The thing that struck me most, first, were your words, dropping off mid-sentence as I sat and reached beneath my dress to pull off my stockings.

You looked at me as we were chatting our hellos, and I pushed the dress high, so that you could glance from my face, lower, see the red and white panties, hot to the touch now as I waited for you here, waited to take the nylons off until you could watch me, I did. I did.

The thing I noticed next, second, was your face, red, as you shouted into the clear day, the lovely gushing as I straddled you, my red panties in your pocket now, with my keys. Your face, relieved, surprised, yes, already, yes, it was glorious, glorious as the day, and the light, and the grass, the soft wind and buzz of faraway traffic on the highway.

Third, the rush, the glow, spring, your head in my lap. My cunt still throbbing, even now as I write, remembering it, savoring it, all is well, remedy sublime.


Your invitation has made me a bit nervous, that’s all, I say, as I sit in the booth at a quarter past five, glancing at my watch–you said 5:30, and I have come early, not because I meant to, but because I did not get lost. And now I am sitting here, alone, aware enough of your intentions, and mine.

I have seen the gleam in your eyes, mornings, your grey wool, my hair up and neat, and we rode the elevator to the sixth floor, where I get off, you farther up, I knew, I knew as you glanced over at me, day after day, the wordless wolf-like grin, teeth showing. Big bad, little red. I need you.

Strolling in, you seem so cool, the room is yours, the universe. Squeezing fast in next to me in the tall seats, not cool, no, you are not, your heat searing my cunt with a brush of your hand, my hand shaking as the waitress hands me my scotch, you your gin. It burns, your hand tight on my thigh, grasping, then soft, higher, sigh, your fingers push my short skirt still higher as you speak indecipherable words that I realize later were kind, ordinary, the string of my thong now wet and teasing,  tightwire. I might fall.

Ice in a glass, you ask, receive, reach for a cube, reach down, it melts as you trace patterns on my hot bare skin. “Here,” you hand a cube to me. “Put it in your cunt.”

I look, confused, at first, then determined, my fingers beneath my skirt, pushing aside the string of the thong, my fingers straight into the heat, my wet, the cube, melting quickly, my need multiplies. You continue to talk to me, tell me tales of the everyday, hold my hand, my wild eyes, wild desire, tomorrow, yes, I will, here, same time.

pop music

It was too loud and too dark and I had a glass or two too many to care if my skirt was too short or was riding up my ass as you said was so fucking hot last night.

The rhythm had me, you knew it, when you grabbed my hand and turned with me on the floor. Bones meet flesh, and your skin was solid, sculpted, sure, squeezing against me in the dark crowd, bass line driving, driving me home in my buzz, in your deliberate responses to my blatant desire, your questioning eye. “Yes?” I nodded back, and you pushed me roughly through the thick crowd, through the doors and into the night, music still pounding against the bricks in the alley beside, where you ripped down the buttons of my sweater, my bra, my nipple aching as you suck hard and I gasp yes, yes, I touch your pants, I feel your cock fill my hand. Your breath smokes in the cold air you sigh I pull your belt release unzip drop to my knees to take you taste you want you, your hand pushing my head, pulling my hair, my hands yanking my sodden panties down, off. Fuck my mouth, hard, fuck me, lift me, my skirt worked up my hips, heels digging into your back, bricks scratching my back. I kiss your mouth hard, hungry, the whiskey warm on my throat, lingering taste of your cock, your cock now gliding into my slick heat.

restrain me

I pull, in vain.

Expert knots, stopper knots, but you would let me free, I know. If I asked.

Or would you make me beg? I wish for this, for your desire to keep me here, at your disposal.

I wish for your desire itself, pure within the context of possibility.

I am here, love, open. I percolate. I wait.

Dark–no, light, still more light–in the au-delà, where you have always found me.

I wish.

I may.

I might.

resist me

Resisting you is futile.

I knew it then, that first smile, when you glanced at me across a crowded room, watched me cross my legs and watched me look down to straighten my skirt, then look up, to look at you, looking at me, you.

My words twist, convulse, as I lie back on a soft morning, my dressing slow and luxurious, as though I had nowhere in particular to go, though I am dressing to leave for the day. I have nowhere to go, I wish, but to fall back into bed, with you, your dream, you, not here, somehow here, soon here. Your voice drifts off as words turn to meaning. You know what I mean, exactly. You are here.

