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.

The Mermaid Voyage is a two-week course in erotic self-discovery. I have stolen their artwork above, and an audio sample of the first day and information about the course, are available here.

And while you are there, check out some of the marvelous offerings from this hot new publisher. Hot hot hot! (did I say hot?) and smart, to boot. I am reading through their Femme Fatale collection right now, and will have more to share as soon as I stop fanning myself.

Check back, as the review section of this blog will feature some of Go Deeper’s selections. So it is bound to begin with a bang.

So to speak.

In the meanwhile, enjoy your Mermaid Voyage. I know you will!

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.

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.

“Nice hair,” a familiar voice laughed. “Kind of unkempt, you know,” he continued, “like you didn’t have to try too hard.” Eileen jumped, and felt her face warm as she looked back at the beat-up metal, all wrapped around a hemi engine. No. She looked away, froze, then looked back.

“Please leave!” Eileen whispered, nearly shaking in anger. Six months. He had been gone for six months, gone in a cloud of dust, tires spinning, leaving her on the side of that old dirt road. And now he had come to the big city, today, of all days, as though he knew, as though he could monitor her attraction to other men.

“All right, honey,” blackstrap voice deep and low. “I just drove up here to say I miss you. You’re lookin’ awful pretty, Eileen, you sure are.” Smoother when warm, yes he was. He started the car, pipes purring as he slowly pulled away.

Tom walked toward Eileen, “Are you all right?” he asked, now close. Eileen felt dizzy, and shut her eyes. Already, she had been in a rush, and now Luke Dupre had returned, once more, as inconvenient as the first time Eileen had seen him, as inconvenient as he always was. Tom put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you know him? Did he threaten you?”

“He surprised me,” Eileen answered, as she opened her eyes, surprised now more by Tom’s presence, his concern, his hand briefly on her arm, his shirt neatly tucked into the trim jeans, muscular legs beneath the denim. Eileen looked up. “I just didn’t expect anyone to be sitting in that car.”

“I’m surprised the piece of crap runs!” Tom scoffed. “Are you ready?” he asked, as he offered his arm. “Shall we?…”

“Sure…” Eileen hooked her arm in his. “Yes,” she straightened as she felt Tom’s strength, warm and certain. “Yes, we shall.”  And they walked down the street.

For a few moments, the two walked in silence. Eileen felt faint as soon as her thoughts started to wander, so difficult it seemed to make ordinary conversation. Just now, starting out fresh, Tom seemed thoughtful, and conscientious. And hot. No denying it, Tom was attractive.

A yellow-shafted flicker flew low, and landed on the trunk of an old poplar tree.

“Look!” Eileen shouted. “Did you see it?”

“See what?” Tom answered.

“There, the flicker!” Eileen pointed to the tree.

“What is a flicker?” Tom asked her, looking as the bird went to work drumming. “The woodpecker?”

“Yes,” Eileen walked a little closer, closer, as the bird pecked around to the other side of the tree. She watched for a minute, and moved closer. The bird flew away.

“Oh, I scared it,” Eileen sighed.

“So you are quite the birder,” Tom remarked.

“Flickers are not so unusual,” Eileen said. “I just like them.”

A blue heron lumbered above the rooftops, flying no doubt between the two nearby ponds.

“I like them, too,” Eileen pointed at the heron.

“Now, what is that one called?” Tom asked.

“Really?” Eileen thought. “It’s a heron,” she answered. “I think they are lucky, but really, it is storks that are lucky. It’s just that we don’t have storks, so herons must be the closest thing.”

“Storks are lucky?” Tom asked. “Well, I guess babies are lucky.”

“Babies don’t come from storks, you know,” teased Eileen.

“Well, I can see I have a whole lot of learning to do,” Tom teased back. “Say, I can show you something you’ll like a lot,” Tom said.

“Show me what?” Eileen paused, flustered as her filthy eyes drifted unavoidably, quickly, to Tom’s jeans. What? Show her what? “You have a baby?” she joked.

“No, no babies here,” Tom said. “It’s a surprise.”

“A surprise…” Eileen repeated, her heart beating a little quicker as she began to recall her early afternoon reveries. “Hmm. You aren’t going to give me a hint?”

Tom kept walking, a grin now spreading.

“So, where are we going for coffee?” Eileen asked, changing the subject.

“There is a place just down the street,” Tom suggested.

