fear

If this were to disappear, all of this sensual world, what would we become?

If the excitement of your caresses were to become impossible, would you love me less? Would you be here still to kiss me, even in the absence of skin, the responses now different, wiser if changed by time and weather, seasons passing, the imperfections even of this oasis, where nothing bad was ever supposed to happen?

Or would it disappear, our world only fantasy? Would you want to stay where life is still real, and not perfect, no, but not without its beauty?

fire escape

Remember that night when your black curls tumbled down onto your shoulders, your still-sober lips tracing the outline of my neck beneath my inch-long hair? We were quite a pair then, and you said so, as we dangled our bare feet from the third story fire escape and talked about the world between us in an essential moment alone that burned into my memory as if it were a habit. Your guests chattered in the living room, their fiddles and talk of Vallejo and the light from the apartment now theirs, not ours, the smoke from a neighbor’s barbecue, the stars, the rush of the busy world faraway. It was cooler here, high above, outside, the heat and grime of the day only lingering in the  un-air-conditioned buildings and down below on the expressway with the cars and the people walking on the other side, tomorrow’s headlines  from the dangerous park across the way. You pointed to the roses there, the pizza joint with its stained glass windows and Italian statues, the woman who held tight to her purse and lost it anyway as she fell to the sidewalk, gunshots still echoing each time that you watched my old car drive up to your building and you ran down the stairs to meet me outside in this, the only affordable neighborhood nearby.

You were young then. A week later you showed up outside my work and called up to me, then realizing that we had no balconies in these office buildings, ran up the four flights of stairs. I startled to look up and see you there, insisting you had to see me now, not in three hours. I screamed to see your head shaved, your indecency now reaching its heights as you told me of your adventures, your readings,  your rock star status across the states, your friend’s car broken down for hours on the side of a rural highway, you told me. And you told me of remembering the days you spent there once before, before you knew me, and I gazed at you, reaching for your hair that never grew back, gazing at you and your lips now distracting me from anything that may have been worthwhile in my office, the ladies laughing as I wandered back to my desk, struck down by your grand gesture, your impatience, by the thrilling thought of 5:00. They knew, you see, they knew what I did not know, and I would love you then, in spite of it all, as if fate had ordered it.

It was 2am when I drove home, Aretha singing on my AM radio, a natural woman, me, your fingers lingering beneath my lace blouse, the narrow neck of it stalling you. I had to unbutton it myself. You then removed my clothing like scarves one by one, the remaining hooks and zippers and buttons and such much simpler to decipher, to undo, to push apart the openings, your finger, tongue, words so filthy, I know, mi conchita, you said, I let you, begged you, moments like this, dark summer nights, a hot mattress, the whirr of a ceiling fan, your skin, your strange words still imprinted somewhere, retrievable on cold winter days, yes, it was real I tell myself, and then sometimes like now I wonder at times what was real, even now what is real.

monday morning

Complacency reigns here, too, on a Monday, a holiday, an I have a dream day, and I dream of more noble things, of equality and justice, and persistent integrity, and I have plans for the day. But right now I dream you, here lying in bed beside me so late on a weekday morning. It is a stolen day, the luxury of one more weekend day to lie in late, to roll back in against your belly, your sleeping fingers curling my hair, pushing it from my forehead, my ears, my neck, you hard against my back as I feel your movements more exact as you awaken, more intentional as the morning grows later.

The clock ticks. I reach for the lamp switch, now gasping, electric, your fingers dancing, your lips softly setting me ablaze beneath these sheets, resistance transformed into ardent need to have you not just closer, but fused to me, thirst realized now unquenchable. I dreamed I could survive without water once, and now I drink. I swim. I could drown in it, but I won’t.

