share the normal prejudice in favor of external reality.”
-Norman O. Brown
Your mouth opened in surprise when he told you the order for the day. Leaving you no time to prepare your mind, you were forced to your knees and quietly you began.
First, as always was his. The one you are used to and adore. He fills your mouth and your tongue knows every vein, every inch of the velvet pear skin of his shaft.
You cannot ever serve two masters. His cock leads the way, is your lodestar.
Then was the series.
One. You will remember him, for he used a honey almond soap and the smell wafting into your nostrils from his trimmed bush helped you not to cry.
You do not want to do this. But he says do it. And you do.
Two. His cock was weighty, it felt in your mouth you were holding two in mass, not one. You think of him as heavy water. He must be more than the 5 grams that naturally occurs in us all.
Three. He bruised the back of your throat, for you are not used to suck ing such length. Your think of him as a redwood, growing higher than most. Your ars burned just as brightly as the red leaves blowing past your windows.
Four. The shame grows.
Five.
Six. Your heart quails.
Seven.
Eight. Your soul has folded upon itself.
Nine.
Then nothing.
Except the labored breath of them all, pulling on their cocks.
Looking at you.
Your eyes are rooted on Him.
He nods.
That tiny nod is your anchor.
You hold onto it, that anchor, as the strained sighs turn to moans which transmute to cries of release.
The lids of your eyes are shutters, covering the world in red filtered light.
Each grunt falling from a pair of lips seems to precede of spurt of hot semen across you face but you lose count of the order.
You imagine the ropes of cum, etching you like glass in an artisan’s workshop.
Finally, your ears pick up the strained breath of final release.
As he forces your mouth open, to take his seed down your throat, you go from feeling dirty to feeling fresh, unsullied.
Your face is coated with the seed of strangers, all for the pleasure of him. Dripping slowly off your chin like candlewax, settling to pool on the upper slope of your breasts.
His murmured praise washes away your worry that he sees you as soiled.
It is enough.
Is it enough?
- To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three parts dead.
- Bertrand Russell, Marriage and Morals (1929) ch. 19
British author, mathematician, & philosopher (1872 – 1970)
Once, my heart thrilled to see you.
Now, it is sluggish, no matter what you do.
I hoped you saw my dismissal flow across my still face.
Blinded by memory, not the present, you persisted.
Until you could not find me, only traces of my absence.
Like the paper left over after the candy is consumed, the wrapper of you is discarded.
Tossed away.
Left to bounce along the concrete, to wheresoever the winds take you.
*For a woman who does not see that her body is beautiful*
It is raining. Not a hard steady downpour or a romantic pitter-patter.
It is that foggy drizzle that clings to the skin like cobwebs. The sky is dim and murky, like cloudy steel that will fall down to earth one shocking moment.
Stripping out of your damp and sticky clothes, wiping yourself dry with a soft blue towel, the irritation remains. Dislike settles over you, as your eyes close upon tears.
Unhappy. Unsatisfied, critical. Of your body, the marvelous vehicle that belongs solely to you.
*
He comes in and calls your name, his footsteps a familiar tattoo on the floor.
Hurriedly, you arrange your face and body in welcoming lines. Yet your eyes cannot so easily throw up a mirage.
Kneeling next to you, he asks what us wrong. you don’t talk–the tears pooling off your lashes speak of what you cannot move your lips to say.
He makes the sounds of comfort. But it is his hands that calm you.
**
His hands in your hair. Fingers running across your face, down your neck.
Palms across your shoulders, gripping your anxiety and pulling it out.
His lips following, as his hands curve around to your breasts and trail own you stomach, to your thighs.
His lips now giving way to his tongue, as he massages you calves and feet.
Turning over at his command, your face burning, because he is nibbling behind your knees and moaning softly.
His mouth marching up your thighs to your ass. Where he lingers.
Plays, wallows. A place you loathe is his island paradise.
Sliding up, nestling against the curves of you, his breath skips up your spine, inch by inch.
His face, his lips right next to your ear. Whispering how lovely, how delicious, how beautiful your body is.
How it excites him, terrifies him, pulls his inexplicably towards your bed again and again.
***
Pressing his lips against your closed eyelids, he pushes your thighs apart and runs his fingers across your shaven cleft, your clit awakening and peeping out.
Giving in to the motion of his hands. The shadows of your form materialize and become solid for you. You have felt separated, disjointed, ungainly.
He always saw you and thought Venus was visiting the earth, looking to grace him with her love.
As his fingers move faster and faster, you gain weight and space in your head. Instead of shadow and dark, you see joy and light.
The body that you were ashamed of becomes your crown. The gift that gives pleasure.
There in your bed, under that dark, heavy soon-to-fall sky, you are collected into one shining gorgeous piece.
Wearing a groove in the floor.
Pacing, to and fro. The oak boards softly creaking under your bare feet.
Waiting.
On her. On him.
On yourself–for you seek liberation.
*
Settling on your knees, watching.
Eyes full of her. Of him.
Ears burning at the stream of consciousness pouring from her chapped and slightly bruised lips.
Smelling the tang of their mingled sweat, being pressed into your sheets.
Yet you are silent, except for your breath. So heavy it has a weight of its own.
*
Your moment arrives.
They call to you indirectly, as he bucks and jerks in her, his ass flexing with each spurt as he screws his eyes shut with relief.
She is the receptacle.
She receives.
She…
*
Offering to you. You approach the tabernacle of her well-fucked cunt.
Pausing there, all your anger dissipates. Your frustration at waiting.
Your stubborn refusal to see her guiding you by denying your instantly.
Eager, grateful, humble–you place your hands on her thighs, muscles tired from gripping his waist.
*
Lick.
Lick.
The saltiness.
Taste.
Taste.
Her juices.
Savor.
Savor.
Your place. Less than a tissue to be discarded.
*
After lapping away every bit of them -his nut, her pussy juices-you feel your breath.
Your breath. Lighter, barely discernible. Floating, like your heart in your breast.
Drop your forehead, rest your cheek against the velvet of her smooth thigh.
In the quiet, a still life of her, him, you.
Dream.
Dream.
Of the next time she lets you worship.
The stars are fading in the sky, when you awaken and reach for me.
As right as rain, I am not there. Was I ever?
You call for me. Not that it is really me you seek.
*
You fooled yourself into thinking I could solve the naked equations, square your bare rule, converge your series.
With the honesty you don’t possess, I will admit that anyone with XX chromosomes could. If she looks right, XXY would suffice or a deliciously deceptive TS, who smells like sugar and feels like silk.
Prowling about your room-shirtless-the thin cotton of your boxers barely containing your pulsing erection. The thin dew of night sweat still covering the fine hairs lining your spine.
Stand still in the quiet morning sun and admit that I/she/me/her/it/they/anyone can fulfill your need.
Whisper it to yourself. Then say it aloud.
Again. Again.
Until it manifests right before you.
Watch your world transform.
*
I never yours to have. I left you with a phantom.
Do you recall running your fingers through her, as I found meaning elsewhere?
For you never wanted me.
You just wanted.
And you hate me for knowing.
The Teacher spoke and you appeared. For me.
Like skin attached to muscles, connected by sinew and enlivened by nerves, you were to me. And I to you.
For it is so plain.
Let the wise among us hear. See these truths.
*
Feed me. I hungered and you gave me food for my body and fed my heart.
Without you I am wasting away, one molecule at a time.
Slipping back to the Great Darkness where I slumbered before I was sang into the Light.
You were in the Darkness, so I was not in fear. Only unaware yet always safe.
*
Quench my thirst. I was parched, fevered and you gave me water. Your tears of concern refreshed my soul, for I knew you would split your last drop of water in half so that neither of us would have to suffer discomfort.
Yet there is no one like you, no one to hear my cries in the night and rush to me. No one to put the cool rim of the glass to my lips.
A cool loving hand to my burning brow.
*
Shelter me. I was wandering and weary, and you opened the door, lit the room. Wrapped a warm blanket around me, showered me with words and knocked the ice of fear off my mind.
Who will make sure I have a warm place to sleep? Only you would give up your bed, allowing me to take the place where your body heated the sheets.
You would watch over me until I was firmly encased in a restful, quiet sleep.
*
Visit me. When I was in a prison of confusion, you faithfully visited me. Day after day until the bars bent and the door swung open.
I have no visitors now. Chained in a dank corner, watching listlessly as the light throws the pattern of day, noon, night on the cold floor.
I wait for your footfalls but I know that I will not hear yours or any other.
No matter, for only you held the key to the doors of this cell.
*
Fasted.
Cleansed.
Prepared.
Presented, gag in your nervous right hand.
Bowing your head, sighing as the buckle is tightened across the back of your head.
Kneeling, for the sweet tight weight of the leather cuffs on your wrists.
Repeated on your ankles.
Struggling to your feet.
Falling onto the bed, face-down. Gasp flowing like melted oxygen from your mouth, dripping, as the plug goes into your eager ass.
Nestled in the soft crushed velvet sheets.
A jewel nestled in a gift box. A choice handmade chocolate in a display case.
Left there, to complete your devotion.
Alone but not alone really, fluorescence of your thoughts and pleas ringing around your head, sugar plum prayers.
Seeking.
Waiting, as the sensation ebbs from your joints. The stinging replaced by a laden nothingness.
Hoping fervently.
Seeing God.
See.
See…
I recall you taste of cherries, burnished by the sun, steeped in honey and lemon.
Open your mouth. Let me taste you again.
Your tongue-a smooth hard tangerine drop for me to suck.
Let me dig my fingers into the hard bones of your hips, to release the nectar hidden within you.
Press your sugar-coated hands to my breasts and knead my softness, until the heat coming from me turns them sticky.
Put your thumbs to my lips, let me lick them clean.
Let me kneel before you.
Wrap your sticky fingers in my hair, as I use my mouth to make your eyes roll shut.
I see the veins etched in your neck, as you tumble down the waterfall of caramel dreams.
Warm hot butterscotch down my throat, coating the heart of me.
You are not here.
How can I go to my rest, without the gentle passing of your lips over mine?
The soft satin over your lips, slipping along my heated cheeks and down my chin, while your cock burrows deep inside of me.
I do give credit where it is due. Thanks, CB. You helped me in a big way.
*
I cut class (yes, I did) to wait for him. Instead of being seen leaving together, it was best to meet there.
The bookstore, of course. Where all good things reside and all pleasures of the known worlds can be found.
On the ride to the bookstore, I wished to hold his hand but my empty hands just sat on my lap, curled slightly. Waiting to be filled with his strong slim fingers.
I beat him by about six minutes. Like a stone I stood, as the waves of passersby flowed over me.
He perched upon me, as a bird does, to keep it’s feet dry. As usual, he slid up behind me, wrapped his fingers across my eyes and whispered in my ear. (What he said is lost to time but he did say something witty and wicked.)
In that glass enclosed doorway, I cocked my head to the side and wondered if things were going to ge better or worse. He smiled at my expression and used his right thumb to smooth the furrow created between my carefully trimmed eyebrows.
Placing a kiss there, he told me that I would get a permanent mark if I kept it up.
He was wrong but maybe it is there, unseen, under my unmarked skin.
