I want his digits

…Those hands, those hands, those hands…

Those hands build things. Those hands make things, draw things, paint things, do things. Those are the hands of a pursuer, a doer, a shaker and a bustler. Those are the hands that leave wounds on brambles.

Those are the hands of a fighter. 

Those are hands of a guerilla artist, a craftsman, a challenger.

Hands. That. Do.

Hands that are dense with the scars of doing. 

Hands branded with wear, etched with exploitation, hands that are real because they made choices. 

Hands that are nimble from the constant movement, hands that are electric with inspiration.

I want those hands jammed up into my slippery, craving cunt.

I want those hands yoking the nape of my neck, knotting knuckles in my hair.

I want those hands grappling all my flesh, searing urgent red imprints all over my whiteness.

I want those hands probing the open welcome of my mouth, want those hands spreading the cleave of my ass, want those hands slowly rounding the winds of my curves.

I want those hands translating their vigor into my mounds, into my psyche, into the tender roves of my thighs.

                        I want those hands to steel my nerves.

I want those hands to do what they do: unapologetically, willfully, mightily, consuming and absolving.

I want those hands to clutch my body with a definition I’ve never felt before.

I want those hands hungrily digesting my figure; want those hands to chisel carnal hysteria from my motions.

Those hands, those hands that do.

I want them on me, in me, under me, spellbinding me. I want them obsessed with playing my body like a melody that won’t stop coursing through his fingertips. 

Adoration; an idea.

He had infiltrated, dissolved into her pores. The heat between their bodies lingered like a residue of memory, haloing her silhouette with the desire of what she couldn’t have.

He had lines of a Grecian statue and eyes made of the painful blue truths of the universe. His fingertips were youth incarnate. His torso, the athletic hinge from which all his strength surged.

He was a figure of design so sophisticated that time could not tarnish it.

She considered Fate a merciful planner. They had met in the twilight of his prime and the crescendo of hers. To meet him any earlier would have meant a quicker death, as the fragile tapestry of the shore cannot withstand the thrashing of the tide. The blatant vitality of his younger years consumed everything it touched and in early development her perceptions lacked their current precision. Between these two facts of time past—the force of his intellectual and physical charms and the naiveté of her intuition and romanticism—he would have flooded all her resolve, like the sun blotting out the retinas of the fool who stares at it directly. Fate had been kind by orchestrating their meeting after experience had granted her steelier wits and had tempered his attractiveness into something less intimidating.

Hours, decades, infinity.  

She wanted to savor the soft fur of his belly, careening her lips and nostrils over him, satiating taste and smell in one long, winding gesture. His body made her vividly aware of an ideal she harbored at the core of her identity: adoration. She craved to smolder feelings through her caresses, transcribe longing in laps of her tongue, probe the poles of his body until she had understood and blessed all the subtleties of its landscape. She sought this for adoration—the ideal of loving so completely the self becomes secondary, drowned in the celebration of an external. To adore him like no one else could, she awoke the heroine inside herself.

It was in this waking that she saw more clearly, the world was a flux of ideas, the most unblemished of such were ideals worth fighting and dying for.

Entombed inside the ideal of adoration, lay the ideal of perpetual defense. The adage that one is “a lover and not a fighter” is not true: to love something is to fight for something.  To adore something so purely one must be willing to combat for its significance and survival; to adore an idea so thoroughly, belief in its existences means being incapable of ever turning away from it. The catholic martyrs throughout the ages, dying in adoration of their Christ, intimately knew this dichotomy of adoration and defense.  In the core of such dedication is the spirit of a fighter unwilling to relent on her belief in an idea; an adoration so steady and focused that dying in the name of this dedication is the only option. To do anything else would mean having to release this adoration into the atmosphere, let it diffuse and lose it power. Adoring is equally an act of aggression as much as an act of romance; it forcefully creates meaning in an otherwise lax and meaningless world. To harbor adoration for anything or anyone creates the deepest groove of significance, a depth so profound one is willing to defend the adored to one’s death.

That was how she felt when she thought of him. She adored the expansive quality of their relationship, the sprawling freedom they allowed each other in their movements and commitments. He injected his stylized capriciousness into their connection and the intoxicating swirls of its uncertainty demanded independence and receptivity. She adored what he was to her—stripped of gender, status, age, cultural conventions—he was a human and a god, a precocious boy and a seasoned man, an unrepentant warrior and a compassionate forgiver. In his skin, lay the entire spectrum of human possibility; in his heart, the culmination of emotions for epic tragedies and comedies alike.

She could see this in him from the initial moments of their introductions. This foresight sent her down the path of adoration, and with each successive step the impetus to defend him swelled. The adoration that latched onto him upheaved her heroine in all its irrational grandeur. He was a kaleidoscope of wonder and idealism, a prism of never-ending potential, and she could not being fatally inspired and vowing to safeguard him eternally.

A letter to my lover, on the 1 year anniversary of our sex

My love,

The mysterious has always intrigued me. If there is depth beyond the obvious, I want to keep staring deeply into it, dumbfounded with its complexity. To feel stupid, I think, is the quintessential situation in which I feel most vibrantly alive. It’s an experience that humbles and simultaneously terrifies me.