The coffee is dark, sweet, milk caramelized in the steel pitcher left too long with the steam boiling it, froth spilling out while you kiss me madly, once more, twice. I grab the pitcher, hot milk everywhere now, the oranges in the Wedgwood bowl beside the sink a still-life. I contemplate, licking the milk from my fingers, reaching for an orange. It is perfect, the milk cooling and thick, the cream whipped to put on the coffee, with the grated orange peel, the sharp sweetness as you reach beneath my peignoir now, yes I did wear it, as you squeeze my sore nipples, and the cream melts, the orange zest floating in the coffee as you push into me again, again. Yes, green birds and temptation of flesh, the desire for here, now, the world so glorious as I think of why I dream, why I fight, what wishes we all must have, what we all must know.

e[lust] #32

Photo courtesy of Lady Grinning Soul

Welcome to e[lust], the sex blog round-up- The best posts from the hottest and smartest sex bloggers all in one place! This edition highlights topics such as libido, fake orgasms, teenage lust, voyeurism, BDSM consent and so much more. Want to be included in e[lust] #33? Start with the rules, come back in February to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ The Top Three Posts ~

Assent Matters by SherynB – Find your emotional power to recognize and say “no” to what you don’t want BEFORE you get naked and tied up and give up your actual physical power to walk away to anybody.

Forever The Night – ‘Why the hell shouldn’t I listen? This is my home, my bedroom after all’. So I do listen and I do feel myself twitch at every minute sound on the other side of that fucking wall.

Hands. Fingers. Pleasure. – This was the first time a boy’s fingers had such unfettered access to my pussy. Prior gropings under and through clothes had never been like this.

~ e[lust] Editress ~

The Fake Orgasm: You think you know, but you have no idea – I am 34 and I have faked orgasms. There ya have it. But I have never and will never qualify doing so as “I did it for him”.

~ Featured Post (Picked by Lilly) ~

Sadie Says… Awake – In the haze of my missing libido I also lost myself. I began to wonder if I remembered who the hell I was?

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Kink & Fetish

Connection, Intimacy & Trust
DQ Earns a Pass from Chasity
Five Little Words
Naked and kinky in a busy sex shop
Sharp Tongues and Good Pain
Sexual violence
The Duke Story
‘Twas the Night Before Kinky
The Pink Elephant
Who I Am
Who Are You to Change Us?
Waking You

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Busy Writing
Help! My Vibrator Won’t Work
Men and Visual Stimulation
Slippery and sticky and covered in lube
The Safe Zone – Giving Yourself Permission To Screw Up in Non-Monogamy
Until Death Do Us Part

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Interview With Senior Sexuality Advocate Joan Price

Erotic Writing

21
A Read to Remember
Aurelia (A Dirty Kind Of Grace part 1)
A Fistful
banana bread
Christmas Day
Last night in Cap D’Adge
Later On In The Evening
Meat Hooks & Butcher’s Twine
Reside
Sugarbutch Star: blckndblue, The Pink Dress
she and he and me…
Surprise Orgasm
wind

another

It is another of these sorts of nostalgic days, a calm day, wishful, wistful, but not in an unpleasant sort of way. The rain is light, the fog heavier, and the lights in the house are bright now after the cool streets so early in the morning, the quiet whoosh, the cleansing of days and thoughts, comfort, absence of sun, light within.

further thoughts on ashes

And if you were to reach for me…

Would you reach first for my hair on fire, my flesh-covered hand still reaching back for yours?

Would I cradle your gentle head to comfort you, your fears, to comfort me in doing so, so mother-like?

Or would you yank the strands of my ardent hair? Would you pull my head down close, reach to fuse my hand to your own bones as you kiss me, your swollen flesh cock aching, burning, wanting above all once more to lock inside me, to erupt now deep within my molten core?

Would I pull your filthy mouth hot to my breasts, urge you to suck my nipples hard, to bite me, take me, as I push your head closer, my body dissolving even as you melt into me, lust before it is lost, or found, forever? Now, here, even in this moment, this one last moment, would you become me, me become you?

Would I want so much? Would you die like this? Would you die devoid of flesh and body, would you die fucking me? Die in bliss bonding, die in heaven, die in death, together, die in death itself?

ashes to ashes

If we were to die suddenly, on a lovely day in Pompeii, what would we be? What would we become if we were locked in this very moment, left mute in a moment of mass destruction, a moment in time in violence, in an emphatic stop, in truth?