*
Purchases in hand, we went out into the sunlight. After the hush and soothing soft glow of the interior aisles, the light seemed twice as bright.
Heading over to our favorite café, he slipped his fingers into mine and gripped tightly. I suppose he wished to make sure I would not float away.
But I was not planning on leaving him too soon. Not too soon…
*
He liked to order for us, so he did. I sat. Jacket and purse on the back of my chair. My purse that doubled as a book bag at my restless feet.
Under my stroking fingertips-nails glossed with a slight lavender blush-was a book. We promised each other to not read ahead, to not give in to the desire to take it to bed with a cup of warm milk. Not lie about reading it the next day, fingers crossed behind our backs. (Is it a lie if you did not mean to do it but were too weak to persevere?)
You fill me. My eyes consume you and my stomach is quieted.
Your mouth is dessert. I kiss you until I am stuffed.
My eyelids lowly fall shut, my head lolls forward onto your shoulder.
You hold a finger beneath my nostrils and count the space between each breath.
When you leave, I starve.
I cannot sleep.
Tossing. Turning. Pacing.
Return to me.
Kill my hunger.
Rock me to sleep.
Keep me in oblivion.
Shivering. Not just on the surface but inside, deeply.
Come close to me.
Take away the chill that rattles my bones.
Place your lips on mine, so your heat can seep along my jaw, down my neck.
Rub your hands over my skin.
Nestle between my thighs.
Hot; you are burning to the touch.
Enter me.
With each thrust, melt my ice, feel it running down my thighs.
Pressing my forehead to your neck, breathing in the warmth.
My cries mingle with the salvation you give.
He called to me.
He knelt before me.
His tears wet my bare cold feet.
Stumbling on the words, he asked me to hurt him.
To love him.
I gave him silence. A long exhalation of moist breath.
He told me that he needs to be gently choked.
To be slapped, spit on.
To be overpowered.
His shame is great but his desire, greater.
To hear names of filth whispered in his ears.
Each word making him whole.
Every syllable washing away his false persona, his outer shell imposed by society.
I closed my eyes. Presented him with the curve of my lashes, my still lips.
His fingers wrapped around my ankles.
The outline of his spine under his smooth pale skin.
He begged me to to take him, penetrate him.
Take away the world, obliterate his boundaries.
Please. He said.
I replied with a lack of motion. Rooted in place.
I waited, like the statues in a hushed an dark church, until he pulled away.
His lean and spare form, fading from my downcast view.
He wants. He aches. He dreams.
I am not an idol.
I do not want worship.
I sent his prayers into the skies, gossamer ribbons floating.
To be caught and answered by another.
A click. A buzz. The light-cool and grey blue, fills the room.
Angling, positioning, adjusting the light.
And you wait.
Until someone bites.
This time, it was subtle, not so explicit. You lured her gently, teased her until she clicked on the button and… watched you.
That is what you want. To be seen.
Last night, you were frustrated, anxious to connect.
You needed an audience, recognition.
No fun for you to do it alone. You need the rush, the thrill.
Junkie. Fiend. Addicted to an mental place.
Unseen by you, yet you are seen by them. Real in real time, in a way that you are not face-to-face.
Relaxed, easy. Taunt, throbbing. Panting, erupting.
Night after night, looking for a woman to look at you.
Further you retreat in your shell by day, only emerging when you are alone and wired.
More and more, you need. Need and need.
You looked at a woman as you walked by this morning, wondering if she will log on later and watch you. Your lips were frozen shut when she turned and smiles at you. She is too close, you must have distance. To function.
At times, you open up your cam, and idly stroke your cock, half-hard. Partially aroused, able to spring to life at a moment’s notice.
For someone, anyone.
You vaguely remember the feel of flesh, of bone, of skin other than your own.
Awash in a controlled climate, the reality is fading.
Life is slipping over you. See it?
No.
For how can the blind lead the blind?
By touch.
Not in your case.
Some go to the gym, the temple where they pray with their sweat and give hot bursts of breath as offerings.
Others go to the docs, slinking onto the soft sofas where anxieties are waved and aired out. Soft clouds of grief and despair float from their lips.
Not you.
You go to her. Drop to your knees.
Waiting, trembling for her to diagnose and solve your ailments.
The smell wafts from her leather boots the sweetest aromatherapy.
Your mind hurts. She slaps your face, grips your jaw and ejects saliva in your eager mouth.
As her spit trickles, as the burn in your cheeks subsides, your thoughts calm.
Your heart hurts. The pinch of the clamps cuts right through your breastbone, warming your chest.
Weights are hung off the ends. Your eyes roll back and your back arches, then relaxes, vertebra licking like coins.
Your soul hurts; is twisted in knots. The gag tightens around the back of your head, as she pushes you face down.
Like a beast pulling a plow, you are mounted. Whipped. Plugged.
At that moment, you heard a sharp snap.
You are aligned. Whole.
They have their therapy; you have yours.
All we had is incredible, blazing hot, supernova sex. If you can even call it that. What we do doesn’t actually have a name. It is as a thought- I am surrounded by you and when you withdraw from me, I shrink back into nothingness.
I try not hold that, for once the sweat has dried, we hit a wall, over and over until we are battered and bleeding.
On the way to you, I saw a man walking along. From the back, it could have been you. Cocky stance, his purposeful stride, the way his jeans hung on him, the slant of his belt, his beautiful expensive shoes and his hair, the way it was a tad too long but nicely cut, so it enhanced his head and made him look better than fresh baked bread.
It was a portent, for that is what I have of you; the walking away, the silence of your back, you head help high, as your eyes burn and your heart clenches, from the anger I cause to rise in your throat.
I bet it chokes you at night. It just makes me weep.
I met you with a smile on your face. In your heart, soared a tiny gnat of hope.
Unsuspecting, you thought of me. Gullible, wide-eyed.
Ready to be molded into the shapes that power your constantly changing dreams.
You do not know yourself. How could you attempt to know me?
*
Small things at first; hints, suggestions. I lifted a brow and ignored you.
Until you had the temerity to offer your ass to me, tell me you wanted to feel the soft leather paintbrush of my belt painting your skin.
You are not my clay, my kiln. Mortar and pestle we are not.
You don’t pull me in your tide to cause Eros and pain.
I do not salivate at the thought of your tears coursing, snot bubbling from your reddened nose, as your balls tighten sweetly with each snap of the leash.
*
Persistent, you are so very. But my heart is not into it. My lust has been bypassed and now is coiling into anger.
You want to give what you will, push me into controlling you as you see fit.
No.
You plan and plot to dress me in what turns you on, in clothing that binds and restricts. Reflecting light that dazzles your eyes, the latex and patent leather.
I want to take your excited blindfolded form into a darkened room, and give you to two women. Or two men. Who can make it hurt more?
Listening to you gag as your throat is bruised, watching the drool from your raw used mouth pool on your chest. Chuckling as you twist and try to pull away from the hard cock-natural, synthetic, but huge-that opens your ass and pulls you into an altered state.
Feel it, for I don’t. It tires me and will cause me to toss you away.
I did not see you in my mind as a servant but as a mate. You disdain vanilla but I adore the creamy coolness. That is what you are to me.
You do not cause my fingers to curl around my brush, as I fight the urge to beat you.
In your imagination, you are chained, kneeling, panting. In the clear light of day…you are hazy, drifting, catching on a chimera that melts in the face of reason.
*
Do you want love? Or do you love to be in control?
Backseat driver. Giving orders under the guise of just being along for the ride.
*
Tiresias, I called in your direction. But you are neither fully male nor female in your desires. You cannot hear me, my human throat falls flat on your ears.
Liar, liar, soul on fire.
Burning but not consumed, for your duplicity.
You run forward.
A babbling brook, a swiftly running stream, water crashing over the falls.
I am not dreaming of standing in the midst of you, watching you froth and eddy. I wish to see you rising, water and steam flowing down your thighs, as you walk toward me in the heat of the day.
Mouth closed. Hands open, heart overflowing.
Khelônê, I wish you to be. Not because you stirred me to anger and I dropped a house of distaste over you.
Let me dive into you, float in silence.
Inspired by C. Barker’s fabulously primordial work
*
Yours. His. Theirs.
Bear the signs of something easily explained away as DNA yet is profoundly beyond such simplicity.
~
The discrete line of your jaw, which cuts through my confusion. I ache to scrape it bare, when nature takes over and appears as fine hairs, blurring the edge.
The pulse in your throat. Your neck is a pillar, upon which my lips rest. Paused, embraced in the sinew of your arms, my ear picks up the soft tattoo of your heart.
Place your hand on mine, the veins playing against the muscles and nerves, tapering to sensitive tips. My teeth want to playfully sink into your wrists.
The light hits you so perfectly. Let me look at you. Let me feast, assuage my growing hunger.
~
I tear my eyes away from your sleek thighs, the memory of the angle of your hips swinging around to your narrow rounded ass. Singed into the darkness of my shuttered eyelids.
The smell of your breath brings to mind the sea. Warm, salty. Open your mouth again and wash me clean.
~
Seen and admired but totally inherent to you. Natural.
Your cock.
Your flag marks the spot, where you are different from me, as night is to day.
Tracing the length. A line which stretches back, to the origins of the world.
Fragile it makes you and in turn, strong.
Fingers wrapping around, see the light blaze in your eyes. Pupils constricting, matching the aperture of the glans head.
The length, the depth, the absolute breadth of you. You draw the light, cast a dense shadow, take up space.
Disturb and excite the very air I need.
Waiting.
Not long now. You will be walking in the door.
About 4, I thought of you and got hard. It hasn’t gone away, just alternates between raging and a mild throb.
You are here.
Unzip my pants. Take it in your mouth, get it wet.
Trace the veins with your tongue, your fingers.
Lick my sac, take it into your warm, wet mouth.
Bend over.
Don’t talk to me. Obey.
Hold on to the table, as I hold on to your hips and fill you.
Your sighs and gasps are subsumed into my moans.
It delights you.
It hurts you.
To be used.
That is your purpose.
For now.
Then:
Not sure what is wrong with me.
The closer I get to you, the more I itch and pant.
It was said that my uterus wanders, is choking me, but I know the truth.
Your neglect is the stricture around my throat.
Hysterical paroxysm brought by doctors and midwives never satisfy the yearning rooted in my brain.
It comes from my mind, no mater where it manifests. My nipples may yawn and grow hungry for your touch. My thighs quiver in anticipation of your caress. My cunt moistens, my pussy walls clench tightly, wishing you will forcefully batter them down.
I have asked you to be with me. Not to only be fruitful but because I am joined with you. We are yoked, albeit slightly unevenly.
Yet you are away. When you are here, you treat me like glass. Chastely kiss me. Lightly hug me. Bid me a good night and walk from my door. Unfailingly polite, always solicitous.
But distant. For in truth, I am an accessory.
Only that, after all.
Fortune finds me. I shy away, turn my face, shut my eyes to it. But I hear it walking up behind me, feel the subtle kiss left behind on my cheek.
Right after, you appeared. Sunlight encased in skin, glowing. Warming.
Lips parting in a smile that caused me to close my eyes. Rays seeping out of you. Your hand lightly brushing my arm, leaving a gentle sigh, a brief memory of summer days.