That’s what happens, I think, when you make me cum the way you do. I become beautifully and frighteningly stupid.

I’ve never cried from orgasm before. But I think that experience is really just a concise example of what happens almost all the time when we have sex: I’ve never before felt what I feel when we have sex. Crying is just one manifestation of your unique effect on me.

You overwhelm me.

Mentally, emotionally, physically when we do the sexual things that we do. It is so much sensation that you overwhelm me spiritually too. I used to play around with this idea of “overwhelmed-ness” in a lot of my past sexual shenanigans. That sense of overwhelmed-ness is probably what compelled me to explore D/s in the first place, although in the initial stages I didn’t have the language or experiences to corroborate that hunch. The idea of a dominant completely trumping my rationality and my body in sexual acts seemed to encapsulate something that every part of my being desires.

But rough sex and power exchange are only small dimensions of this ethereal yearning of “overwhelmed-ness”. Those experiences were both enjoyable and worthwhile but they never seemed to penetrate as deeply as my experiences with you. What’s interesting is that I never even knew I was missing such a critical understanding of sex until we started having it. Kink and BDSM infused so much joy and profundity to my life that I couldn’t imagine there being “more”.

Our sex is “more” and when it’s happening I’m almost always rendered inarticulate while simultaneously being flooded with intense intuitions and sensations. It’s as if all the secrets of the universe course through your body into mine but I literally have no tools to convey any of it.

It’s in this way that our sex brings me to the pinnacles and pains of mortality. To be able to feel the immense pleasure you give me, I have to have a body. I have to accept there are parts of this body that I can’t activate the way that you can (such as hitting my gspot just so), so I have to accept that pleasure is partially dependent on a partner. When you make me cum, it literally feels like energy is surging through all of me, in my cunt and out my mouth, in my ass and through my scalp. It feels like I’m drowning in too much of everything. It feels like your hands and cock and kisses are portals to things I can’t understand—the catalysis that start a trans-dimensional revolution that I didn’t see coming.

But after all that pleasure, you overwhelm me to the fringe of my mortality. And what I mean by that is that I become acutely aware that our sex is a bodily act that represents something “beyond the body”, something spiritual and electric, something bigger than being human. To reach this understanding immediately post-orgasm, just makes me shake with unease: we have fatal conditions called humanity. That’s why I cry: the sheer magnitude of that realization cripples me. There is so much I don’t understand in this universe and even something as mundane and essential as sex has depths that I know nothing about. Post-glow, sometimes, I feel acutely how insignificant I am within the larger picture, probably because while orgasming I am so totally swept up into pleasure that I feel like all of me has merged with the environment. That is not to say I don’t feel necessary in this universe, just so insignificant my smallness becomes terrifying.

These ideas seem so far away from sex. Who thinks of death and the excruciating meaning of life nanoseconds after cumming? I guess I do, even if I don’t do it deliberately. I think this is the primary reason why I cried yesterday. It was this feeling of “it’s over” and the ultimate “it’s over” is death and somehow this sense of hopeless momentum dragged up the awareness of fatality.

You had mentioned something about being vulnerable yesterday and maybe that’s a secondary part. The feeling of vulnerability is most concentrated on the realization that my experience of our sex is not the same as your experience as our sex. Of course, this is a phenomenon that happens in every context and happens to everyone. For me though, the depths of feelings, ideals, ideas, and symbolisms that our sex conjures in me make me feel nearly hysterical: the depth makes me feel achingly alone and desperate to try to explain it afterwards.

You experience the sex differently, of course.  And I know on an intellectual level that this difference in experiences doesn’t mean you don’t highly value our sex in a similar fashion to the way that I do.

It’s just sometimes when I am gripped with tears, riddled with intangible syllables, overpowered by the limited precision of my perceptions, I feel very much like a crazy bat-shit-insane freak for crying when it’s something as simple as friction between your parts and mine.

I realize now that I guess I have always had an inherent desire to digest and symbolize my experiences after they’ve occurred. In a way, it is not enough to just experience them. I want to unpack them, explain them and transcribe them.

Even if it hurts or proves to be impossible.

Explaining what our sex does to me is kind of a vanity venture: it’s a subjective experience that even with the most sophisticated of metaphors will always just be my experience. I have a hard time deciphering if this is a neurotic impulse or a creative one. Perhaps it’s both.

This is also where I feel vulnerable: my impulse to share and pick apart all the layers of moods that happen in our sex is something that makes me worry that you’ll get annoyed with it. Sex is sensation and a lot of it is immediate. I wonder what it’s like for you to fuck ever inquisitive, listless me: "why does it feel so good? How is this happening? I don’t understand I don’t understand I don’t understand!"[1]

Those are statements that float in and out of our rhythms and they are exactly the kinds of ideas that I try to tease apart when we’re away from each other. I don’t understand how our sex does what it does. I don’t understand how the sexual acts I’ve employed my whole adult life never manifested the kind of spiritual portal your body and my body create together. I’m so deeply affected by the caliber of our time together that it always extends for days and hours after the climax. I honestly have never experienced anything as profoundly awe-inspiring as this.

