trickle

I was thinking back to that day in the museum.

I was thinking back to sitting in the museum cafe with you. You ordered something with polenta. I was drinking gewürztraminer, but I don’t remember at all what I ate, or if I ate.

All I remember was my cunt pulsing wildly after you fucked me in the men’s room.

It was glorious, you know. I remember sitting in the restaurant, with jeans and no panties, the seams sticking to my wetness. I remember that sudden warm rush as I shifted, and your come gushed from my pussy, soaking my jeans.

It made me hot with want for you then, love. You know? I wanted you then, wanted to take you back home and fuck you wildly all afternoon.

These moments are my museum, you know, these collected works of fucking you. Of loving you.

I wonder how the critics would see these works over time. Would they scoff at the sheer indecency of it now, proclaim it genius later? That is the way, the stereotypical response of misunderstanding.

Or would they find it forever nostalgic drivel? Love is such a common sentiment, after all.

But it inspired me then.

I think of all the moments I never would have enjoyed with you, if I had seen them without the lenses I wore, the ones that cast a pink happiness on everything we were.

You had the best of me, when I loved you.

No. That’s not really true.

You had the best of me when I thought you were the one in love.

ripe morning

My clit is like a ripe grape this morning, juicy fruit, pop, not a cherry, but the stuff of swollen dreams, slumbered screams scattered through the bedsheets.

I lie in bed, warm, spread my legs my pussy drenched I don’t remember. It must have been about you.

A pinch to my nipple sends shock waves through my belly, straight to my cunt, my core being. The first. Kindling. I want to be your come-slut.

In scene two, you have grabbed my feet and pulled me to the end of the bed, where you kneel and devour my pussy, fingers roughly responding to my greedy lust. Fuck my ass. Yes, just like that. exactly like that. precisely. like. that.

I knew you’d hold me down, make me open, keep me there, raw, ready, make me swell, squirm, surrender.

“You want to be used, my little naughty?”

Oh I do, a steady succession of cock, assorted shape, assorted size, assorted whimpers, moans, muffled cries, at last, it is loud, I know, and you are holding my hand here on earth..

Use me last, love, you, lust lucky me as you watch what you have created.

I wish you were here. You are here.

rope

My lover and I have been experimenting with our adventures, expanding the limits of what we even thought we were capable of doing together.

This is what has led me to thoughts of gang bangs, and various other entanglements that have challenged me in various ways. It is intensely emotional, with the potential to blow the mind…

Nothing has captivated me more, though, than the ruby red rope he brought to my house a few weeks ago. It is gorgeous, particularly against creamy, white skin. I always had fantasies of being tied up. Cords still are attached from years ago when he tied me to the bed. But this was something different.

I thought it was all about the restraint, the dynamic of powerlessness within the scenario. I thought it was about submission, and trust. And it is. Oh yes, it is. I love this, love letting myself enter into that pure space–but this is only the second half.

Last week, the day before my birthday, my lover set to tying me up. He cut the rope into lengths, then started wrapping it around me. Too tight? too loose? How does it feel? It felt glorious…the vulnerability, inescapable. Submission, permission, admission, this sublime gift.

But there is something more that I never thought to consider. The intricate knots, the maneuvering.. it all takes time–and attention. It is perhaps this that I crave more than anything else. I bask in the glow, but it takes time, effort, patience. His, and mine. Tying me up, being tied up, it all is a careful exercise, foreplay, a meditation…

speed limit

It was posted there, on the  left side of my brain, the speed limit.

I have been playing life way too safe.

My first car was a 72 Chevelle, three on the tree manual. The guy who sold it to me took me to a parking lot and took a few turns around the parking lot to show me how to let up the clutch, smoothly, so I didn’t kill the engine. Then he left me there. “Drive it back,” he said. “If you like it, we’ll talk money.”

I liked it.

Girls don’t drive muscle cars. I got that concept quickly enough when I brought it home. But I loved the thrill of speed, the exhilarating rumble of a revved-up engine, ready for green. Go. Go, I got my tickets, not many, didn’t get caught so often or talked my way out of most things, no excuses, just temporary insanity of sorts, drunk, not on late night beer, but on the temptation of a clear road, clear night, a car poised next to me at the light, his accelerator pushed to the floor, my feet dancing that balance between the clutch, green, down first up, down second up, down, third up quickly, and yes, yes, I raced him, raced far past the 30 mph, not to the 80 spray-painted over it, but fast, so fast, until he passed me, or I passed him, sometimes, or one of us killed the engine losing it all in those careless early shifts. But more often we raced close, not sure winning was so much the point as being there, and free, and laughing as we soared out alone past the flat fields .

i have been playing life way too safe.

I forgot the thrill of the limits, living at the limits, or better, somewhere beyond them.  Not on automatic. Letting off the clutch. Shifting into high.