I wonder, at the time, daylight savings, time lost, time spent, time waiting, time I could say I devoted to you, to desire, to the mere wonder of a moment, lost, spent, awaited, devoted, desired, a moment. One more. That’s all.






I have been a naughty blogger in recent months, my attention swayed from the here and now to the there and should be. I am back.

Resolutions (quite obvious, I am sure):

Love more. Seek adventure (more). Kick through the snow and dried leaves, and see what lies beneath.

Unbutton a coat. Just one button. Then another. Mmm. Come right in. I have missed you.

Happy New Year.


He would have been eighty years old today, had he lived.

If he had lived… Did he ever?

Can life be measured in a heartbeat, in a breath? Life wasted, the daring maneuvers that we think distinguish us, that seem so full, so full of life themselves. We shock, we defend, we state our cause, we climb the mountain. We drink, drum, make noise, fill our time to the brim with stuff. Are our adventures and our busy lives just ways to turn away from the vulnerabilities that make us beautiful?

Once, when my dad was dying, he told me that he was afraid. He cried, maybe the first time that I had ever seen him so small, and so big.

When I was a little girl, I loved my dad, believed in him, the reality he presented to me. But in that moment, as I had grown into a woman and seen more of life, I realized that this may well have been the first time I had ever felt that he really knew love. And in that moment, he told me that he finally saw the richness that he was about to leave behind, the long moments, quiet, the laughter, the sweetness of being that he never could reveal until the end. So sad what could have been. Knowing.. but yes, too late to know so well, to find that sort of quiet joy that only comes with time, and trust. How often do we protect ourselves into a sort of silent seclusion until it is too late?

And why? What makes a person turn away from his own heart? What makes a person stop when he begins to feel vulnerable? needy?

Opening enough to absorb love takes courage, I know. Men shun weakness, taunt one another for softness. And perhaps because of this, it is easier to be hard, easier still to hide.

A hand bitten–or worse, ignored–may stay near, but stops reaching. A heart stops hoping, its hunger denied until we starve, even with relief so close. We stay broken but still hoping–and denying that hope, ashamed to hope. Is this a lesson that a child was meant to learn? How do we sit with our heart?

I hope.

Trust is sublime, connection, transport to some splendorous realm, sensation bringing me back to my own heart–but so perilous a place to awaken alone.

Life was meant for more than distraction. Love, slow days, a hand reaching for mine, a secret, a favor, a kiss, a surprise, a word, a heartbeat, a breath, a habit, a safe place to admit that I care.

happy hour

I am thinking of you.

I am thinking how fantastic you look now, your summer fit quite fitting my immediate needs to fuck, to be fucked, to feel your hands running beneath my skirt, and shirt, to feel your fabulous body next to mine.

Skin, I love your skin, hands on skin, so familiar, love your heat growing, grinding, love your hand roughly slapping me as I lie across your lap, naughty you, you so desired, so fucking hot, you so elusively not here right now, not groaning as I push your lovely dildo up your ass, as I take your balls gently into my mouth, oysters, so smooth, take your cock, so hard, how I could screw you silly right now.

Wet, you know I am, know I want you, know that happy hours are for weekdays and not weekends, though I wish, want, take a sip from life, from you, your come still filling my mouth, even now, or the thought of it, of you, thrashing, crashing into my warm cunt, satisfied, very, then, now wanting, wanting you back, here, sip, gulp, let me straddle you, toss my hair back, your kiss, my neck, share, again, now.

farm stand

The signs were written in chalk: tomatoes, swiss chard, basil, fresh corn. You drove past, and then stopped, pulled over, and pulled my sweater roughly toward you, your beard rubbing my face raw as you kissed my ear, then bit it, not quite gently, just the way I like it.

“You are such a slut.”

My panties were wet already, even before you started this, but in reality it was the fresh produce that had caught your attention. You let go of my top, and shifted the car into reverse, screeching the tires as you u-turned quickly from the side of the road, and worked up the dust and gravel turning into the neighborhood stand.

The peaches, watermelons, corn were stacked in baskets. You loaded them into yours, and walked on to the grain-fed beef–packaged and waiting for you in the freezer.

“We’ll have a feast, hon’,” you said, pulling my hand close as you headed to the cash register.