Do you know that you must illuminate the night sky?
Breathing in the air you exhale, I taste jasmine on my tongue.
Once, I neatly refused. Twice brought a promise for later.
*
Watching the sky-soft violet, streaked with rose, fading to plum. The wind was tired and packing to go home for the night.
Water pulling away from the shore, as geese were shadows breaking free and flowing jerkily across the sand.
Then, night descended. First the smell of leather, smoke, vetiver. Then your voice, coiled around my head. Sitting next to me, the heat of your body singed me. Dark, dark you are. Inside, outside, every layer.
I was told sulfur stinks. Yet your breath is redolent of cloves.
You ask for later. I pretend that I have it to give.
*
Days turn into nights. Time is like oil on the floor, I slip across it, blind.
You were my eyes, my ears. My loving smiling metronome.
What is time, if it exists with you?
He told me that it would break your heart if I came to you, prematurely, ahead of schedule.
He is right; if you were there. But you are not.
The sweet soft eternal darkness. Not filled with honey-coated dreams nor terror, sight and sound.
If there was more, you would have come and told me.
You loved me–you would have come for me, if you were neither destroyed or transmuted. You would have saw me crying and told me not to weep, for we were leaving together. I would not need anything, for your heart held everything for the journey.
You would not have left me cold on the floor, barely able to stand or speak because my grief turned into physical knives and nearly broke my mind.
You would not stay away. You would not leave a sign. You would not hold back on giving me the date when I am to join you and the great mass of the departed.
You are gone. How terrifying is the thought of the last time I saw you-cold, silent-is the last time I will truly see you.
For when I close my eyes for the last time, I will not see or be seen, either.
I had you.
But I do not anymore.
Either I live with it. Or die from it.
Watching the pulse at the base of your throat.
A bead of sweat. Travels, hangs, drips.
Eyes wild, you part your lips. My name emerges, a butterfly startled from the bushes.
Right then: I grab your balls, tight hold. Pinch the tip of your cock, bifurcating the seismic flow.
You call my name.
Bitch.
“Say it louder,” I say softly, as I strangle the orgasm you have been crying for.
“Bitch,” you bark over and over. Spittle flying from your lips.
My name never escapes your mind, even in the most urgent moments.
Wait. I ask you to wait.
You never do.
All that matters is what you want.
And me giving it to you.
As you went deeper and deeper into me, your nails dug into my soft fleshy hips. Holding so tightly, you shuddered and came, breaking my skin.
~
Your fingers gliding up and down my thighs, as you press your lips against your nail impressions.
Lying there, looking at the ceiling. You bathe my tiny wounds with your tongue and murmur your sorrow at hurting me.
But I know you like it.
You like it.
Mundane things. Washing dishes, rinsing dirt from front stairs, cleaning clothes.
Under the hum of the whirring washer, you slip behind me, arms curling tightly, face in my hair. Words of urgency, of alleviating the fullness in your groin tickle the edges of my ear.
One arm still tightly wound, the other moving. Hand goes to my neck, brushes hair aside, for your lips.
Softly, they trace.
Then your teeth graze, making a shiver bolt from my brain to my toes.
The tracing becomes gentle gnawing and sucking. Your other un-snakes and dives, fingers right into my panties, a heat seeker seeking the fleshy wet target.
Harder and insistent, your mouth, while fingers increasing speed.
You are hurting me, my neck tingling, the skin abrading. I hear the moist sound of your lips.
In my head, the good and the great are mingling, until you bend me over and fill me. Turning it now into grand, colossal, momentous.
Deep. Hard. Repetition.
I breathe through my mouth, at the roughness. Trying to mount the falcon before if flies away and drags me.
I cannot. I am dangling, by one strap.
Then I let go, as you let go.
We both fall, spasming and crying.
A hard thud. Leaving me bruised, you less so.
After the landing, I hear your breath. I feel my hair flutter past my ear, with the bellow of your lungs.
You lick the skin on my neck, where you have worn away my defenses.
Wincing, I pull you to my face, kiss you.
Taste my blood on your lips.
That slight metallic mixed with your honey tongue.
~~~
A few days later. Routine things, daily movement.
You are away. Maybe thinking of me, maybe not.
But I look at the bruise that is healing. Shudder as I lightly touch it, as I cover it in aloe.
More days.
That bruise.
A mottled rose, fading back into oblivion on the soil that nurtured it.
It is leaving.
My need for you, not so.
There you are, so fresh and sweet-faced.
But your turgid and pulsating cock swings to painful attention when I pass.
It screams that you are a man, no matter the tender contours of your face. The crisp newness of your college degree hanging just slightly askew on your stark white bedroom wall. The new leather smell of your car; the gleam of your newly-minted money from your first real adult wages job.
Because you cannot understand that I do not possess the secrets of the universe between my legs, you sniff around my skirts like a rabid hyena in need of bloody meat.
Your eyes are on me-your sparrow. Mine are on…men who fill my dreams, as I do yours.
You think that because your piston fires rapidly, that your gun can pop off round after round, that your sac is smooth and tight as a drum, that you matter.
As you pull on your over-eager cock at night, wishing it was my lips wrapped around you, I am sleeping. Not dreaming of your body, but only of the silence so dark, it rivals a tomb.
When I awake, it is a man that causes me to smile.When I deign to spend my morning in such a fashion, that is.
Not you, you half-formed idealist.You do not darken the threshold of a spare thought.
All I have for you is orgasmic heartache, spasmodic pain. Tears mingled with shock that you were fooled.
Run. Run back into the woods, in the shelter of the quiet copse where you belong, close to your dam and sire.
For you are not old enough, strong enough, wise enough. You cannot spread me and ride me under I am in a panting lather.
You are not ready nor tall enough in your mind, to ride this ride.
Kiss my shadow as it floats over you in farewell, for my kindness.
I could have held your mind in my hands and cracked that tender egg open.
Carelessly letting the yolk spill between my fingers, distracted by other matters as I shake it from my slippery palms.
By the candlelight, you embrace me. Enter me.
Turning my head to the wall. Looking at our shapes, they way we block light.
A beastly form, double heads. Waving arms. Thrusting pelvis. Thighs spread. Backs moving at a piston speed. Tits bouncing. Nutsac swinging frantically.
Throwing shapes, as we grind our way to completion.
The candle sputters, leaving us in darkness. Wax cools, hardens.
Hotter and hotter is our skin, the sweat sizzling as it falls.
Our screams bounce off the wall, where our shadows have been dissolved.
The feel of your lips on mine.
Your hands, pressed against my curving hips.
Your breath, escaping your parted lips, as your pupils constrict.
My head lolls back, as you enter into me violently and clear my brain of everything that does not matter.
Only you remain.
The drive over is quiet, only a few souls slipping past in the dark.
Headlights sliding over you. Wheels crossing the damp streets.
They may as well be shadows, for all you care.
Your mind is full of me. My skin, my form.
~
A soft slight jingle of the keys, as you let yourself in.
Snap goes the door latch, closing.
Creak is the sound of your steps, crossing the gleaming floor boards.
The door whisks as it glides open across the carpet.
Your heart catches with a click in your throat, as you see me, turn on the bed.
My breath settles softly around me. Yours is slowly escaping your flared nostrils-steam under slow pressure, seeking release.
Whirr is your zipper descending, followed by your belt buckle hitting the floor.
Faster than the moonlight falling through the window, you are naked.
A bead of sweat trickles down your strong back.
How many times has my tongue traced that same path?
~
The springs moan gently as your weight settles on the bed, as you creep into position.
Your cock is so erect, you hear it throbbing and wonder how the thunderous noise does not startle me awake.
Slowly, ever so slowly, you pull the thin blue sheet down. Exposing my firm smooth splayed thighs.
Yet you do not let your eyes linger, or your fingertips.
Your eager tongue reaches in, tastes the warm moisture.
The bud awakens, which pushes my eyelids up.
I know your scent, you shape.
I open my legs wider, as your fingers spread my labia, allowing my clit to be enveloped by your soft lips.
My hair makes a buttery sound, as it hits the pillow in time with my tossing head.
Sharp and quick, I come.
Just as fast, you come into me. Sinking down to your base, grinding the root of your tree into my soil.
~
Digging into me, I hear the slap of your slippery skin, the squelch of your cock jabbing in and out. The wet panting our breath mingling in the cool night air streaming through the open window.
The bed groans and shudders with us, as we spiral over the edge and drop into the abyss of incoherence.
We hit bottom.
~
Leaving me there, you regain sanity.
Dressing, walking.
Closing the door behind you.
Anchored by the keys in your hand, the only thing that keeps you from floating off into the star-bright sky.
Your voice, the thread that I follow that guides me out of a sound sleep. Grasping it with closed eyes, I will my body to rise, to follow where you lead.
Lying next to you, head nestled upon your chest, I look up. I want to see what you see, even as my sleepy eyes seek to close again-this time with the pleasure of your lithe right fingers in my hair and your left ones lazily brushing my nipples to awareness.
25 light years away is Vega, softly winking. My back arches, my thighs part. I imagine that I am floating with you in Lyra. I vibrate in time with the strings of the harp.
16 light years from now is Altair, rotating rapidly. Your weight settles upon me, pulling my mind into Aquila. Like the flying eagle, you have descended. Pierce me with your talons and show me the moonlight captured in your eyes.
440 parsecs from here to there lies Deneb-blazing bright. You sweep me away, until I am at the tail end, dazzled and breathless. No more graceful flight has ever been executed. I am the swan that receives you, not able to shy away. Make me gentle, docile. Calm me.
The bridge is crossed and we are united. Yet the earth beneath us shifts, causing us to drift onto a new course, ever so slowly.
Some people have bullshit.
Others have Real Live Shit* they are dealing with.
Let us not ever confuse the two.
Fame has a cost; paid in blood, time and life.
~
I hoped you would come to my door, one day. I would be so lucky to get a visit from you, as your name was on the letters we received in the mail. I was too young to order the magazines but I pestered my Mom, anyway.
I knew I would not be a star but in my fantasy, I would have been announced by you, as I got to sit in on that infamous sofa.
With your big, infectious joyful voice, I bet every kid that met you on the telethon felt better, if only for a short time.
I hear you had a way of making people feel welcomed.
~~~
How could you be so lovely, causing kids in their teens and men from 20 to 80 to love you so? An Angel, grabbing the most eligible bachelors of the day.
Were you ever scared of your power over men, over people?
Did you see yourself as you were, in the hearts of those who adored you? Or did the false and merciless reflections in the mirrors held up to your face, dictate your eyes to what should be?
Those are questions that won’t be answered. But you never lost your true essence to my eyes.
~~~
What chance did you have, a tender babe of four that began doing work that adults had only begun.
Eleven years old when you fronted a band, the formal solidification of your isolation.
What did you know of love, lust and desire when you covered this? A song of adult love, filtered through your young lips.
And you retreated into a world of make-believe. In that false world, you were not cared for, your illnesses not treated.
Did you wonder what it would like to go to the store alone? To walk in a public park and not be mauled. To be normal.
Your talent still stuns me, as you did things others did not and you changed the entertainment game.