And part of my vulnerability and hence worry is that my pre-occupation with HOW THE FUCK DOES THIS FEEL SO GOOD is going to be spoil the pleasure for you, that my constant inquiries have left the realm of quaint for pestering.
I don’t think that’s the case, but sometimes, because I often feel capitulated into so many directions at once during our sex, I worry that you’ve peeved I can’t just accept being within the just the immediacy of the moment.

I’ve never experienced physical intimacy like our sex, K. I’ve always thought of intimacy as “closeness”. And I still think closeness is the foundation of that word. But something so unexpected has happened. In the closeness of our sex, there is such a colossal expansiveness. Our sex constellates every aspect of my self—mind, body, spirit—and it’s in this constellation that I realize that intimacy is not just about the duality of you and I. Intimacy is also an submerging into things that extend beyond sense perception and it’s in that immersion that everything is connected to everything. Everything melds in vibrations of pleasure, everything breathes.

It’s not just me and you. And it’s not just one moment on my couch. Our sex transcends so much of what I understand to be existence. It connects me to something higher. And sometimes I am so overwhelmed by it, so overwhelmed by you, that all I can manage to do is embrace how I feel and cry.

I love you, so, so, so, so, much. I don’t understand how you do what you do to me but I don’t ever want you to stop.

-C

[1] I just realized: I love it when you answer/respond to these statements while we’re fucking. I LOVE it when you say things like “Because you love me”, “Because I’m fucking your brain”, etc. One time you whispered in my ear “Because this is the meaning of life” and every nerve on my body washed over with your words. Seriously one of the sexiest moments ever. Can we play around with this idea more? When I start crooning that I don’t understand how it feels so good, tell me something like “It’s because I’m the sexiest man you’ve ever seen” and I swear to god, I might instantly cum!

An afternoon confession

I want to rummage through his flesh, ripping out kisses and cravings in disastrous sweeps of carnality. 

I want to get lost inside the molecules of his taste as it smears all around my lips and tongue. 

I want to seal him in my solace, let him unravel in my greedy hands, drink him whole and devour his name. 

I want the pressure of his strength careened hard against my ribs, pelvis, womb. 

I want the stare of hunger to be yanked from his eyes when he looks at me. 

I want to make the man second guess himself, to forget that I am dangerous, a fox in chick clothing. 

Power & sex; I want these laced with him, make him weep with desirous starvation. 

I want to seal him into a cocoon of my affection, roll him sweetly in my daydreams and fondlings. 

I want his body to be a post to scratch, an alter to bless, a bruise to kiss, a wound to dress. 

I want him on me, in me, under my undulating hips,

Lips twisted with lips

Fists upon wrists

Aggression and bliss

...exactly this

I want nothing to do with what's necessary. 

I want everything to be loud and impossible. 

Implode-able, explode-able

Volatile me chasing magnetic you

Drunk for days on a name

That I will never get to moan out loud. 

A wish said to the wind

A whisper with no ears to prey on.   

Jealousy; exercise of social familiarity

(written 4/10/2012)

It floods me. It wipes my compassion clean like a day old baguette mercilessly sopping up gravy. All the tender crevices of poorly protected sore spots are smothered to near irreparable disarray as it course through my bloodstream.  The lot of my triggers is tripped. And when it’s coated all my insides, thick and sloppy, I am stunned into my impressionable, vulnerable mortality.

Nothing ever permeates to such an emotional pitch as coagulated jealousy.  And nothing has ever glittered quiet as magnificently as the pinnacle beacon of my stylized loving. Where there is love, there is jealousy, trumping on toes of adoring resolve. Elemental but compelling, my emotional terrain blossoms like a 2 year old psyche.

From here, tucked under the linens of familiar blankets while nestled on reliability of my couch, it should be safe. A million miles of virtual space fortified by hundreds of actualized mileage stretched between you and me. From here, you cannot see or hear me; you cannot smell if I am recently showered or if I’ve eaten too much garlic. From the fortress of my cocoon couch, safety from your influence seems steadfast. Oh, couch, my enclosure of anonymity.

Despite the padding of distance, it’s the silence that’s the loudest scream, penetrating so deep, nerve fibers repeatedly loop negative feedback for weeks after week. You cannot see or hear me nor know if I’ve refused to shower. But it’s vibrant with all the virtual mileage and three dimensional space sledge-hammered between me: a screaming, sustained silence of disconnect. Disinterest. Dislike. I can hear you the most clearly when you say nothing at all. Your message dissolves my protections. What space, what couch, what blanket.

Secrets & taboos

...I want to tell you a secret...

...because I want to gauge reaction to something I'm interested in writing about/exploring.

Recently, something really unexpected but very, very hot made its way into my sex life. I’ve found myself role-playing with a friend in a very sexualized manner. Our relationship is extremely flirtatious, very explicitly honest and yet only on the cusp of concretely sexual. We have made out and groped each other but never had sex (...that's a complex story as to why. But it's mostly because we looooove the prolonged tension.)

