thursday afternoon


Waiting, were you?..

I was late, too, coming here hurried, to your lips, waiting, your hands unbuttoning and pushing my dress from my shoulders… now just lace and pearls, naughty and nice, sugar and spice, sweetness and light.. and dark. Dark here in the afternoon light, fading in the clouds, promising rain, promising….

lazy days

It is Sunday afternoon, and I cannot seem to get myself out of bed.

The telephone rings. I know it is you, and yet.. I cannot quite get myself to reach over and pick it up.

I want to tease you, want to torture you little more as you sit still in your car outside my house, knowing I have just spent a good hour upstairs fucking another man. Will you stay? or if you will leave in utter despair at this new level of decadence?

The phone rings once more…
This all was your idea, you know, though you may now regret it. It was your idea to spy on these interludes.

The suitable character for this scenario is a friend of yours, you tell me–I have never seen him. You know my type, though, know I’ll like the beard, the strong shoulders defined by his dress, the white sleeves rolled to the elbow, the fisherman’s cap perched jauntily on his head, the red curls, the fair skin, the faint fresh smell of soap… innocent he seems, though not young. And now he is here, obviously… interested. He is here, and I see your car parked across the street as I open the door and let him into my house. He is standing here in the doorway, takes off his cap right in the spot where you yourself kissed me this morning.

He is perfect, really. Soft-spoken, amusing, as we exchange pleasantries in the hallway. I have made tea, and he takes a cup, sipping as we chat in the living room for a few minutes. The tea is hot, black, sugared, steam in my face, making me flush… or is he making me blush as I warm up, relax? He pages through the purple book on the coffee table, and mentions something about the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River… ah.. yes. Well, then, this is not some thug, some ordinary guy, not a figment of my imagination this time, but a real person you hand picked for me… And as he sets down the book and leans over me, abruptly emphasizing the purpose of this visit.

He is handy with his tongue, quite handy, I say as his soft lips press into mine, his tongue circling slowly, gently, then not so gently as I tease back… and I think of you sitting there in your car. Do you wonder now what we are doing? He is kissing me, kissing my neck, biting me now until the goosebumps appear on my arms. I imagine you there, scanning the radio stations, your cock rock hard.

The thought of you there makes me lustfully giddy. You choose your friends well, my dear, and I hesitate a bit at first as he backs away and takes my hand. I stand, then walk across the room and up the stairs, feeling guilty, perhaps, guilty, as I realize that my panties are already soaking wet.

I dash upstairs, nervous, wanting this, not wanting this. Your friend follows, then grabs my hand again, stops at the top of the stairs and pulls me close, pinning me to the wall. I feel his cock stiff and pressing into my hip as he kisses me silently again, letting his hands run down my hips, my thighs.. He pushes me into the bedroom.

He stands there in his button-down shirt and his suspenders–really?!–and his trousers, and speaks not a word as he unbuttons my gauzy blouse and kisses my nipples–I did not wear a bra. And you are sitting down in the street, in your car, waiting, as I feel my swollen pussy start to throb, aching with excitement.

There you are in your front seat–yes, I can see you now!–sweat running down your bare forehead, a catch in your throat, your heart beating faster as you see me, then a shade… You look up as shadows walk in front of the bedroom window, and then disappear.

And yes, he is still undressing me now, sliding that translucent blouse off my shoulders. I think of you, but my excitement is too much, too much to contain as I fall back onto the bed, as he unzips my snug black skirt, slides it over my hips and stops to admire the black silky panties you gave me to wear today–the same ones you dressed me in this morning. He pushes the lace aside to let his fingers trace my wet labia.. I am so wet, so wet. He smiles at this, and I resist, feigning modesty… He smiles, and I yield, gleefully, as his hands abruptly pull off the soaked satin and push my legs wide apart.