“Where Have You Bean.” Eileen confirmed. She knew the place, the only place nearby except Dunkin’ Donuts, which thankfully was not the place he had in mind.

“I’ve been here all along,” Tom answered, and he stopped, turned, put his hand on Eileen’s shoulder. “Are you sure you are all right?” Tom asked, crinkling his forehead as he looked at her. Eileen looked at him, confused, saw his face clear, then turn red.

“Oh, you mean the coffee place…” Tom corrected himself. ”By the way,” Tom continued, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Eileen,” she answered, holding out her hand to shake.

“Eileen…” Tom repeated. “I’m Tom. Pleased to meet you, again,” he answered as he shook her hand, then held it tight for a moment before he let it go, then turned to walk again beside her.

They continued down the street toward town, now chatting, laughing. Tom was nice, easy. He smelled clean, green, clear, uncomplicated, direct, and the shock of Luke Dupre floated far from Eileen’s mind.

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.

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.

Death of a short-lived love, which might have bloomed, which never could.

Death of a friend, who long ago assembled a series of my writings and inserted them into something he called a web log, a blog–not this one, but the introduction to a new way of creating, for me. He saw a lot, lived a lot, and I loved to hear his stories, and his gentle urges for me to write, write more. His only request for this gift was that I should urge someone younger, when I am older. His generosity inspires me still.

Death, last of all, of my mother. I cannot say enough to do justice to her inspiration. She had many dreams in her life–grand ones!–and taught me the importance of living well, in so many ways, of loving well. She taught me, too, to dream.

I think of these dear moments, as snow falls gently here on a Sunday morning, snow that cannot decide if it might not rather be rain on this not-so-cold day, day that despite big storms and exertions of winter, may–as the groundhog promised– consider the possibility of spring not so long from now, days that repeat in all the splendor that this life brings us.

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.

Rush rush, it was a distraction, this concern for neatness and order and first appearances and respectability, this date, this coffee, this expectation for something, what?, something. He was handsome, yes, this was true, thoughtful enough to look after her, attracted, it seemed, it was fucking obvious. Her cunt throbbed as she thought of his cock bulging beneath the running shorts, as she thought of this entry hall, his soothing hands now roughly holding her wrists up to the wall as he would growl into her ear. You like it like this, he would tell her, he would know. Eileen slipped her fingers beneath her panties, wet, of course, wetter. Dizziness overwhelmed her, she longed for this fuck-drunken want, a rare thing still, not rare to lust in general, to want sex, but precious to want so specifically, him, to imagine his hand now gliding over his thick cock perhaps, perhaps right now, perhaps his own thoughts of reaching round to unfasten her pants, to catch the string of her panties, to rip, push his fingers between her swollen lips. She pushed her fingers into her pussy, sighed, dashed up the stairs to lie down.

The bed was unmade, still, bad girl, the sheets turned back already. Eileen pushed off her shorts, and pulled her damp t-shirt over her head. Her bra was wet, and her nipples stuck to the fabric as she unfastened the back and peeled clothing off, exposing her skin to the cool room. Nipples hardened, and she touched them, thrilled still more with the flutter in her belly as she felt herself. Delicious to touch, to slow, to wait, to want, too much, she fell to the bed, back, eager for satisfaction, but more, the intensity of desire. A tease, she told herself, oh, just a little. Her panties fell from her hand to the ground, her legs fell apart, spread a little, a little wider, oh. Yes.

It was the clock downstairs that awakened Eileen, a half hour? a quarter? She wasn’t sure, rolled to see the alarm clock. One-thirty? Already? No, two-thirty! Two-thirty, slow clock, two-forty! She jumped, looked at her hair, still pulled from the pony tail, strands pulled loose, fix later. The red panties, bra, go ahead, if not now, then when? Pants. No, not those. Skirt. Yes, no. Sweater, shirt better, button to here, no, one more, on second thought, no, yes red shows through, too late now, too late, lipstick, leave now, go, he is waiting. Go now.

Tom stands on a corner, two fifty-eight. He stands, and watches, jeans, henley shirt. He stands and watches her wild hair loose now as she pulls the pony tail out and glances at her reflection in a car window. A mess, she is. A mess I’ll tell you, he will see her lack of order, her chaos, her respectability non-existent now, the lusty nap evident, isn’t it? she thinks, better to know now, she thinks, then doubts. Then he smiles.