Today we had phone sex. And it was one of the hottest, most psychologically intense experiences I've had in a long time.

It's because he was a little boy and I was Mommy.

To hear all that vulnerability in his voice, to hear that perverse mixture of arousal and tension because we’re playing with such dangerous ideas was so fucking hot. Words cannot encapsulate this. It was just so incredibly sexy for him to ask mommy if he could cum and responding with “Yes, baby, cum for Mommy. Be a good boy and let Mommy hear you cum baby….”

This is so taboo. Like the ultimate incest taboo.

I've spent a long time in BDSM cyber circles and the Daddy/girl dynamic is alive and well. People identify as "Daddies" or "baby girls"; those are viable labels in such social networks like Fetlife (that's like kinky Facebook, if you didn't know). In broader strokes, "dominant male/submissive female" is overwhelmingly the most prevalent and seemly accepted dynamic. Mommies and little boys seem so few and far between in what I've come across. There is no option to label yourself as "Mommy" or "baby boy" on Fetlife, despite being a kink-website with a multitude of options for specifying your quirks. As such, the Mommy/boy dynamic seems to be sequestered out of the public view, even amongst the kinksters. The “Mommies” I have seen appear to actually look like real life mommies: overweight, saddle-bag titted, matronly and old.

This is not me. I'm 29, vivacious and have an ass like granite.

To be a mommy seems freakish, even among the freaks. To be a little boy seems pathetic and less cherished than being a “baby girl” to her adoring “Daddy”.  And that is not what my very-sophisticated-friend-turned-momentary-little-boy feels like at all to me. I love him for his strength, his intuitive ability to handle the many layers of the human psyche, his independence and his mind's flexibility. To have him personify the complete opposite of himself--to be timid, to forfeit all his worldly experience--is what makes it so fucking hot. It's hot to expose a side of him I didn't know he had.

I really want to go down this twisted-as-fuck road. To allow it to shake up my morals, drag me out of my comfort zone, and bond—on such an eccentric and intimate level—with someone else. To write about it, expose it, savor it, exploit it.

But, it's hard for me to place this experience, hard for me to conceptualize its appeal to people beyond myself. "Dominant female" is something that fits me better as I grow; I've developed beyond the original naiveté I possessed when I first started exploring submission and BDSM. But Mommy? I never thought I could find myself fleshing out that role--coddling the vulnerability of a grown man, pretending to make his sexuality something new and delicate and off limits and getting soooooooo wet doing it.

My kinks are evolving and something about it is a little unnerving; I am on such feral and psychologically penetrating territory. It’s a little scary.

But I suppose the one thing that has stayed so steadfast in all my time exploring my kinks is this: fear makes me wet.

Atomic Anal & Other Deaths by Pleasure

If I could knight his dick with any name, it’d be “Atom Smasher”.

 

It’s because so often his cock insides me conjures a feeling of “undoing”, of being so utterly riddled with pleasure that the very molecules of my body will combust. I’ve straddled his cock and rocketed into my umpteenth orgasm and then skidded to a halt mid-thrust. He looks at me with that adoring face—that face that makes my heart skip—and asks me if I’m okay, if I’m in pain. It’s never ever pain that stops me. It’s the distinct sensation that I’m about to lose all control. Lose command of my everything and become a sweaty heap of guttural moans, contorted expressions, and permanently forfeit the ability to form declarative sentences. When I stop, it’s only because my next orgasm is imminent and I sincerely can’t contextualize whether or not I can die from such intensity. When I’m on top of his cock like that, it’s feels so good the ends of my hair seem to be singing. When I’m on top of his cock like that, it’s feels like my entire body is about to completely dissipate, dissolve, nullify itself because bodies aren’t made to withstand the magnitude of that kind of pleasure.

But really, when we’re fucking, when I am gasping and idiotic and hell bent on orgasmic suicide, I just call his cock “Magic”.

Magic Cock, in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass. OH FUCKING CHRIST. My motherfucking ass. There was no way either one of us could have known when we first met that his cock was made for my ass. The first time we had sex, it happened to be anal and it was like I had never had an orgasm before. Anal sex is not necessarily a frequent landmark of my past: yeah, booty sex happened but not with such frequency and vigor. This man puts his cock in my ass and my whole being seizures, flushes, grinds like no tomorrow. He makes me shameless, undulating greedily in a cesspool of sensation. My pussy swells with so much pink arousal it’s like it’s in full bloom. I seep down between my cheeks. I get so wet we seldom have to use lube.

Magic Cock Atom Smasher, my favorite cock in the world.

He tells me that when I cum I always look so surprised. As if I didn’t see it coming. As if I’m a beginner to this newfangled world of sex. But it’s true. I’m flabbergasted by his ability to make me orgasm so lethally. I’ve been carrying this booty around for nearly 30 years: when the hell did the secret extra clit appear in there?! He jams his cock so deep inside my asshole, pushing to the hilt. While I slow-grind in overstimulation I can’t stop from pouting over and over again “I don’t understand, I don’t understand, I don’t understand! Why does it feel sooooooooo good? Why, why, why, whyyyy?”