I will remember you like this, with your family, joy and happiness still on your face.
I fell into a troubled sleep and there you were. As always. Your eyes, full of light. Lips open, words to soothe me tumbling out.
I buried my face in your hair, feeling it spiral and slip past my cheeks, down my arms, the tangled ends brushing my thighs. Moving gently in the breeze.
Then I awoke.
But this time, I could not reach out and touch you, run my fingers along the silky curtain that holds your scent.
Not this time.
Maybe not ever again.
She started it. -L
****
The Beast rages. In you and others. Like the mighty Roman army, like the primeval forces, it is Legion. Multiple consciousness, single intent: possession and violation.
The monster. Basilisk. Orthrus. Ladon. Minotaur; boxed in.
Flee from me, Leviathan. Manticore, you riddles shall not ensnare me. Tower above me Kraken and find you will only grip the air where I once was.
Unlike the grass under the blades, I will not submit to being cut down, whittled to my quick. I will not lie still and ask urgently to be trampled.
Rather, reach out and run your cold fingers up my stem and rip your flesh on my thorns. The tears sting no less than your misplaced pride.
“You are merely the girl I am furnishing. Yes, of course, I’ll be there. Now run along.” -Story of O, p.5
*
I hold no misty love of sadists, dominants, masters, rulers, owners. I do not dream of the yoke, the tether, the leash, the rope. Or the lash.
My deepest desire is not to be the furrowed row. Soiling breaking before the plow.
Forewarned is forearmed. Watching intently their progress, I learn their habits. I plan my escape route and nurse my eventual insurrection.
For The Beast is always ravenous, always hungering, always looking for new fields to despoil. Desecration excites it. Tears from sad eyes and blood oozing from violated holes are to it as what rain is to roses.
“Using the familiar tu form of address, he told her not to move and told the women to hurry.” Ibid, p.8.
*
Know this: wily is the the Beast. Often it slumbers, appears tame and small. Pet it and watch it unfold, snarl and handily devour your mind. Your moist flesh is the dessert.Your cries are the finger bowl which only serves to clean it’s claws before it reaches out again.
It will neatly pick it’s teeth with your rib bones and then yawn, already eyeing the next piece of juicy prey. Surely you did not think to tame the wolf, ride the boar, own the falcon. Then hardly are you equipped to satisfy the Beast. For it will consume and consume until even the world itself is is a memory.
“Then one of the men gripped her buttocks and sank himself into her womb. When he was done, he yielded his place to a second. The third wanted to force his way into a narrower passage, and driving hard, wrenched a scream from her lips.” -Ibid, p.10
*
Tell me to kneel. I walk away. Grab me. I pull away. Hold me. I shake you off.
My refusal causes you to salivate.The defiant tilt of my head is the whetstone upon which your cock sharpens. When I press my lips together in denial of you, your nutsac tightens in a strange sympathy. I do not believe you want me personally, Beast. You only want to Destroy.
Leaving ruin in your wake, ashes that are so fine, even the winds cannot hold them aloft.
“All four had taken her and she had not been able to distinguish him from the others.” -Ibid, p. 11
*
Tie me and I will chew through my binding. Chain me and I will work constantly, even if raw and chafed, to slip out. I will not offer my self to your immolation fire.
Persist and break me, to find me hollow, empty, all my essence flown away.
Do not take a different tack–one of tenderness and honey. Your sweet words, are only food for flies and maggots. It is your nature to lie, as you are the Beast. And I am Truth-my Truth. I know you have no way to love me, for you have no love within you.
“This pain will enforce upon you the idea that you are subject to restraint and to teach you that you belong completely to something that is apart and outside of yourself.” -Ibid, p17
*
If you manage to corral me, pass me on to your minions and upon your return, find that their now-lifeless eyes will not give you an answer. Only the dark sticky blood smeared upon my teeth and hands will tell the tale.
“The three men who were smoking commented on her movements, on the way her mouth closed and worked at the sex it had seized and along whose length it moved rhythmically back and forth, on the tears that came to her eyes every time the swollen member struck the back of her throat and made her choke, to shudder as though from an imminent nausea. It was with her mouth still half-gagged by the hardened flesh that filled it that she murmured again the words: ‘I love you.’ “ -Ibid, p.19
*
Do not think to brand my ass. Do not hope pierce my cunt lips with a ring bearing your name.
I reject you. I cast you out, back into the abyss that is your home. Get thee not behind, but far away from me, Beast. Leave the vessel which you have falsely claimed.
*
Open your eyes, my love. In my arms, you return. You are a clean house, not to be filled again.
Hyperion, I name you. Call me in return Theia. Then I will receive you like a god and take you as my sacrament.
Love defeats the lies, slays the beast.
Wanting to rest my face in the crook of your neck. Feel your hair whip around my face, the soft curtain that lulls me into a theta state that pulls me deeper.
Align my universe.
Then the fleshy blade that cuts my butter will rip me out of the dream-which only is the prefix to the stem of you.
This morning, I stood mute and frozen, all around me, mouths opened and poured forth the hymn. The one from your final service.
My eyes were rooted to one spot, slowly filling with frozen water that could not fall.
Inhaling, I smelled the flowers that sat on my mantel, withering slowly, returning to the Earth, as you did. As we all will.
In that room, someone took comfort from those words that only stab me in the base of my brain. Over and over, with each refrain, the sharp blade lifts out and then go right back in. The hole is no wider or deeper-it hurts just the same.
I carry your voice in my heart, and the sounds of the laughter of those who left us. Until the us become a solitary I.
I drag the songs of the dead behind me.
Follow the trail I leave.
It leads to my grave.
I come to you for silence, to wrap my fingers in your hair, to watch dusk spread slowly across the sky.
That is all I want from you.
You give me talk, action, movement. You turn me from the spectator to the participant, you make me your unwilling physician.
You want me to heal you, to fill the gaps, fill the cracks with love mortar. Strengthen you.
I cannot.
Here I am, as me. I do not possess the tools to cure what ails you, bandage your festering wounds caused by long-ago injuries, heal your damaged psyche.
I do not exist to give you the love you need. All I can give you is what I have.
I am here to watch the day slip away into night. With you, my lips pressed to your collarbone, hearing your heart ticking like a cooling engine.
That is all I want.
That is all.
Like the all beasts that creep stealthily across the earth, you picked up my subtle scent before the stabbing pain emerged.
Distracted but concerned, I wondered of your persistent pacing, your fingertips twitching against your damp palms.
Then I knew.The cramps enveloped me in a tight fist. A trickle that signifies my membership in the triune club raced down my leg. I am still in the dream that is the Mother.
Maddened by the smell, the sight, you leaned against the wall and begged silently for strength. But your mouth watered.
You thrill over dead blood. You debase yourself.
God likes it fresh, pushed by a beating heart, spurting from a sliced neck. Hot and wet, as the soul unhinges from the body, eyes clouding.
You have fancied yourself Him. Imagined that I love you as much as Him.
Yet you delight in the decaying things, at the wrong time.
See why you do not compare?
Friend: mmhmm…unbelievable ambiguous yet with a tone of authority.your posts are veiled, shrouded, yet also so very pointed at the same time. I’ve always adored your prose.
there is never any real hint, not consistently, of who you may/may not be….
You don’t mince words- you have firm opinions. I never know if you mean them, or if they are just today’s observations. But they are never careless, never wandering…always spoken as if from a point of view of power.
Liras: Thank you. I do like to get a verbal hug every so often.
How can I tell you of my split consciousness or of my fractured will?
You would not be able to look at me the same, for it would pierce the very heart of you. The tender heart that drew me in, that I promised to cherish and protect.
I am the same yet different. There are parts of me that are growing, others that are dead.
As much as I love you, I love thinking of of others. Their soft lips, their naked breasts, the curve of their asses, the imagined scent that emanates from between their legs.
I love you and my soul thrills like a bird heralding Spring, when I see you pick up our youngest and dry her tears.
But there is a part of me that wants to leave you there-frozen, time still surrounding you-and go fuck others.
I might want a pair or a trio. I may prefer to line them up and go from one wet eager mouth to the next, until the final one gets filled with my hot sticky seed. Or it may please me to slip away and sped a weekend fucking a sex machine in all her holes, over and over, until the need is quieted and spent.
It has nothing to do or for you. It is me, my libido, my curiosity.
You however, do not dampen the flames when you toss me crumbs of attention.
The lie I will not tell is that you are the same. You are different.
The children, the house the dogs, the phone, your sister, my Mom, the bake sale, the garden, the old friendly widow across the street, your latest project. They are crowding out the space in your mind that should belong to only me.
You are not able to see it, you snap at me when I mention that I feel left out at times. But you promised me that you would never run out of time for me.
Remember?
Even when you let me fuck you-yes, you let me at times, for your mind is already dropping kids off at school the next day- I feel that I am an intruder. A distraction from the more important things that you do everyday.
Should I apologize for feeling bitter over it? Do you expect me to become neutered and asexual, due to the rhythm of our grown-up lives?
I am your husband. I do not want to beg you for your loving touch, your soft words.
You have changed. You have.
I want you to change back.
++++
You speak of change as if it is unilateral, not bilateral. As if it is only my issue.
You get impatient with me, with how I do not have the same amount of time to give to you. You are right–I don’t. But is that your only reason for getting bent out of shape?
Funny that you think I can’t see how you get distracted when the brunette neighbor from next door runs by on her daily afternoon trail past our house. I do not fault you for looking. But don’t blame me for your dick getting hard or the fact that I am not childless as she is.
Of course she has plenty of energy to screw her husband, as much as he likes and hang off his every word when he speaks. She is not juggling kids, this house, your Mom, work and all those things that make up our life. Or, as I see it should be called, my life.
You and I are living in these parallel spaces. You get that dejected look in your eye to my refusal, when you want a quickie while the spaghetti is cooking and the kids are screaming with glee in the backyard.
Yes, when we had one child, I could hike up my skirt and push my ass against yours for all of the hot 5 minutes you needed. I love you, so when you need me, I want to give, to satisfy.
When we had two children, I did have more energy and could also spend the time you needed, after they were put to bed.
Our lives are not the same, we have more of everything. We had another baby, I went back to work, your Mom needed support after your Dad passed. This new house, while beautiful, requires more time to clean.
And yes, I need a few minutes, not just a hurried bath or shower.
I do not make excuses, I only expect you to understand that sometimes, I have nothing more to give. I just want to sleep.
I do not always want your dick poking into me. I just want you to hold me. Cliche, but true. I love being in your arms just as much as when we shared our first kiss.
Hold me tight and keep me warm, as I grab just enough sleep to get me through the next day.
Were are here in the present, not in the past. So why are you acting like we are still those people, those single kids?
I have not stopped loving you one bit. You mean more to me than ever before. Am I suppose to neglect parts of our life, because you need more attention? What more do you want me to give?
The porn websites, the times you jack off in the shower, your discreet admiration of other women…I can deal with it; we don’t need to speak of it.
But your silent persistence that I have changed and that I neglect you…you are wrong.
That is what is in the bed with us at night-a cold shadow called Resentment. I can only lie there, when you come to me, already blaming me.