I know that you are there, there downstairs, tapping your hand on the steering wheel, looking at your watch. I know that I want you… and that I am here, my legs still spread open while another man kneels at my bedside with his head between my legs. He lets his tongue tease me for a moment before he stands, then strips his clothes off in front of me. He tosses his shirt, his trousers (suspenders and all) at the foot of the bed, as he pauses, then peels off his briefs and looks at me again, his cock now free and rising from his red curly hair. He reaches into my nightstand–you must have told him–and rips open a condom, rolls it down his huge cock.

Your friend is about to fuck me, and I am not unimpressed with his maneuvers, not uninterested in his fingers now on my clit–so attuned to my breathing–Oh god–as his finger circles then teases, just inside, my moans louder and louder as I arch back, quickly losing all control… “Don’t stop!”–while the phone is ringing, and I know it is you.

I don’t answer, wait, want to, want to tease you at first. And then I want to answer, but cannot answer.. cannot answer as his tongue is now sucking my clit, his fingers reaching inside me as I am so close to coming. So close. I cannot resist, as he stops!, his hands now pulling me roughly to the edge of the bed as he stands and pushes my cunt open, as his cock glides deep into my swollen tight pussy. Oh I need it, need this… His enormous cock fucks me hard, fast–just the way I need to be fucked right now. Just the way you picture it as you sit down in your car below.

I gasp, think I hear the door downstairs, a little afraid, a little hopeful that you have come to watch me here like this. It is only the wind, though, and I look up at this stranger’s face, soft, then tense, his eyes shut–oh fuck–his cock ever closer to bursting… I can feel him swell, as he slows, then pulls out a bit, grunting, breathing…

“You are a good fuck,” he growls, ramming then hard into me. He pushes deeper now, and I feel light, light, feel his cock like fireworks deep inside, dancing… I am drunk in the decadence, sweating, thrashing, as his climax then sends me over the edge, too.

A good fuck? Then I think… I think I have done nothing here, nothing that impresses me personally… There is nothing I can claim but the wanton lust that brought me to this situation in the first place.

I cannot stop thinking of you, there, waiting, tortured, your cock swollen, your mind reinventing all that we are doing here now. I imagine your bulging jeans, still zipped but full of hot envy. I imagine you, as you dial, hear the phone ring, then my message answering as you look at the windows, think of whether to come in, to join us perhaps? Or perhaps just to watch. Or, not.

We fucked, that’s all…

I want you now, want the familiar urgency and moans of you…

I want you, want to feel the rage of you, pushing me into the bed and telling me what a slut I am as you fuck me, fuck me harder and faster than your friend. I want you, want you to tell me how naughty I have been, how naughty you have to spank me now, bent over your knee now and exposed, wet you know as your fingers make their way between my legs, your fingers now wet, fucking my holes forcefully. I want you, want me bent over your lap, you throbbing, you pushing my head down onto your needy cock.

Your friend gathers his clothes quickly, puts them on before he leaves, I am sure. He leaves as soon as he comes, throwing the used condom in the wastebasket as he slips out the door. He turns, and blows me a kiss, winks.

“Thanks to both of you,” he smiles.

And I lie here, lazily wrapped in the bedsheets, lazily lying here, naked, well-fucked and yet wanting you. The phone rings again. I reach across to the nightstand, and pick up the receiver….

come together

“Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die.”
(E.M. Forster, Howard’s End)

In walking tightropes, perhaps it is better, always, to reserve the right to fall off.

Even if there is no net.

In fact, it may be even better to leap.

Tightropes are for performers, for those skilled enough to put on a show, to appear…

In control.

But we are human, can never avoid falling, getting hurt, scraping knees and feelings, feeling less than we should, more than we should… and really, there is no “should”.

We love. We live. And if we really want to know what it is to be human, the depth of it, we share.

This is the connection: prose and passion…

It is in all of this, this glorious fucking pleasure skin against skin touching wonder full love human love you and words imperfect words trying words.. that I find life: exactly what it is to be human and alive on this earth.

come undone

There are many small unspoken formalities around fucking casually. And that means that it is never casual.