Would we be shackled, ever struggling to flee?

Would we hide, pull our melting tunics to cover our faces?

Would we be left waiting, forever frozen in the expectation of salvation?

Would you reach for me? Would I cradle your head against my breasts one last time as you touch my hand, my burning hair? Hair is ash, flesh is ash, among loving bones, corpses left longing, so long ago, so long.

find

The cold floor startled Todd as he climbed out of Sylvie’s bed late in the night. Despite his exhaustion, his body finally giving in to sleep, Todd was still awakened as he was every night, by the same dream, the same thought.

Downstairs, the rooms were still colder. Todd buttoned his shirt as he shuffled methodically to the basement to start a fire, pausing by the kitchen to see a light blinking. 3:58. He had managed nearly four straight hours of sleep, and felt a vague sickness as the strangeness of rest swept over him. Coffee would end the night, and he could leave then within the hour.

Todd opened the back door, bracing himself. Cool, but not even close to the snowy weeks before. Spring-like. The chattering birds seemed to assure him. The pipes would not freeze, not in this sort of morning.

Todd went into his study, searched in a small vase on the bookshelf for the key to the desk drawer. The drawer contained little, really, but the map was there, inside a small book filled with verses he had written. Few people had seen these words, not out of Todd’s lack of confidence, but more out of his desire to keep some part of himself for himself, far from the pressures of those who claimed to know him best. Sylvie knew nothing of the poems, but Todd thought at times that perhaps she would not be surprised. Others would judge him harshly for the softness he expressed, and he had no desire for the crowds to see this part of him.

Sylvie. She came back into Todd’s thoughts once more, her fingertips now more real in their absence. He felt her everywhere, loss defining her more than she could have possibly defined herself in all the days she wandered through his space. He could so easily give into this, linger here in the comfort of missing that love. But now was the time to remember earlier times, other matters left unfinished.

Todd poured his travel cup full of coffee and turned off the machine. He grabbed the heavy backpack hanging on the hooks by the back door, and put the book inside as he stepped out into the new morning, the moon still bright, out down the dark roads. Police cars sat in the pull-outs along the ponds and fields, waiting for a lone speeder, perhaps, or just waiting for day.

tube

The inner tubes were there in the barn and stacked, and this time it was winter, not fall, and you were standing there at the bottom of the hill holding one and grinning at me. “Let’s go!” you said, and I went, carrying my tube up the hill beside you, both of us laughing as we slipped on the half-melted snow over ice and a weekday, and no one else near.

It was foolish, I know, foolish to be there in the cold, in the late afternoon, dark ready approaching even as we started our descent into that fearful night, the wonder and the improvisation. They are tubes, inner tubes, and not skis, not sleds, not snowboards, no canvas covers or lifts to drag our butts up the steep hill, no one watching out even as we sail down dangerously near the river where we rode on these tubes in the cold autumn water such a short time ago.

Your bare hands are red, now, raw, you damn you, always ready even when you’re not, always wanting to take me on these adventures. And I go all too willing. You remind me, it was my idea.

The heat of night awaits us, somewhere, in the glow of a fire, in the glow of love suspected. Your hands will still be red then, but warm as your fingers unfasten, trace temptation.

The thrill of it, the cold, the stunning slide, clouds dark along the horizon that is visible from up high, yellow lingering low in the sky as the brilliant blue turns pale, then nearly dark when we both lie laughing, soaking wet at the bottom. Only one ride today, a sudden urge, a moment stolen from no time, from the precious bite we take from it, from thoughts, from dreams, from the promise, from life.

2012

The year begins, sun, solitude, still of morning, smooth water, clean canvas, blinking cursor, anticipating stories, songs, adventures and our scribbled thoughts, attempts at eloquence, attempts at grace, our chance to cast the line, to take that chance, to stand there, raw, to stay.