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.

pillow talk

My words were wandering, voices inflected, laughter, little more than that as we lay up in the dark room.

He is my friend, one I could tell anything, I imagine. I have. I am telling him my secrets about you, the things that you and I have done together, the things we might have.

We talked about sex parties and old lovers, and rhetoric. The comfort of words, here in the dark, devoid of anything but the warmth that eases them from brain to brain, topic to topic, bouncing and gently swaying sometimes. I thought of you, there, thought of the first star, and the dreams I long pushed down, as if my wishing would make them fade fast instead of bringing them to life. I wish, still.

My face reveals nothing here in the night, I realized, and I could just turn away, quietly. He didn’t have to know, and neither do you.

I realized then what I was trying to say to you, what I told you I wanted.

Not this. Not quite.

I lie in the dark and swap stories with my friend. We could fuck.

We could fuck and still be friends, and lie here in the dark, and it would not mean so much, except that we had fucked and laughed and were still friends.

And still, none of this is what I want with you.

I want context.

I want the dark.

I want the comfort.

I want the quiet and the night, your hand softly brushing mine.

I want to lie with you here, in the dark, and plot and scheme, the words as much the adventure as what we’ll do to invent them. As much as all we did to speak now.

I want to hear what you thought, today, and tomorrow, and what you think about what I thought.

Is it to0 late, for us, for pillow talk?

Were we looking for adventure? to feel alive?

Oh, love, the novelty of the moment is charming.. but it was never the new that thrilled me, you know.

It never was the shimmer on the surface, the fleeting smile that caught my eye.

It was the memory of the shimmer, of your smile back, thousands of nights later, the footsteps we heard, the knock at the door we answered, and invited in, and kept, treasure like the first night, retold, stripped down to this touch so familiar, the breath, so precious, ours.

details

Yesterday, in my current searching, or as some might prefer.. midlife crisis… I went for a sexuality consultation.

I thought that I would spend my time talking about woohoo taboo sex I wanted to try, and all the things I fear expressing, like some desire for anal fisting, or more…

It was not about that. Nope. My erotic is so bland, my friends. And yet, it thrills me beyond belief to think of it.

I had the task of writing down my deepest desires–not sexual, mind you, but emotional. My very skilled sexuality counselor, whose name I want permission to reveal, took me on a journey that I hardly expected when I entered the doors of her Center. I started talking about.. well.. why? Why I was there?

I had come, because sex was always a problem. Wasn’t it? Was it for you? Were you slut shamed? I was. Oh yes, I was, and yet.. and yet, it was not about that.

She told me that the top three desires according to studies are: to be seen, to be craved, and to know that what we are doing is exciting to our partner. Really. Not blow jobs, after all. We desire authenticity and vulnerability. And I do, too.

I thought of this, in the context of all my recent wildness, and what more of that, to me, the intimacy I have found in it. I want my lover, so much. But I want the little things.

Oh god, I want his glasses on my nightstand when I roll over at 6am when the light stream into the bedroom. I want him to roll closer to me in the middle of the night, and grab me close to him, not out of desire, but out of instinct. I want to drink wine with him in the kitchen while I make us dinner. I want him to text me something funny he thought of in the middle of the day. I crave this simplicity so much, it moves me, and yet it seems so faraway and hard to ask for. This is my erotic. Really. This is what I want.

I think of this, sometimes, when I see people who have loved one another for years and years. They grab onto these things, these precious tangible bits of everyday life, as though they are gems. And they are, they truly are.

I want to fuck, but wild sex seems so easy, really. It may not be so obvious to the rest of the world, I guess. It freaks guys out to have a woman start to explore their asshole.. sometimes. But I would do that. I would spread my legs, and fuck a bunch of men mindlessly to turn you on. What turns me on is to watch you brush your teeth.

I wonder why, I do. I wonder why I feel so hot and bothered and horny beyond belief at these small, ordinary things.

And I know: it makes me feel safe to watch your tedium; it sets me free.

 

 

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…

everyday

I wish for this, for the mundane, for the everyday.

It seems elusive for the outlaws in this world, love, the misfits like me. Like you.

I want love. I want to make you dinner.

Flannel shirt unbuttoned low, scruff beard brushing my face as you pull me close. This is the stuff that others have, that I want. This is the stuff I dream about.

Your muddy shoes lie askew in my entry hall, just like you, your fevered touch, your breath hurried on the first step, the step up to my bed, your cock already in my mouth, here. I can never deny you. I want you, too, want too much, want to please, know I please you now, then, tomorrow.

But it is not this, never this, never the trickling down my deepest throat, no not my fingers dug deep into your throbbing holes. Not my climax, the satisfaction of my frantic moans in the night, your tongue on my clit, your cock pumping me white, to limp, still wanting.

I want you, want your skin, the shirt you wore while working, your warm hands in my hair, late in the night, sleepy night.

I want you to want me.

No.

I want you to need me, to wait at my door in the night, late night, night of desperation. Knob Creek sending you to me against your better judgment. I want you to want me in your drunken unconscious moments. I want to be there, then, because I know you know better.

I know you want me, then, know that your mind wanders, that if you had the time, you would run away with me.

feu sans artifice

I walked back into the half-lit bedroom, the morning already swelling, fine linens wrinkled and damp from a night of quiet sweat. Yesterday I covered the windows with dark draperies, shield me from the heat, the invading sun.

It came, anyway, sweet irresistible summer, long longed for, in the ice barren hard ground, seems anything would be better than that bitter void, lone white world. It was, the ferns all green growing, thick, the Queen Anne’s lace, hard to tell the flowers from the weeds in this sort of place, hard to know until you see a real flower, a rose, a daisy.

Your skin still smolders, body inert so strange now so familiar in my bed, arms so powerful wilted now, fireworks forth, dreams took you, at last, I see.

The air is fresh outside, I know, breeze from the bathroom window cool in the early day, lawnmowers next door rousing me from my own slumber. But no, I barely slept.

It was not the heat, the hum, the long line of light streaming onto the floor from the edge of the window that awakened me, love. I waited for you, waited years, love, wait weeks now, habit of lust, your smile renewing my faith, for now.

You lie so still, no revelations, discreet charm disarmed me. Your arms, too strong not to let you, not to let you trace your lips down my face, my neck, my toes reaching to tease you, despite this, despite the suffocating heat, desire. Don’t. The thrill, the exhaustion of exertion, wanting. No, no, so much, too much, overwhelm me with green, groan. Oh I want this quiet so much, in the morning, you now, defenses gone, stripped bare, this kiss, tender, gentle, seeking, true.