I have freely given you my love, my heart, my time. Bore our babies and see my changed body everyday in the mirror. Did all I could to please you, support you, be a partner.
Do you think I don’t care? Honestly, you know better.
You are not dealing with the changes within yourself as easily as you should.
I also want you to change back. Go back to the man who wears his ring around his finger, as well as his heart and mind.
Come back to us.
Come back.
Reminds me of you. What are those poor girls gonna do?
Succumb. Well, well…
When you call, I do not come. But I will, eventually.
Like that silky-haired stray that scratched at your door, all through your time at University.
Your hands are seeking my hips but only close around air.
Your teeth are grinding together, wishing my nipples were caught between instead of nothing.
Warmth from my body does not reach you, for when you turn towards me, all you have is a cool pillow, a place where I once was. A shadow settling in the dark, stirred by your breath.
I am leaving when you arrive. Not staying nearly long enough when I appear.
Running off, not leaving a note. Leaving you to guess.
You talk, I say nothing. I talk, expect no answer in return, for those brief bursts have no need of consent.
When you want my lips, you see my lipstick-stained tissues, tossed to the floor in the bathroom, floating memories of when you wiped my lips clean with your tongue.
My scent lingers on my robe left hanging on your closet and in my panties tossed carelessly away.
You sigh as your nostrils wonder when they will be greeted by the curling heat of your bath, with me soaking within.
My hair is bound to my head, a tight coil when you want it to be free for your fingers to twist and tangle. Yet other times, I walk around with a tangled nest that you are itching to comb.
Why do you want me?
I do not cook for you, wash your clothes, straighten your untidy dresser drawers. Nor do I chase you with your keys.
Stepping over the mail pooling by your door, I grab the paper from the pile, on my way to make tea and eat honey by the spoonful. In your clean kitchen that was not cleaned by me.
Not going to have your baby, make a home for you, give any of my life to keep you anchored to this earth one moment more than your fated strand.
What good am I to you?
Is it my arrogant assumption that you will be there, that keeps you…there?
Or is it that when I am there, it is more than any other woman’s here?
Rough, hot, tangy, sweet.
Pounding, sweaty, burning, grinding.
Fulfilling.
The good I am for you-to you…
You know.
You think one thing but your mouth forms another. And your eyes betray the third thought floating.
Liar liar, soul on fire. Burning through abandonment, caused by your duplicity.
Placing my left hand on your heart, from which all defilement flows, I quickly etch the sign on the skin on your throat.
Your smooth throat. One I used to touch. The conduit that funnels the filth from the cradle of your charred heart and holds it for just a moment, before your mind and tongue subvert it further.
Two simple incisions, blood beading in the wake of my knife. One vertical, one horizontal.
To some the cross saves. But you are not Christ. For me, it reminds that you are more beast than brethren.
I stare at you, dare you to speak. Speaking is what got us to this point.
Do the tears from your eyes sting the mark that you will wear?
Your innocent throat. Least guilty, bears your shame.
A symbol to all that you are rotten to the core, unclean, a thing to be shunned.
In another time and place, the pure version of you gasps. Stumbling, gripping her throat, eyes blurring with tears of confusion.
Not well. I am not.
A broken lamp leaking oil. A bulb with only one filament.
I cannot cast light.
I appear as if all is on order.
Pass your hand over me and feel the lack of heat. Notice that I cannot cast your shadow.
***
Words offer no solace. Only dreams of a true past that cannot be maintained.
I wonder if these shiny little beauties, mute but screaming to my ears, can calibrate me, set my balance right.
Will it be enough? Or will I need more, so much more, to refute myself in the night?
Strong hands, firm lips. warm sweet breath, veins standing out, lean sinew. Not enough, does not reach into me, does not reset my circuitry.
Only the lulling siren of those mute beauties that click in the palm of my hand, boat and winding stream at the same time, can reattach the parts of me and allow me to stay sane.
Stills the roaring of the grief that holds me tight in sharp wicked jaws.
***
I dreamed that a man came, attired so very fine and asked me why wasn’t I dressed to go. Did I miss his call, he asked so gently.
Stepping away from him, I stood where you bed once was, where you used to drop in sleep and screamed that I loved you. Shouted your name once, then once more.
Upon jolting awake, the lack of you settled back upon my chest. But my dry heart only sighed, releasing a puff of dust.
I do not cry in wet. I leak out dry.
Others offer my things, try to distract me, soothe me.
But I am an addict, a true junkie, only for you.
Because of every and all things, I loved.
You.
Run your fingers up my things, my skirt giving way to your forearms. Your eyes slowly closing to half-mast, you lips dripping with honeyed flashes of your thoughts right up to this moment.
Slide a finger into me, as the voice tumbles from the radio, wrapping us in the ticker tape of things we need but cannot control. The percentage points, fall of the index, rise of the fund, the quarterly earnings.
I sigh as your fingers reach in further. You swap my tension for pleasure, betting on the future soon to be mature that I will melt, flow away. Profit from my give, not your take.
Differentiate my demand. Push me back, those slips of papers, coded with data that signals the rise and fall of society, spilling out of your briefcase on the carpeted floor.
Nonstop goes the voices, the dings and chirps, the exclamations from the voice , joined by others on the radio. Jumping accents, skipping time zones, they all speak of the same thing.
Make that thing, the chasing of that thing, your fulcrum. Lift me from here to there, right there, where nothing matters but the way I feel.
The way you cause me to feel.
Underlying all of this is the pressure that builds, to stokes you, propels you between my thighs and into the heart of me. There is never a risk that you will not satisfy the obligation that you promised me the day we met.
Fuck me, here. Amidst the carnage, you extract the viable and precious metal. Trade what I need for what you want.
Condense the hours into rough minutes, as somewhere, a man rises with the flight of the sun, joining a flood of similar minds, to do battle with the monster that is never full.
Kick at the briefcase full of promises of dreams, let those wisps of what will be flutter away to what is.
What that is:you inside of me, plunging, extracting and filling, pushing for the final closing of your day.
Exchange the the heat for the coolness of release.
There, you fall and rest. Like the end of the day numbers.
The sounds of cars gliding past penetrate the smoked evening air, as your sweat, salty and tangy, provides a slick glaze along your spine.
Fingers brushing your ears, I softly sing your favorite song.
And the voices still run over and around us. Testament to the edifice that you never can avoid or truly scale.
Count them-those voices- like sheep my darling, as you surrender to your loss against the monster.
Yet you conquered me.
As always.
You sigh, turn towards me, pushing against sleep but losing.
I gently run one tender fingertip over your right brow. Skim the fragile skin that covers your eye, moving to pictures unseen by me.
After being so much with me, do you slip further, taking me with you into your unconscious?
Hold me close in life, embrace me in landscapes created by your mind.
You crave juice and pulp. Filling your mouth, running down your chin.
Not slivers of peelings and scented memories, lingering on your tongue.
Standing among the red roses, bees circling lazily, you come close.
I feel a thorn, pricking at my startled fingertip.
You kiss me, your breath rushing into me; biting my lip, as you press my finger down.
Drawing blood, both ways.
Perhaps you did well to die before this revolution which claims you as its prophet, engulfing you sometimes in an ocean of saccharine compliments, and sometimes in the sea of blood spilled on the guillotines. I doubt my ability to give you an adequate representation of the cataclysms it has been our lot to endure… p.3
I am resolved to write the story of my life in plain terms and to describe my experiences as I lived them, without alteration or deletion. I know the terrible motto you chose for yourself, Jean-Jacques: vitam impendere vero, ” to sacrifice my life to the truth.” To that end, you lived in a solitude I could never have endured. I loved too much the company of women, and the society of men: two worlds wherein one must lie to others if he does not wish to lie to himself. But I believe I have not been unworthy of you. I have sacrificed my life to the truth. p.4
The Only Son; Stéphane Audeguy,translated from the French by John Cullen
Breaking open my disposable as I left my warm bath, I called your name.
Sullenly, you came to me, the hidden fear washing from your damp armpits. You had been waiting for days, wondering when I would chastise you.
But isn’t that part of our holding pattern?
Leading you by the hand, over to the window, I frowned at you.
Shame blossomed across your face. Finally that.
First your thumb, then every finger of that formerly wayward right hand of yours. The blade dug in, sliding through each layer, until it found the crimson bed.
It rested. You didn’t.
But you dared not part your lips. Your groan rolled out in waves. Flowed into nothing.
I watched the drops of blood hit the floor. They mingled with the water sluicing from my hair, creating beauty.
The Rorschach of your desire.
Your shirt still hangs in the bathroom. I cannot remove it, only brush my fingers over the smooth woven cotton as I enter and leave the tub. Look at it, as I brush my teeth. Turn the light out and walk away.
Paused, hand on the frame. Watching it sway very gently in the breeze.
I want to leave it there. I want you to open the door and change into it, before you ask me for dinner.
You are gone. Leaving on reflections hanging on the wall, flowers cut and arranged in your stead.
Colors. Sights.
No sound, no you.
After I left the cemetery, I took off my blouse. Pressing my nose into it, to smother my tears. I caught magnolia, tea, incense, my sweetish natural scent.
So different from your salted territorial musk.
Stumbling and half-blind, I slid one of your freshly-laundered shirts over my head, and used it as my anchor. Lying on your bed, I felt my soul dripping onto the duvet.
You are gone.You were the love who loved me. The one who cared, who would go insane without me.
Who will bury their face in my blouse, before it is packed away for charity, upon my timely demise?
Sometimes in summer, as the long day drew toward evening and we knew we should be starting home to the farm, we’d both lie facedown on the hillside and push our faces right into the harsh dry grass and hard clodded dirt, breathing in the infinitely complex smell, hay-sweet and soil-bitter, of the warm summer earth, our earth. Then we were both Saturn’s Children… pg. 16
Even in the true wild where there were no paths we were afraid of wolf and boar, not man. Because this order had held all my life as a girl, I thought it was the way the world had always been and would be. I had not learned how peace galls men, how they gather impatient rage against it as it continues, how even while they pray the powers for peace, they work against it and make certain it will be broken and give way to battle, slaughter, rape, and waste. Of all the greater powers the one I fear the most is the one I cannot worship, the one who walks the boundary, the one who sets the ram on the ewe, and the bull on the heifer, and the sword in the farmer’s hand: Mavors, Marmor, Mars. p.30
Lavinia; by Ursula Le Guin
photo property of Viable Herbal
You were elegant in your kindness.
Majestic in your perpetual optimism.
Even as you were consumed from inside out by that cluster of voracious cells, you only blazed brighter. Your smile grew more radiant. I had to shade my eyes when you greeted me.
Light leaked from you, as it does from the windows we pass by one cold winter’s night.
Some people adored you, many loved you and a few took advantage.
Yet you loved each the same. Bountifully, joyfully.
Something I cannot do.
*
Standing in the church you loved, in which you have shed tears in many guises, I cried for you. Once you were born away in the sun, I faced the altar and wondered why I felt I could not breathe. It was hurt and anger, wrapping around my throat the way a rose circles upon itself.
Your eyes are with me.
My eyes only want an answer to why you did not get more kindness in return.