I looked at you, that leather hat pulled low on your head, the shadow of your beard on your dark, tanned skin, summer, you pulled your wallet from the back pocket of your jeans and handed two twenties to the teenage girl at the counter. School starts next week, she told you, blushing at the white of your teeth, the dimple in your cheeks when you smiled at her, then once more at me.

You kicked a pebble from the doorway, then lost it with the others in the path, dust around your feet as we walked through the dry parking lot, your car dusty, too, seats warm now in the sun, your hand behind my headrest as you back up , leaning toward the center, toward me, as I grab your hand then, and kiss it, lick it, your smile, your laugh as you pull your arm back to shift into first, second, third, then grab my knee, squeeze quickly before grabbing the steering wheel once more, bounty in the back, the wine, bread, cheese, apples, your beach towel, speedo, taut ass beneath it. Soon your legs are stretched long on the sand, a weekday, hooky.

I should never be here with you, like this, like this afternoon when you have pulled me from those unimportant things, those never mind things, those Friday tired things that I would not have done anyhow, anyway. You pull me close once more, run your hands down my back, down my backside, and reach beneath my skirt to pull my panties off, toss my bikini bottom to me.

“Make yourself decent!” you growl, then laugh as you roll back and I pull the swimsuit up beneath my skirt, then remove the skirt, and look around as I figure out the top. The beach is deserted now, after Labor Day, the lifeguard stand empty, canoes turned upside-down farther down. No one is here, water warm, your soft lips next to mine, hard cock pressing against my hip.

You loosen your grip, and I break free. “Catch me,” I shout. You might.

I look back, and you have turned onto your belly, laid your head down, a moment, two, then you jump up, run to the water, and I run farther, then dive beneath the surface, your hand grabbing my ankle in no time. You are faster, pull my foot, skin on your skin, your kisses hard, then soft, then biting.

Your teeth sink into my neck, belly tight as my heart quickens, relax, my limbs limp, cunt wet as you slowly let me go, rush of pain, want, your cock even harder now when I dig my nails into your back. Your fingers pull the side of my swimsuit, then reach beneath. Yes, I am wet. Yes, I want you, want you here.

The car is hot, now, surely, vegetables baking in the back seat, sand in the seats now as you drive quickly back to a quiet place, a new place, a shady place, a roadside, a back seat, my mouth, my hair, my swimsuit tossed to the ground, yours, no room, no matter. You pierce my cunt, so long, so needed, corn ripe, peaches oozing as you step on the one that fell from the bag. Your sweat is pungent now, arouses me as I push you up, back, sit on you, bounce harder as you cry out, pull me closer, shout once more, twice, rush of warmth, dripping, I cry, I want, have, stop, cannot bear your fingers now squeezing my nipples, not more, not now, not yet.

So calm now, so sweet to lie back, tan lines, no lines, no cares, to bite into a peach and see you lean into your hands, rub your eyes. Once more, I say, I would, want, will wait.

Chard,beside the grill, steak, rioja, garden hose, grow up, on second thought, don’t.

once in a while

Waiting, wistful–no, wishful, willful, unwilling, willing perhaps in the window seat, I peek out at the shadows on the street, half expecting your innocent prance past the parked cars across, up the path.

I found your note tucked into the letter box, your invitation, I was here, meet me once more, tomorrow, noon. I am here.

I am here, black sheer stockings rolled up my shaved legs early in the day, garters catching the lace beneath the short skirt, someone saw, blushed, said nothing, carried on, then whispered, he’ll think of me.

Think of me, I know you would be with me, if… If days were longer, if we had the time, space, cherished moments, life itself, some other life. Days grow shorter in autumn, clearer, these blue moons so unusual, still another three years’ wait, I hear, so rare, so lovely, you could.

We could, you know. We could race up the stairs once again, and you could catch me, throw me to the bed and kiss me, yes. You could lay your head in my lap and close your eyes, drift off, then stretch high to lie beside me, hold me close, too close, so close. You could let me love you while you fuck me I fuck you you love me.

Or maybe you do, or did, or wanted to, or could have, or could never say, or never did, or did, or will, or perhaps it was simply fear, or desire, deferred.

To greet you here, love, noon, today, tomorrow, skin so sweet, so six a.m., so Saturday, so sleep, now, love, sleep.