Why, baby? How, baby? How is your cock made of magic?

He humors me with answers, sometimes, as I’m humping and frenzying on about not understand my own body’s capacities for pleasure. Later on, he sends me links about female anatomy and how the internal structure of the clit is a much bigger, dynamic set of nerves than just my pink nub. He plunges in extra deep and moans in my ear “Because I’m fucking your clit, baby”. He’s severing my most sensitive and blissful parts in half. I slide back down onto him and he whispers to me sweetly “….Because you love me…”

Oh. Yeah.

Yes, that.

I love him. Adore him. Get so oozy with oxytocin the minute he’s in my line of vision. He makes me feel so safe, so secure, so sexy with his words and caresses. More than that, he gives me so much space to be myself and that just makes me want to get close, close, close to him. He’s one of the sweetest souls to ever touch me and that’s why it’s so hot when he drops his guard a little and roughs me up. When he digs his teeth into the honey spot of my neck, when he yanks me by my hair, when he grunts and groans and penetrates me mercilessly when he’s so close to cumming. All of that’s sexy. When he cooks me the perfect steak, massages my aching muscles when I overdid it lifting, when he strokes my hair and kisses my forehead post-glow. All of that’s sexy. When we talk about the laws of physics and the quirks of perception after he’s brutalized my ass with spankings and poundings. All of that’s sexy. All these things accrue into one undeniable imprint: I love him for possessing so many facets, for his sweeping mind and open heart, for having the ability to get me to thaw.

He makes me relax and melt down my thighs.

I like our sex best of all because we never know what’s going to happen. We just follow the sensations, with no rush or predetermined destination.  It’s about exploration, about experimenting with the pressure and position of our mouths and hands and genitalia. The way he looks at me when we explore like that makes me feel so beautiful, so coveted, so valuable. He gazes up at me while he’s slowly working his fist into my pussy like I’m the most blessed, slutty, perfect woman he’s ever seen. It makes me ravenous and unapologetic. Pleasure is here to be had and I’m gonna get it.

When it’s time for him to cum, I’ll lay down on my belly, hips rattling upwards in anticipation. The tip of his cock starts to part my pussy’s lips and I know as soon as he’s in all the way it’s going to take so much resolve to not scream. There’s something about how his cock feels inside me in this precise position that makes me feel so full, that the span of him is brushing up against my cerebellum. So deliciously fleshed out and all I can manage to do shriek like a banshee. His thrusts get longer and more fluid as his body pushes down along the length of mine. I arch my ass up into his relentless thrusts and together we create a dizzying momentum. We are skin on skin contact from head to toe: our feet intertwine for better leverage, our hands encircle each other’s, his torso slides all along the curvature of my back. We are in a world of sweat and sounds as his head lowers close to my ear. He’s grunting harder, his breathing agitated. I am totally enclosed in his passion; an immaculate microcosm of carnal noises and the fragrances of our sex. It makes me squeal and moan too loudly. His hands wrap themselves around my mouth, suffocating the brunt of my racket. He pushes in so deep as I scream into his palms, slobbering from both ends of my body.

I’m always so enamored by his abandon when he cums. He thrusts into my pussy violently and holds it there, body completely constricted with assault of his orgasm. He sounds so hot as he’s writing his name in my womb, moaning out all his tension.

He’ll collapse onto me when the last of his cum is spent. We’ll stay that like, body stacked on body, limbs and genitals knotted up in the velvety afterglow. My vision is obscured by the tangle of my hair, his biceps framing my shoulders, and the delirious shadows of our sex. Our panting starts to become more regulated, more satiated. He withdraws his magic cock and I pout and plead:

"...oh… please stay… "

It turns out that that kind of pleasure will not kill me. It will only make me so intoxicated with his efforts, with his cock, with his mind, that I’ll be rendered to unbearable vulnerability. It will only make me want to be the most shameless, indulgent slut in the universe. It turns out that it’s not really his cock that is magic.

It’s his heart.

My favortiest boy-toy is coming over...

...and I am writing lesbian prose in the dark ;)

A body in motion, stays in motion...

Testicular Scent; .an .avalanche

So few times it had happened that she was nearly overcome with awed paralysis: this was exactly as she imagined. This was the place she had adored for so many hours in the sprawl of her brain. And now, she was here.

Below him, under him, kissing, licking, gently and controlled, the slight raised ridge of skin that welded the sack of his testicles shut. Licking, kissing, right here and then right there, the place where diaphanous hairs branch out in wiry helixes. It would never matter how many women prior or how many women afterwards would find themselves looking at him from the testicles up. Looking at him the way she did now, as she pressed deeper into her kneel to lengthen the reach of her tongue. It would never matter because they wouldn’t feel what she felt here. No women would ever match her unblemished delight to experience this part of him.