I known you want me to not hurt, to not question, to smile.
Now I can only shake. Confusion is my pillow.
A softer stone for resting my head is marble.
+
The peonies are blooming. As I watered them, my tears ran down my cheeks, adding salt to the cold gushing stream.
The ants are crawling, tickling them, as they open. You would smile and remind me everything has it’s place, it’s season.
Even and more importantly, death.
+
Before the seasons changed, I had someone who cared, someone who would hold my hand and remind me that you are fine. It is us that are not.
But he and you are both fine now.
All I have is myself.
Not enough.
Never enough.
*Dirige, Domine, Deus meus, in conspectu tuo viam meam*
My lips will not caress or embrace the sounds.
I leave it to my eyes to tell you.
That I want to run my fingers across your mouth.
Slip my hands down the front of your narrow jeans.
Hold the heart of you.
And feel it beat, beat, beat…
I have been a fan of Green Day forever.
And I like live performances.
Our lips. On each other.
Seeking out the most intimate places. The secrets that are only exposed to gain.
Digging, rooting.
Falling away then falling into.
~
Nose buried in the silky nest, mouth pressed against the generative Source. The tender puckered skin relaxing, as my saliva coats each nut.
Tickling your sac with my breath, causing you to lose yours.
Heat rising, brushing past my cheeks. Pulse of your heart under my fingertips, as my tongue traces the veins, etched from root to crown.
Slowly. Again. Again.
Again.
Until I hear the drip of your tears, swelling and running over the mushroom head.
The way I make you feel results in tears. Drops of salt and fluid that bypass your eyes and leak easily from your dick.
I pull harder, to make you cry a bit more.
Your tears. Your warm tears.
Fills my heart.
~
Warm. Soft. A boundary that beckons you.
Then you part the fleshy soft labia and it becomes a state of being–wet.
Wet.
Slick. Moist. An oasis for you to rest in, to dream.
It is not enough to use your fingers. Or your tongue.
Pushing, pushing you try to enter, to dive in the Primordial sea.
My clitoris becomes your raft, as you navigate.
Finding your way.
Then the waterfall crashes over you.
Wave after wave.
My thighs are your shore.
~
Arranged in polarity, we enter.
Here, in this place, we give and take.
Your tongue swirls, my suction increases.
Push. Closer.
You are my lungs, the way I breathe.
I take more and more of you until I am nothing by throat. Open, sounds rushing out into the damp evening air.
Taking all of you.
Erupt, as you did before when you answered to Min and flood, turning me into your arbor.
Your milk seeps into every crevice.
The pressure you exert between my thighs. You are the vacuum, the Great Attractor.
Drawing me towards you, pulling me apart on the journey to oblivion.
Over and over, I shudder and tiny slivers die.
I am unbinding. The shuttle flying fast of your mouth, undoing.
All that is left is my voice, swallowed by you.
Hold it inside of you, so that I may be reborn.
~
You are the ancient , sought by many.
Found by me.
Modeling the cosmos.
“…Amazement seized the mortal men and gods
To see the hopeless trap, deadly to men.
From her comes all the race of womankind
The deadly female race and tribe of wives
Who live with mortal men and bring them harm.”
Hesiod-Theogony/Works
~
They called her the beautiful evil. Pandora-’kalon kakon‘.
You think I am she, reincarnated as the device to hold your hate.
But I was not curious of you. It was you, that attempted to pry me open, against my clear admonition that I was more wisdom than your fragile mind could hold.
You-when you paint me in the sick hard colors of your desire, when you kneel before me and command me to fulfill your fantasies-are what that should be shut away, until you become sane.
There is a slumbering beast which threatens too pen its yellow eyes, that keeps you leashed away from kindness. Halts you from seeing my strength as only mine, not a threat to you.
Messalina. Gorgo. Sempronia. Eryxo.
Despite your efforts, we persist. In spite of the mineral that follows out of the cauldron of your soul.
+++
“Do not let a woman practice reasoned argument, that is frightful.”
-Democritus of Abdera, Fragment 110
~
It delights you, gives you a startling thrill, to think that I am not aware of the plans you have, the knots you tie while I am sleeping.
Under the cover of night, you concoct the details of your dominion.
By the flash of the noon Sun, I dismantle you. Piece by piece. As was the Parthenon, to be carted off and wondered about.
Do not offer me the lash, with the sour syrup of false praise on your lips. Cover your bared back, your flexing haunches. Cover your erect shame with the truth.
Which is:
you want to whip, not be whipped. You think I am too dim to see into it. Yet and always, I burn softly, the source of my own light.
Theano. Damo. Hypatia. Leontion.
The more you push, the better we become. Push and push again until the force of our minds washes you away, as sand goes back into the sea at high tide
+++
“We have hetaerae for pleasure, pallakae to care for our daily body’s needs and gynaekes to bear us legitimate children and to be faithful guardians of our households.”
-Demosthenes, On Wives and Heitarai , Speeches 59.122
~
Every and all things are categories for you. Neat rigid boxes into which you force spheres, pyramids, heptagons, handfuls of stars.
The nature of my gender furls into your mind. It/I/Us/Them must be contained.
You have labeled me evil, prone to fantasy and superstition. Weak and easily held by dreams and unreality.
I go to my mothers, aunts, sisters and call, for they deliver to me tools to defeat you. The magic mirror in my hand shows me what you are.
It removes the glamour you cast, unsheathes your false humility.
Maiden, Mother. Crone. Call us what you will but our ears are closed.
Thargelia, Aspasia. Phryne, Archeanassa,Thaïs.
How can anyone harness the beauty of a molecule, so artfully arranged in the terms, sp1 sp2 sp3, for such a perverted sense of self?
Not selflessness. That is a solid state utterly foreign to you.
+++
You.
I am wary, on guard.
You.
Since we crawled out of the Mind of God, you have been my unwanted adversary.
Using my love, my kindness, my physical weakness as weapons to skewer me.
Causing my heart to shrivel with neglect, for my desire to take shelter elsewhere.
You put me in a lonely cold place and denied me even the rudiments of heat.
Doesn’t even the dog get scraps at the Master’s table? Not in your house.
I have wiped my tears, bound my sorrow in my hair.
This time, the Hammer for the Witch is in my hands.
Our hands.
We watch you scream but we proceed on.
Ever on.
‘Nobody should,’ said Joel. “That’s why in the Bible the priests drew lots to determine who would conduct the ritual slaughter, and they rotated the job every month. Slaughter is dehumanizing work if you have to do it every day.”
Temple Grandin, the animal-handling expert who’s helped design many slaughterhouses, has written that it is not uncommon for full-time slaughterhouse workers to become sadistic. “Processing but a few days a month means we can actually think about what we are doing”, Joel said, “and be as careful and humane as possible.”
-The Omnivore’s Dilemma, from Chapter 12, Slaughter In a Glass Abattoir, p. 235
Count them.
3 sets of lips, moist. 3 tongues, eager to dip in, to trail along.
3 minds. 3 hearts. 3 libidos burning burning bright.
One woman, 2 men.
Single goal: Ecstasy. Via tearing through the boundaries of skin and feeling that separate, makes us discrete organic forms.
and so
2 breasts, 2 sets of pinching fingers, double shocks of delirious pain spooling.
Those nipples, hungry to be touched. To grow, to be seen.
To be.
and then
3 pairs of legs, tangled. 3 pairs of toes, digging into the sheets. 2 pairs of buttocks flexing, pumping. One grinding upwards, ever upwards.
2 hard dicks, 2 sets of tightly clenched balls, need to be drained. Along with the psyches that whispered more more more.
therefore
One pair of smooth thighs, held open. 1 hand on each side of the moist juicy cleft, spreading it. 1 dick plunging in deep. 1 finger on that hard hard clit, until it pulsed.
A cunt, weeping joy.
One cry of pleasure. 2 pending.
and that means
One hole is filled-hers that wept. As well as her wet, sucking mouth.
3 bodies in rhythmic motion. Each straining.
Until the veil begins to unravel. Warp letting go of weft until it becomes a gossamer pile of thread.
Floating floating, 3 floating.
3 bodies, releasing sweat. Releasing tension.
Collapsing.
Just as those 2 pairs of tight nutsacs did.
finally
3 limps bodies. 3 hearts, losing extra beats.
10 relaxed fingers. 6 limp legs, 6 tired arms.
3 pairs of eyelids fluttering closed.
One huge sigh.
“Curiosity. Its oldest roots in cura, meaning care.
Over time its meaning has undergone a succession of metamorphoses, from scrupulousness to ingenuity to attention unduly bestowed upon matters of inferior moment (curiosity about meats and drinks, for example) to the desire to learn or know about anything, trifles or matters that are none of one’s business, such as a curiosity to know the faults and imperfections in other men…
Also, it killed the cat.” p.182
When Thomas thrust his hand into Jesus’ side, what he really wanted to feel was his own flesh and marrow. That’s curiosity: the wish to know exactly what we’re made of and to determine how fragile we are, or mortal or even — clinging to that most romantic version of hope that’s nothing more than wishful thinking — immortal. 183
God isn’t curious. Being everything, He has no need to be.
The day wore on. Seven days from the solstice, the sun appearing to stand still in the sky. If we lived in an infinite universe, the day’s light would eventually travel back to us, and with it an image of ourselves on that very same day. 184“
You.
Experience me.
For you. With you.
In you.
Not give you what has been used by others and left, detritus along the road.
Grit in your shoe that is tossed out and cast to the winds.
—
If I tell every man who strokes my thighs that he is loved, that he is the best, then…what of you?
Must I wear my dark lips and heavily shaded eyes for all, or should I reserve those lips and eyes only for you?
The laces of my corset. The bite of my g-string. The point of my heels.
The arch of my back.
Before during and after you.
For you. With you. A gift to you.
—
What is hidden is yours.
What is secret belongs to you. With you.
All for you.
Not shared by eye, ear, finger, tongue, nose.
Not fodder for the grist of the dull knife of his imagination. Or his.
Only for you. Sharpened on the fine keen edge of your desire.
With you. Shaped to your unconscious need.
—
The joy of me is to give to you.
For you. To you.
Will you let me keep the dark inside, only to be entered by you? Is this abyss one you control?
Or must I be forced into strange shapes, follow the other mass of humanity, conform to showing what is inside to all?
Will you rip me to neat bloody pieces and arrange me, like the petrified bones you dug up in your yard, so long ago?
Into those boxes I abhor?
—
For you, I exist.
With you, I breathe.
Under you, I live.
In you.
I am.
The sunflowers I bought in your memory are fading.
In the vase, on the table, they are turning that dark red of decay.
They smell like love rotting slowly.
There is always a first.
For the Nothing gives birth to Something.
The sound of your breath, marking time.
Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa.
Your hands around breasts. Mine, always mine. Even before you realized, even after I am gone.
For they all represent Me.
I long for. You appear and Give.
Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa.
My breasts, the light in your dark.
I gave them to you, negating the primordial poison.
You ended my rage by appearing as a child, thus turning my breasts into my calm.
The skull cup you remove from my hands, the urge for the seat of life ebbs.
For you are here and we fall into each other.
Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa.
Our worship. Mutual. Spin the Universe into silky strands that slip through Time.