Respect boundaries.
Ask not.
Live in the moment.
Live for the moment.
Enjoy yourself.
Enjoy this.

It seems so easy, so beautiful to exist on a plane where we unite with another human soul… where we unite within boundaries, where we are safe, where we care, make a connection, fulfill a need, love.


This is the tricky one: defining love, defining those moments when we wish for another not in this moment, but in another moment.

It is a tightrope to walk, this erotic exploration, this pushing of some boundaries, but not of all, this heady journey into the taboo, into you…

this dance of desire, of being there, just enough, not too much. This dance of want, wanting

Lust, as the Germans say? No. Lust, as I say.

It is beautiful to live this erotic life

But careful

And yet, every word here is a word of falling.

A word written in absence.

A word written in memory.

A word written in longing.

A word written, falling,

For you.

summer nights

“Tell me more, tell me more, did you get very far?”

June comes, and it is as though the world is painted pink. Or rose. We wear those glasses, and everything seems to be in its place, only everything changes. Everything is suddenly wonderful–or so it seems. A phone rings, a siren sounds, and we answer, running far far through the air, drifting off to sea, toward all that seems true and bright and there.

Kissing in moonlight, in starlight, in sunlight, by the river, by the ocean, in bed the next day.

Summer romances seem so real, but fall comes, and we realize that they were only dreams.

Dreams of sand, dreams of sun. Dreams of windows down and windblown hair.

Dreams of hair and hands and arms, lips, necks, shoulders, waists pulled closer. Dreams of cocks, panties sticking. Dreams of seeing a dream, walking with a dream, riding a dream long into the night, sweet dream sweat dripping…

But not for too long; for summer goes nearly as quickly as it comes.

The intensity of it tricks us, and makes summer all seem more real.

But soon the days grow shorter, cooler… and the kisses become less urgent, less tangible, and before long, kisses are only words on a page.

And we wake up, a little sad, perhaps. A little tearful for some time… until life returns, until we return…

…until we return, a little wiser, a little sad, a little sorry, a little glad in spite of it all…

Until we return to life, and life returns to us. Are we the same now? Is life the same now? We return–imperfect us: summer lovers, summer drifters–back here, back into the rich, real life we never really left… the rich, real life that we hoped for all along.

take me to the ocean

I walked the dunes today. Clear, cool, the sun leaving its kiss, its sublime sting. I feel it now, thinking of the light sand, the lichen, the weathered trees. I climbed, and my legs are tired, invigorated, my soul renewed.

Nature restores. The waves wash in and bring new ideas, turn over the sand, bring treasures sometimes when we look around in the right places. Clouds separate sky from sea, and the water lulls me, whooshing in and out gently, hypnotizing me, seducing me like a god.

I find my way home, tea, comfort, quiet.. Autumn comes in solemnly, night soothing, sleep.

by the time i get to …

Paris. Yes, Paris would be lovely, so lovely to take off in a plane right now and land somewhere familiar, yet far, far away.

It would be cool, because it is September. And God knows there are strikes going on right now. I might be stranded at some café, ordering kir if I feel particularly fancy, or maybe just une demi-bouteille de n’importe quoi. Because it’s just that kind of a day, don’t you know?

It’s just the kind of day when it would feel grand to flirt in a language that is not my own. It would be grand to be outrageous and feel no undue attachment, because it is not my land, not my place..

And yet it is my life. I could talk, walk, float through the grey skies and smell the bread, the diesel fuel, the coffee. I could walk, hear the honking horns, the far-off music in a taxi, footsteps, voices I understand, and yet I could detach. It would be so grand not to feel too much but the fleeting sensations I encounter.

Of course, after a while, it would not be like this. I would start conversations, remember people, and the language would all gain a context, a history. Then it would not be the same. But it would be separate from this life. In the long run, I would miss all my love. But right now? The antiseptic of the only vaguely familiar calls to me right now, at least for a little while…