Through her kisses, a nuzzled smile transmitted her joy into the velvety micro-grooves of his scrotum. Kissing right here, was almost too much for her composure. Her tongue caressed the origin of that scent that riddled her heart beat with such yearning. Breathing in right there, with a depth of inhalation keen on digesting his aroma direct from its source; to gore her senses in the hopes that his smell would never abandon her. Breathing in right here and knowing that in this moment, it was his scent that was oxygenating her bloodstream.

It was his scent that was sustaining her life.



The Peculiarities of the Couch; a doppelganger in the most improbable of places

I’m not actually sure why I’ve come here, as we’re saddled thigh by thigh on the couch. He’s showing me the artwork of his mentor but I’m noticing the pressure of his leg against mine and the sensation of compact security haloed around me from my seat. He’s talking about something I’m not listening to and almost lackadaisically, my hand lands at the base of his neck. “Uhuh, yeah that’s amazing…” I say mechanically, masquerading the nonchalantly flirtation of my fingertips as they commence massaging his scalp. His breathy exhalation reveals that I’ve infiltrated his attention. It’s in this place that my hands start to say everything that festers in the depravity of my heart.

I know that I can court him with the malleable texture of my affection, with the heat generated from my brain to fingertips. I can weave oceans of words into touch. I can luxuriate in all his skin’s warmth, translating emotions into sweeping sprawls of caresses. I want to make him feel good because that makes me feel good. Nothing is as empowering as being a transmitter of pleasure, to coax the beast out of his sleeping haven with glimmers of hedonistic hope. 

Nothing is as empowering as being a woman honing her seductive arts on a canvas of fervent male skin.

We laugh, in a kind of feigned disbelief, as his head droops idly into my chest. Another fragmentary moan escapes in a low grumble for his mouth. At the darkest pitch of that sound, like a harsh exclamation point, his mouth clamps the milky flesh that cascades from my shoulder into my breast. He bites and bites hard, it makes me gasp and coo encouragingly. He takes another penetrative bite through the fabric of my dress, the padding of my bra, to the approximate place of my right breast’s areola. It’s a desirous, greedy bite. On naked skin, he’d christen that place purple.

We laugh, because we are friends behaving as curious friends with mischievous impulses do. There is always something askew about the way our body language synchronizes together like there’s a hidden instinct with no discernible origin. It doesn’t matter that we legitimatize a dozen reinforcements for the platonic fencing; we relocate that line more often than I can count. It’s become a game now, a kind of social chess that makes me eager to see how ingenuously I can conceal my next flirtation.

We go back and forth like this for just 15 minutes. 15 minutes of friendship muddled with distractions and vice.

There’s a demon running revolutions in the core of him; an overcharged impulse to savor the presence of women. I can see this tear at his direction and his commitments.  He’s propelled by sensual momentum and when I touch him it feels as if I am yanking him around by the very sins that define him. Touching him means I can drag him by his demons, seduce him into relieving his unquenchable desires in my hands. It’s so empowering, intoxicating to smear my intuitive touch all up and down the masculine definition of his body. I do it sweetly, calculatingly, just to watch him react and let his guard down. I peel his shirt up and graze the trail of dark hair that trims the well-developed lines  of his abdominal muscles. I look at him with simulated innocence and bite my lower lip as if conflicted by a growing sense of passion. I am not innocent at all. There is no internal conflict. This is how I play this game. I bite my lower lip because I can smell his pheromones. It makes me want to score his scent underneath my finger nails by carving my initials into his flesh.

Because we are just friends but my body jolts behaving as if I forgot.

Because, perhaps, if I remember his weakness is women, he knows that mine is men.

His lips meet mine, lifting his nuzzled face from my embrace. His mouth tastes so fresh and familiar; so inviting and devious, oscillating from the electricity of a first kiss to the familiarity of soul mates. Our kisses never had an uncooperative adjustment, not even the first. Our kisses, much like our exchanges, are about teasing, allusion, craft. His tongue just barely rounds mine and the flavor of his salvia makes my pussy response as if salivating back.

When it feels like he is slipping away from the kiss, I bring him back with my bites and nibbles. I want to devour his mouth a little more, distract him with my kisses so I can keep caressing the silk and fur of his body. Without even having to look I know that the stubble of his chin and lip are reddening the skin around my mouth. It’s doesn’t matter about the aesthetics, the abrasion of stubble makes it so painfully clear that I am kissing a man. A man with rough edges of muscularity and the smooth, deep aromas of experience permeating through his pores.

I kiss him because I like knowing that I shouldn’t.

His fingertips languidly trace the intangible line between my inner thigh and cunt. He takes his mouth off mine and smirks; my scent will radiate off his clothes when goes to see his evening playmate in 10 minutes. I laugh because it’s more likely that one of my renegade blonde hairs will stowaway on his sleeve. He stands up from the couch and pulls his shirt overhead, lingering in front of me shirtless, asking me what I think of his body. It’s so lean, so smothered in linear muscles, so strong and earnest. The type of body that could pick a woman up by her hips and shake her into orgasm. Rugged. Masculine. Beautiful. I touch the thick ridge of his oblique and involuntarily bite my lip. This time I mean it. The uninterrupted view of his torso stuns me into covetous surprise. I want to smoke out all the carnal places that will give him the sweetest pleasure.