Apply the sandalwood paste to my breasts. Gently, tenderly.
Flowers woven though and around me, from your lips.
You fill my heart with joy.
Your hands dance against my skin. Silent, my fingers flow.
My thumb touches my index finger, the others bent softly.
Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa.
I lift my voice in praise to the Unseen God.
I am seen and blessed by you.
Thus I am Seen.
Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Dha Ni Sa.
This is my Light.
I want you.
Either I chase. Or play coy. Or forget you.
Either I dream of you in day. Or feel desire rising at dusk. Or bury my want in the tomb before its natural time.
Not clear if there is a difference between any of them.
Not clear.
I am crying over you. You are leaving.
I will not tell you about how I have soaked my pillow or of how I feel my heart is deflating with every hour closer to that day. For it would make you sad.
Every drop of moisture coming from me-sweat, spit, tears, in my exhaled breath-is in honor of you.
~~~
I
THOU hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; I forgot that there abides the old in the new, and that there also thou abidest. Through birth and death, in this world or in others, wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, the one companion of my endless life who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose the bliss of the touch of the One in the play of the many.
IV
By all means they try to hold me secure who love me in this world. But it is otherwise with thy love, which is greater than theirs, and thou keepest me free. Lest I forget them they never venture to leave me alone. But day passes by after day and thou art not seen. If I call not thee in my prayers, if I keep not thee in my heart-thy love for me still waits for my love.
V
I was not aware of the moment when I first crossed the threshold of this life. What was the power that made me open out into this vast mystery like a bud in the forest at midnight? When in the morning I looked upon the light I felt in a moment that I was no stranger in this world, that the inscrutable without name and form had taken me in its arms in the form of my own mother. Even so, in death the same unknown will appear as ever known to me. And because I love this life, I know I shall love death as well. The child cries out when from the right breast the mother takes it away to find in the very next moment its consolation in the left one.
-Rabindranath Tagore {Gitanjali, 357}
Like all heathens, I love to laugh and fritter way the Sabbath.
I asked you to chose them yourself.
Beautiful, gleaming straight razor. 5/8 extra hollow ground.
The strop. Supple, 23 inches in length.
Blindfolded. I have no interest in your eyes. Only your body.
You wait; the sound of the blade singing across the leather causing your opened mouth to run dry.
Poised. Watching the sweat spring from your pores. Your muscles tensing and releasing, tensing and releasing.
Then:
the icy feel, the sting. You slowly peel away from the edge.
Fall into the abyss.
You skin breathes thin line of crimson.
Finally:
Your mind cries.
Gratitude.
3rd of this
Hear the gentle drip of the flowers. Shedding petal after petal, each hitting the chilly sunlit tile.
Silky thuds that bring to my mind your hands on my ass, hitting until you feel the tension in your chest subside.
The flowers are part of the tableau that focuses your adoration to forces I cannot embrace.
Vous offrez à vos pensées.
I wonder if what you offer pleases them.
~ ~ ~
Coming towards me, mouth open and soft. You take my hand and I see the flash of the razor in your eyes.
You cannot give my belief; my blood will suffice.
Your mouth-your sweet soft mouth-covers the stinging wound in my right palm and sucks away the pain.
Votre offre à votre amour.
Seeking to manifest here what only exists in the heavens.
~ ~ ~
Combined with the hair of the earth and hair of your own head, the flame consumes, burning away my blood that mingles with it all.
I watch the power you harness expand in your eyes.
Make me the Queen to your King, to bring forth the Lord of the fertile land.
Hard. Sharp.Violent.
Votre offre à votre corps.
Pound my flesh into submission; subdue me as men have always trampled the gentle earth.
~ ~ ~
All is wrapped in layers of rest. The moonlight traces a silvery finger along your cheek.
I press my lips to it, hoping to absorb just a bit of that light.
You stir. Your eyes flicker open and close, as you partially breathe my name, the tail end of it pushed back into your slumber.
Your eyes swim against your lids, unseeing but full of things that drive men mad.
Votre offre à votre dévouement.
I wonder if that is enough for you.
~~~
Running though my dream scape of flowers. Huge riotous burning bright tulips, black triple peonies, double dahlias so heavy the are bowed to the earth. They call me to touch them, stroke their platonic solids.
I pull my fingers away and they are glazed with blood.
I scream in shock but you do not come.
You belong to them.
~~~
Fini.
Thoughts of you.
Circling in my head, in the manner my fellows are buffeted by their whirling passions on the second level of the Inferno.
Your smooth skin, your lean frame.
I imagine you would melt on my tongue, if I dared to taste. Sweetest cream coating my palates hard and soft .
Only to stuff myself, gorging on you in a rushed, conscious state.
Like my fellows, I look at the acorn and the water and do not partake.
Nimis -Ardenter -Forente.
+++
I sleep in torment but plead with Eunoë to bring her gifts to my waking mind.
The sight of you hits my nostrils like the bite of acetone. My teeth grind and flake away at the sound of your voice.
My soul-circling on the mountain, veering eternally between levels seven and six.
Wishing.
My body stand at the banks of Acheron, frozen. Clutching a reed of humility, fingers tingling.
Craving you.
+++
Only the brute is good at coupling, and copulation is the lyricism of the masses. To copulate is to enter into another — and the artist never emerges from himself“. -Baudelaire
Yes, I bought the entire CD. What kind of fan would I be otherwise?
Let’s do this again. The video has soaked our brains, so what about the very mundane work of making a masterpiece?
You cannot speak of it.
Without a word from you, I proceed.
Kneeling over you, I sink down on your erect dick. You did not need to touch me, for I want to moisten and lubricate and let it run down the length of you. To tangle in the silky dark bush that covers your nutsac, that swirls along the root of you and creeps towards your stomach.
The sharp pain of my barely warm cunt encasing you makes us both gasp.
So, I proceed.
I move, slightly. Those are my hips.
My mouth moves at a faster pace. That is what you want.
Reading to you, words from my past. Words that no one else knows, but me and the dawn or the dim candlelight that saw them born.
As I read to you, you relax and yet you go deeper in to me. I receive more and more until I feel you pushing against the mouth of my womb.
I try to angle away but you push me down firmly, causing me to stumble and lose my place along the words that you need so badly to hear.
The words are coming at a rapid pace, tumbling out of my lips and cracking against your eardrums. You clench your jaw to keep the sounds in but they are leaking out, like smoke from a chimney on a cold, cold day.
For every story I share, you give me an orgasm. You hold tightly to my wrists, so that I keep my place and do not drop my book.
My book. A secret journal. The thing that binds us to your fantasies and my heart.
Because you cannot speak, I do.
I use my mouth to push sounds from my reality into yours. My pussy talks to you, as it gets wetter and wetter, coaxing you to get harder than you imagined you could.
I cry out, as you make me come more and more.
You feel my hair brush against the tops of your thighs, as I bow backwards.
The serpent that I have heard of but not seen unwinds and shoots up, it head pushing out of my mouth. My breath pushes past it, bees buzzing as they are released from the hive of my soul.
Because I must, I pull back from the eternity you flung me into and keep reading. The words are blurry to my eyes but I can recite them from the memories craved in my skull.
So, I proceed.
I must push you to where I just emerged from.
I proceed until you are there, trapped; my name steaming in the crisp air of the darkened room.
1st of this
2nd of this
The air is chilly. Your voice floats through it, to my ears.
You want me to come out, into the velvet night.
Drawing a steady breath, I join you. The smoke from flickering candles hangs just above our heads.
Hair unbound, bare as you were in the womb, you motion me to stop and stand still.
Vous cherchez ce que je n’ai pas.
My mouth tastes of dead animal flesh and sweet bone marrow.
***
What use am I to you? My skepticism is swirling off my chest, tendrils reaching for your heart.
Softly, you tell me to remove my clothes but maintain my distance from you.
The wind is making zippers of my skin-chill bumps flashing up and across.
Vous cherchez ce que je ne vois pas.
I close my eyes to fall into the rhythm of your words. But I float just on top of the stream.
***
You reach the end, voice rising and falling like the tide.
The candle in your hand is extinguished and carefully set on the stone at your feet.
Steam rises subtly from your skin, sweat evaporating to join the eternal miasma.
Vous cherchez ce que je n’entends pas.
You break your circle and fall upon me, the grass jabbing the bottoms of my feet.
***
Your tongue is hard and insistent. You fingers pinch and twist.
You ask if I love you.
I answer by enveloping your eager cock in my mouth.
Vous cherchez ce que je ne veux pas.
Your slip your fingers in and out of my cunt, to match the speed of my suction.
***
I push you forward. Shaking with drawn energy, you expel and fill my throat.
Your cry of release strikes the air like crows on a cloudy day.
Inside, you are empty, washed clean. A proper vessel to offer adoration.
Vous cherchez ce que je n’ai pas besoin.
I am filled with you and with a bitter longing to be part of you.
***
You penetrate and cut me, oblivious of the wounds I bear.
Vous avez besoin de ce que je n’ai pas.
***
My dreams are sharp, sudden. I walk through a field of blooming flowers. Some are without leaves, others without bulbs.
Tired, anxious to get home. Stopped at the store, anyway.
Running my hands along the tops the neatly folded stacks of crisp denim, I grabbed a few pairs. I ignored the chipper, chattering sales clerk and headed for the dressing room. My size is always in stock; slim. Lightening-fast metabolism attributes to persistent ability to wear my jeans a few inches above the promised dick land.
Dropping my bag off my shoulder onto the supposedly soothing marbled clue carpet, I heard a chirp of a text on a phone and a resulting chuckle. Someone is amused.
Great for them.
Kick off shoes. Easily, I was out of my pair and into the new ones. Freeballing has its benefits.
Need to see full body view, so I slipped out my glossy rectangle into the center area, to the three-way mirror.
I looked good. These sit just a bit lower across the hips. Yeah.
Then I saw him. Standing in the room opposite me, watching from the door.
I watched back.
Steadily, he held my gaze. Sleepy grey eyes, dark hair curling at the collar, lips just a bit thin. Angular face, clean-shaven. tanned. Looked like real island trip version, not safety sun from a can. A bit taller than average height.
He smiled, ever so briefly. His parents sprang for the ortho work back in high school, obviously.
Then he unbuttoned his jeans. Slides them down his hips, lets them fall. Steps out of them.
No underwear. Not worried that someone besides me will see him, either.
Nice size package, low hangers. Natural untrimmed pubes.
Smoothly, he shook out his new pair, bent a bit and stepped into them. His gaze never left mine.
Shifting his cock to be comfortable, he zipped up, smoothed his hands down his thighs halfway. Just a slight edging up of his lips, on the right side.
He walked forward, stood next to me. I slowly let my eyes trail from his face to his shoulders, down his smooth chest and along his defined lean abs. He had that line of dark hair from his belly button to his bush that I love so well.
I paused at his cock, looked up into his eyes.
Desire hit me. Felt it in my gut, caused my balls to tighten and my cock to grow.
Moving away, I stepped into my rectangle. He came right after, as if we were tied together already.
Backed against the inadequate mirror, balanced with one foot on my bag, I braced on hand on his right shoulder, the other at his waist.
I opened my mouth to his and the world bloomed.
1st of this
Curious, I watch you. Chanting, burning, offering, pleading.
An interaction I do not share. It pains me to share you.
You open your heart and mind to them, laying bare your need. You toss your love at their feet like runes across the ice.
Vous êtes en leur offrant des choses que je veux.
Those things are yours to give, not mine to take.
- – -
You tell me, once you have bathed and come back to the present world, that it is not my job to give. I was made to receive. You.
I hide my gaze, but my face betrays my thought. Slipping close, you cup the back of my head and press your lips to my chin. Next, my lips, and then my eyes.
Your fingertips brush a path along my jaw, down my throat and to my nipples, which you pinch. Not ready for you, I gasp at the pain.
You do not stop. I am to yield, to receive, to be filled.
Your tenderness is not with us now, in your bed.
Vous avez donné que, aussi bien.
They can resist you, turn away from you. I cannot.
- – -
I try to look away, to turn my gaze inward. You hold my face in both hands and say it only once, “look at me.”
To remind me to soften, to take, you mix the pain with pleasure.
Supine, the constant pressure and twisting of my tender nipples is mingled with your sweet kisses. The rhythmic bump of your cockhead against my slippery clit pushes me towards joy, while the increasing pain on your teeth on my breast pulls me away.
Vous donner que pour moi.
Then you position my hands, to spread my pussy lips open. Your eyes go from there to my face and you say “Show me the pearl of the world.”
—
A ritual played out in many places, in many ages.
The blade plunges into the chalice. Wine and water are poured into the ceremonial cup to be received by the faithful. A flame is lit and burn with the curved confines of metal.
You enter and retreat, over and over, as I furiously rub my clit. To do as you asked.
Words fail me, and I fight to keep my eyes on you, fight to let go, fight to obey.
I accept the spasms, the length of you, the flood of your release.
I am your saving cup and your altar.
Que je donne à vous.
The pearl gleams, as you gently caress it and I start to cry. Yielding tears from my eyes and my cunt.
You rest your left hand on my chest and feel my heart leap into your hand.
—
I am seduced by stories of gods and giants. In my dreams, I chase and chase.
The moon is sending such light through the lace curtains.
Looking over my shoulder, your pale skin gleams in that light.
Your nails dig into my soft hips, as your teeth press against my shoulder.
Your cock impales me and like the moon, I am hanging in the dark sky.
I do not believe in the things you tell me are real. I only trust what I can see, taste, touch, feel, smell.
I see your eyes, flaring brightly when I drop my towel to step into the shower.
Thus, they-your eyes, my skin, the hot water- are real.
As well as the taste of oranges still clinging to your lips in the morning. The feel of your hand, as you hook the back of my jeans and yank me to you, to diffuse your tension after I have been gone with answering my phone for three days. That is real.
You, pushing my legs open until it hurts, that is tangible. The smell of your semen in my panties, when I take them off to clean them, that is a reality I cannot deny.
You are not ashamed of your views, your attachment to the mystical in a rational, orderly world.
Vous y croire, il doit être réel.
Incense lit, flowers laid just so, your words the proper offering for your deities.
~~~
When you walked away, I stood there. Waiting. Not to be seen as an interloper but to feel even a small part of the power that to step into, that flows around your ankles like water.
Water is wet, leaves a stain, dampness. No such evidence exists on you.
I only feel that power through your will.
Your determination to fuck me so hard that long after the moment has passed, every step I take echoes with soreness. The sting of urination, as I gingerly angle to relieve myself and fail, wincing from the sensation. Tender abraded pussy combined with warm piss.
Je me sens, donc elle doit être réel.
Water runs, soap rinses away. Wringing out my red panties, hanging them to dry on the shower rail.
~~~
Walking softly past, I do not call attention to myself, as you concentrate in your worship.
I crept into your bed, to wait, to dream, to pretend you worshiped me. But only pretend, for I cannot abide being more than I am.
They have your soul. Your body turns back to me.
As Zeus descending, I am your Leda, Io, Semele, Niobe.
I wanted to be Mnemosyne. Strong with you, strong without you. But my frail flesh betrays my will and flees to you.
All I know of staves, wands, rods-is the one you wield.
Persistently, often roughly, you command me. Pushing, ramming, stabbing, plunging.
J’ai le sentiment que vous. Vous devez être réel.
You call my name when you come. That makes me real, makes me true.
~~~
I close my eyes when we are done and dream of what it must be like to be your god.
I want to lick away the sweat that pours off you.
It is as abundant as the moisture flowing down my thighs.
I eat bread.
You eat my ass.
I eat fruit.
You eat my cunt.
Your desire and devotion are treats sitting in the cupboard.
Who’s cravings in the middle of the night are going to triumph?
I have heard that when wise women set spells in knots, they stay until the knot is undone.
But we are all bound to something, scared or secular.
Here is food for thought on the feminine and the draw towards religion.
Some knots seem to never be broken.
Human hair-a strand- is said to be able to hold as much as 100 grams in weight before it snaps.
That was what drew me to you; your hair. It was so vibrant, full of life, long and shiny.
It moved and swirled about regardless of your will or temperament.
When I would get up in the dark to go to the bathroom, I had to be careful, for I would get tangled in it and pull you awake.
You would mumble “ouch”, as you feel back into the abyss of sleep, dreaming.
Hair is said to grow about a centimetre every 30 days.
Your hair smelled of aloe and whatever else you used to tame it. Sometimes it held your cologne.
I would hold it away from your face, when you were over me, so that I could see your face in the dusk.
Falling around us, it create a universe with a world, just for us.
I would dig my fingers in it when I kissed you, as the sweat dried upon our bodies.
Hair is thought to grow to riotous lengths if it is uncut.
I would watch you wash it, comb it. See it snake down your back, as you emerged from the shower.
When it dried to it’s natural luster, it fell past your hips.
Once, you leaned into me and asked if I loved you. If I truly cared.
I embraced you and your hair and reminded you that I did.
Hair is thought to fall out after a life cycle of 4 years.
I knew we did not have much time, so I bended and twisted to make time for you.
When you would grab my hips from behind, you would bury your face in my hair and tell me dear things.
Such as how enticing the curve of my ass was, how looking at me made you happy. And hard.
That I reminded you of something you lost, that I gave you rest.
Hair is said to be able to support 2 tonnes of weight- if a full head is combined and braided.
It did not matter how much we liked each other, for we have different cycles of life to complete.
You needed something I cannot give; I wanted something you cannot offer.
It did not matter when we were naked, close, touching.
Grinding into each other. Chasing the time away.
Blindfolded, you wait.
Fingertips digging into the bedspread.
I cough, then wrap my fingers in your hair. My weight settles on your chest, then your face.
Eagerly, you open your mouth. Your tongue lashes my silken folds.
I verbally correct you.
That is not your purpose.
For now, I grind your inadequacy in your face.
You absorb the salt, the stickiness. You drink in the humiliation.
You are my water, my soap, my washcloth.
Things to be used and discarded.
Hungry, you call for me. No response.
You go room to room.
I am not there.
My phone goes unanswered, messages are not returned.
You feel ignored.
Nervous, you call others, timidly asking if they know where I am.
They do not. One even snorts and hangs up on you, not dignifying your request with even a dismissal.
Eventually, you go to bed. Stomach gnawing in more than one way.
You drift, fingers twitching, wanting to cradle my engorged mammary.
Suddenly, you feel my weight, straddling you, knocking you from your uneasy slumber.
Silently, you stare up at me. Angry, horny, lonely, eager.
Pulling off my sweater, taking off my shirt, I am stripped to a bra and tank top.
My areolas are outlined, in the damp circles from my leaking milk.
Your cock springs to life, causing you to gasp.
Reaching your hands for me caused your face to get slapped the last time, so you wait.
Slowly I take off my top and bra.
I stuff the damp part of one of the cups in your mouth and command you to suck it.
You do. You do anything I tell you to.
With a small smile, I replace the fabric with my right nipple.
Then I switch, allowing you to drain the other breast.
Content and full, you ask me why I was not home when you arrived.
I slap your mouth as my reply.
Your training never ends.
I.
It is windy and wet. The temperature is falling. I went and stood in the middle of the street.
No one drove by, the birds are tucked away for the night. Even the ghosts have crept back to their crypts.
My hair, a sodden tangle, hangs around me, wishing to be fastened into a noose.
For my neck only.
Such a personal thing that should not ever be transferred, unlike a candle flame.
II.
I nod and tell others I am well. My laughter cuts my mouth as I expel it, sharp slivers of gaiety that have no meaning.
No truth.
I look for that elusive truth. In the deep soulful eyes of that one, in the strong supple hands of the other one- his black painted fingernails gleaming like a beetle’s carapace. It is not in the puffed lips of him or in the riotous long hair of him either.
Nor is it find with the tender yearning of this one, the harsh promises of that one. Not even the turgid cock of the favored one, dripping cum like a faucet in the barn, holds it.
III.
Offers of flesh, fidelity, debauchery, submission, cruelty, gentleness, lust, desire. All the same: Nothing.
Syllables that can be arranged in any and all ways but equal a simple word: non.
IV.
To touch someone, is to caress warmth frozen by my breath and reduced to stone and watch it crumble with each stroke of my fingers. Wind and time converge and condense, wearing them all away in the twinkling of an eye. They receive the rapture at my cold hands. Could we have known?
V.
I am trapped, struggling to break through this looking glass that has been ground for me. My mouth belches out words in water-that same water falling from the skies that I stood in. My eyes are fixed upon the moving forms that cannot see me. Nor do they wish to do so, for who among them is strong enough to gaze into nothing?
VI.
My heart is ashes, pumping dust through the thin plaster shell of my body. My eyes leak trails of sand, such tiny grains of silica, down my carefully composed cheeks.
I wait for the wind, that pushes the rain, which will one day disassemble me and blow me back to you.
I sent forth a tendril of now into the past.
It was sent back to me; diseased, angered, sour.
A sensible sadist- wise man, he-told me never to cry in front of a man.
I did not have to fear that I would, for the well is dry and filled with heavy dust.
The tendril of inquiry snapped gently, as I walked over its decaying frame.
Like the stones placed in the pockets of witches during the Bad Times…
Like the chains on slaves that were tossed over board off the Ivory Coasts…
Like the rocks which taunted Adam as he tried to furrow the fields on the wrong side of Paradise…
you weigh me down.
You whine, you beg, you plead. For any scraps from the table.
I arrive, you kneel.
Your mouth opens to receive his cock, to moisten it for entry.
It is your task to guide his erect member into me.
Shaking with desire, burning with envy, clenching your bowels in fear of shatting yourself, you obey.
You gently cradle his massive nutsac. Marveling at the amount of cum you will swallow.
There you wait, your micro cock straining in your chastity device.
Finally, your reward.
Hurriedly, you remove his tool and wrap your lips around the head, each hot spurt racing down your throat.
But your joy quickly diminishes.
My eyes are bored, glazed.
Tired.
Of you.
 | Mina on Twisted |
 | Liras on Next to last |
| Liras on Console |
| Liras on Superficial |
 | vanimp on Next to last |