And now I want to kiss him where his hips meld with his waist. I caress my mouth down the front of his stomach, puckering my lips into the heat hiding behind the elastic of his briefs. He laughs when I kiss right there. A laugh that holds so many words in such a fleeting sound. The evening is quickening, his mistress is waiting. Not enough time for poignant allusions, and definitely not enough time to dapple his manhood with suction and tender kisses.

I stand, kissing his mouth and grazing my fingernails across the broad of his shoulders, careening into his triceps. He makes approving, lustful sounds. He stretches his arms into fresh, navy material; he asked me what I think as he soothes the fabric across his body, admiring its cut in his reflection. The shirt accentuates the ripples of his biceps, the graceful definition of his chest. It’s the kind of shirt that advertises that he would look good in absolutely any environment, any blend of synthetics, any set of crumpled bed sheets across the country. He looks so good because he makes it look effortless.

I tell him it looks just a smidge too tight.

He slips into his bedroom and reemerges in the door frame, wearing a leather jacket, forcing the impression that the girl he’s about to see is young. I tease him about it and when I turn, shimmy my ass into his crotch.  His hands unhesitatingly go up my dress and dig into my hips while I rotate them around. In one fast pull, he yanks my thong and leggings downwards, clawing his nails into my bare flesh.

And then I hear that sound: the metallic unfastening of his belt prongs, the jangle of yearning produced from the shifting of unzipped denim. His cock is at the vestibule of my ass crack, idly rubbing around. Instinctually, I push back and swivel into his advances. For only a handful of seconds, we play around with this blatant transgression of our friendship. “Oh baby I want to but… maybe… when…” he says.

But we know that maybe’s subjective. Maybe definitely, maybe never. I coyly snap my panties back into their proper place, giggling and satisfied with my brazenness. He tucks his member back into the constriction of his grey briefs. We laugh, because we are friends, behaving shamelessly.

At his front door, he kisses me again, slowly, meaningfully. He tells me that he loves me, that’s he think I am awesome. He’s staring at my mouth as he says it, a gleam of appreciation for the complex niceties I bring into his life twinkling in his eyes. I know that he’s a charmer, a seducer with a never-ending stream of adoring words. But for this moment, I opt to believe what he says, and I let him briefly washing my psyche in his magic.

We bound together in our naturally swift paces towards our respective cars. He places his hand around the crook of my elbow, trying to escort me with his cultural antiquities. I cut off his courtship rituals; bothering with contrived formalities doesn’t interest me. On the street, I have no desire for him to soften my hard-head independence. On the street, we blithely kiss and I climb inside my car.

My movements slow once tucked into the confines of my vehicle. I watch his car abruptly accelerate to his destination before I even have the key in my ignition. In this lull of transition, my thoughts are clear, objective. We are so the same, possessing comparable histories of bloody battles fought between freedom and security. We are big egos and inquisitive minds who surround ourselves with people who can stomach our insensitivities, our identical self-preoccupations. We ply similar brands of manipulations to everything around us, tweaking details and intuitively sensing options, employing charm like a Band-Aid when we are too lazy. We have the same intolerance for restrictions on our mobility, our natural needs to wander after wonder, resenting having to justify why. On our good days we craft landscapes of beautiful social harmony; on our bad days, we are mere beasts dressed in tarnished clothes, demanding more and more and more. Everything I hate about him is exactly the stuff I hate in myself. And everything I find interesting about him rest on the hope that, despite our shape-shifting morality, his intent is pure even if he’s hands and mouth aren’t.

Maybe that is what attracts us but also why we will never have sex. We are like con-artists flashing wares and exploits, marveling at each other’s somber skills, but never really revealing the full arsenal because the thrill is in the hunt. Neither one of us is willing to forfeit anything. That is why we’re friends. But it sure is enticing to imagine that we could.

We are so the same.

Except that he is a man, rushing fluidly into the next sequence of his conquest as I watch his headlights slip over the horizon. I am a woman, lingering in my driver’s seat, readying my language, reflecting on my ambivalent heart. I know I must seek rest. I cannot keep rushing on like him. I must first birth all the thoughts he spawns inside my head.

Moody Sex & the Sensations Girl

It might be possible: I might be a junkie.

 

A junkie chemically dependent on all the fluctuations of mood. The pendulum has always swung wide for me—sometimes instead of steadying it, I’ve tantrumed to exaggerate its trajectory.  

The endorphins suck me in. I like to play with my flight or fight response. I like burning off anxiety in fits of intense exertions.

I like grappling the fuck out of challenges because the dopamine release floors me every time.

And then I am calm. To feel so big is exhaustive. It’s sedates me into lulled, reflective thoughts.

So many shifting feelings to pedal through and so many times I have followed a path that brings me to pinnacles. Overblasted of emotions. Cataclysmic crescendos. Delirious joys, harrowing sorrow.

It’s a hard thing to digest: my impetus is not always for the static of happiness. I am not always seeking joy. I covet experience, inspiration and those can be found in some pretty desolate places. The calm seems deadly, the lack of momentum seems dull. This is a teetering path to pursue; a long, gnawed road littered with so many blind spots of mourning at the foot of all those highs. But it’s the drama of the journey that I adore.

It keeps me busy.

It keeps my brain so satiated and happy when I have to reflect and mull over all those mindboggling feelings. How many words can pour out of my mouth to embody sadness? How many times can I replay the same moment of bliss from alternating angles? How many associations can be made from one experience to the next?

It’s when I am fighting so vigorously to keep my head afloat that I feel so alive. It’s when I know where the boundaries are that I can kick off as hard as possible in a new direction. The problem is that sometimes testing those boundaries is what is most problematic. Ladies are supposed to look but not touch.

Too hell with that.

It’s when I am fighting, proving, contending within myself that I feel most accomplished.

So closely together these quirks of character weave themselves with my sexuality, bleeding into the choices I make for sex partners, with the caliber of bedroom games we play. I like my sex like I like my life: moody, profound, ravishing, leaving me stunned in awe and desperate to reflect on it. I like sex that stretches limits—both psychological and physical. I like partners who can build off the nuances of my avante garde bedroom tastes; partners who intuitively can handle the gamut of atmospheres I want to co-create. Let’s play with tenderness, humiliation, joy, carnal shame for needing each other. Let’s believe we aren’t isolated souls. Let’s probe that ethereal line of pleasure and pain and see how each new sexual experience shifts the parameters of that line.

Let’s play with pleasure for pleasure’s sake. Let’s chase where it goes. Let’s broadcast emotions big and wide and subtle and nuanced. Let’s be mean and sweet and unregretful in either.

I like my sex to be about sensation, about moments of affect that alter my neurons; sex that makes me covet my partner for drawing those things to the surface. I like sex that makes me yearn to have it happen all over again precisely at the conclusion; sex that bathes me in the warm lashes of oxytocin, making me feel so in love it’s toxic.  I love my partners most for when they are inspired, uninhibited, and flexible amongst the whims of arousal. I love my partners most when we both unabashedly charge into bliss, forgetting etiquette, forgetting gender roles, just fucking like it’s fighting. Fucking like it’s primal, bestial, necessary. Fucking like we have never been alive until now.

I love my partners most when they can overwhelm all my safeguards. When I am bludgeoned so furiously with feelings that I enter immaculate quietude. Thunderous feelings to birth controlled thought. I dissolve into experience. Heaven on earth.

I am a goddess in a female body, finding salvation in the hands of sex. Finding nirvana in the drama that my lover dishes out, in the way we react, in the way we play sex.

A Letter To My Lover

Will you, please, give me a very, very hard spanking?

…actually hard is perhaps not the right word. I want you to spank me for a very, very long time. Bare bottomed. Over your knees. Languid. Teasingly.

Menacing.

Building.

Cruel.

I want you to keep going at a steady pace, making both of my ass cheeks flame up into crimson. I want you to keep going until your hand prints are slightly raise off my skin, radiating a warmth like a phantom outline of viciousness. I want you to take your time, savoring each smack, each whimper, each time I gasp like you’ve beaten the air out of my lungs.

I want you to keep going until I linger in that threshold of subspace. I want you to keep going until the quietude of overstimulation takes over my body and my responses become muted and yielding. I want you to keep going until I fall out the other end of subspace…

…I want you to keep going until I cry.

I want you to spank me until hot tears spill down my face and I am utterly overwhelmed with the sounds, sights, and smacks of you. I want you to going until I am leaking from both sides of my body.

And it’s in this place of utter vulnerability, in this place where my psyche and heart are most impressionable, in tears, in shambles, with a burning ass that pulsates with violence: I want you to feed me your cock. I want your cock to pacify my sobs. I want you to do it sweetly, gently, kindly, deeply.

Lovingly.

Feed me your cock to make it better.

And when your cock is throbbing and ready and when you can no longer stand waiting to ravish me, I want you to have your way with me. I want your cock so deep inside my pussy—not my ass, not this time—in my very wet and trembling pussy.  I want to feel the weight of you on top of my body, your hips thrusting up against mine. I want you to kiss me deeply. Urgently, genuinely, intensely. I want your hands to hold my body tightly, my legs wrapped round your back to aid the depth of your thrusts. I want your exhalations to be my next inhalation. I want to get overwhelmed by your scent, your movements, by how your make me feel so coveted and so safe and so scared and so alive all at the same time. I want to feel whatever feelings are meant in this moment; to laugh, to cry, to scream, to moan, to melt.

I want to drown in the pleasure and pain of it all.

I want you to cum so deep inside my pussy. After you’ve beaten me until I burst into tears. And after you’ve made it better. And after you’ve made me surrender to the fact that you make me feel profound emotions…

…and for that, I love you.

….So will you, please, spank me very, very hard?