take out

“Just pull over there!”

It was a McDonald’s. A McCafé, fine, but despite the fancy new façade , he could not see the point of stopping beneath the golden arches, even for ice cream on a hot day. Truth be told, she wasn’t even sure the stuff in their cones really was ice cream, and she was well aware of the line snaking around the parking lot and out into the street.

“Over here,” she pointed, and he obediently pulled in behind a gold minivan. An SUV pulled up quickly in back of then. They were stuck.

“I hope you are satisfied,” he said to her, glancing at his watch, and the sky, and the line of cars in front of them. She quickly pushed her hand into his crotch.

“Hardly satisfied,” she said, and felt his cock inflate quickly into her hot hands. He looked out the window at a couple walking by into the restaurant, looked at her, and pushed her hand away.

“No, not here.”

The ever-growing bulge in his pants begged to differ, so she put her hand back and listened until his voice acquiesced.

Her own crotch ached now as she turned, moved her other hand onto his pants. The car lurched forward once, then again. She pulled his belt tight, then let it unfasten quickly, the button to his jeans, the zipper as he watched the traffic, and Ronald McDonald, and the voices not so far ahead now.

She quickly opened his pants and turned to kneel on the floorboard in one quick if awkward movement, her face now hidden in his lap, her arms pulling themselves from her long sweater, the sweater now covering his lap and her head, and she heard him moan gently as she licked his smooth cock, the intoxicating raw smell of it, his cock and nothing more. She felt the car move once more.

“May I take your order?”

“Yes, we’ll.. I’ll have a cone. Two cones. Swirl.” He got the words out just as she took his cock greedily between her moist lips, then peeked from underneath the sweater to see him close his eyes as he throbbed deep in her throat.

“We cannot do swirls tonight, sir. We only have vanilla.”

“Only vanilla. That’s fine. Whatever you have.”

“$1.98, sir. First window.”

She felt him pull the car out of park, and she pulled away from his cock, away, and then let him slide it back into her mouth farther, farther, as he slowly accelerated. The car braked suddenly. He moaned loudly, pushed at her head. Stop. Stop.

“No!” she said loudly, startling even herself at the force of her words, and he looked down at her, seemed stunned as her wet hot mouth enveloped his cock once more.

He covered her once more with the sweater, then fumbled in the change drawer for enough quarters to avoid the search for his wallet as he pulled up.

“Two cents is your change, sir. Next window.”

His cock grew even harder in her mouth now as he wiggled in his seat, trying to find some relief in spite of his need to come as she sucked him, as she let her tongue tickle at just the spot she knew would soon make him lose control. She sucked hard, then stopped as he reached for the cones. He grabbed them quickly, handed one to her. She held it out, like a beacon, as he turned into a parking space near the trees. He let his seat recline as the ice cream dripped in her hair, as he pushed her head down, as he thrust his cock deeper into her mouth once, shouting, twice, exploding, vanilla ice cream dripping down from her hair to her neck, his heat dripping down her throat. He panted, now softer but still thrashing like a spent garden hose, her face flush, wet, licking ice cream and kissing him with that come and sweet mixture now in his mouth, too, her gleeful smile beaming back then as he held his dripping cone and brushed back the sweat from his own forehead and looked at the cone, then at her, then licked at it before it all melted.

They finished their cones there, in the parking lot, then licked fingers, zipped pants, sat like proper people once more, and exited the busy drive-through.

She glanced out the window now at the sky, pink and orange in the early evening. She glanced at him, at his jeans and the wet spot, the drips of ice cream that would soon fade. She glanced at his hands, and at his eyes, which creased now as he laughed at her, and she shifted on her seat, her legs sticking to the leather, her panties clinging, rubbing against her own yet unfulfilled lust. She glanced again at the darkening sky, the street lights, the road leading not to the cinema as they had planned, but a left turn.. a u-turn. He reached for her hand. She sighed. And they drove back toward the sky. Back to her home. Back to the hours. Back to have it her way.

message 1

Since my hasty retreat to the backwoods, I had found myself slipping into a routine–or more, a ritual that focused on my own survival here in this unfamiliar world, and after a time, an appreciation of the time I had to work on my own projects. It was what sustained me through those lonely early months of what I first considered a sort of imprisonment, despite the natural beauty of the place I now called home.

I am off the grid, as they say, and the cool mornings even as I arrived in the summer prompted me to begin my day by lighting the fire in the old stove. I had used one like this during my years in the north country, and always hated the mess of the ashes all over the kitchen floor. But here, this was my only chance for daily caffeine, and I was thankful for the fix, even now. And the cleaning was no longer such a burden without the rush to get out the door that had plagued me when I could still remain in urban settings unnoticed. I soon found that my daily routine now would revolve around care of the garden, then of the harvest and other winter preparations, laundry, lettering, and cooking.

Calligraphy seemed a necessity now as words and images came into my head, compelling me to give them shape and substance, to set them free.  Cooking, on the other hand, was one of the sole pleasures I could award myself now without music. It was a celebration of all that was still possible, even here alone in the woods, and it would remain my true source of happiness as the arsenal of staples remained in the pantry.

The cool mornings became longer, and I began lighting another stove some days, a procedure that varied in time, depending on the quality of the wood: the clean, dry pieces lit up like matches themselves, but the green wood, the damp wood required more patience, a quality that was necessary, if painful in the early stages of development.

It seemed at first here that I waited for everything. I waited for Thursday, the day every week when I could follow the intricate map that I kept folded in my pocket at all times. The crease lines and smudged ink already made the paper look like a relic, and so I had painstakingly traced the trails onto thin paper that I glued into the front of my writing journal, in case I ever lost the original. In the weeks so far that I had made the trek, I wrote down details of landmarks, and then began to notice the week-to-week changes in the foliage, in the footprints I found on the trails, in the sky, and the weather. These were splendid moments I awaited now, as if I were meeting a lover, though what I found at my destination was so far from the encounters I used to know, so far from the human touch that I continue to crave.

I want to hear your voice. It is so quiet here, and I think I might die to hear the honey drip from your throat and into my ears. I have imagined this sweetness sometimes so much in my loneliness that I used to think I might go insane as I wondered if you ever doubted my feelings for you now months after my retreat. I have missed you. I have missed music. I have missed the comforting whir of a refrigerator, the technological clicks that I never noticed before. I have missed the ring of a telephone, the you’ve got mail, and I have missed my heart beating when I could look and see that it was you, you, looking for me.

The packages at the end of the trail contained all the necessities agreed upon before I disappeared, a few regular extravagances like the coffee, and every once in a while, a luxury that could bring me to tears: chocolate-covered orange peels, Irish butter packed in dry ice, fresh figs, the Chanel perfume I used to wear, French lingerie. These small items were the only indications I still had that you were anywhere in this world still beyond my own imagination, and yet each time I opened the sack to find items precious only to me, I could feel that rare warmth of desire, your scent throughout all of the contents. My load those days then was light as I hiked back up the hill, if only to fall into the featherbed and into the fantasy that other days I could not bear.

(to be continued)

shower scene

I know you are here, near, though you have not called. You have a key, and can come and go as you please.

The shower is finally warm, I am warm, wet, and I hear the door click downstairs, footsteps on the stairs, quiet, the curtains parted and your cold rough face on my shoulders, your kisses, your searching hands, mine, the thrill of gratification.


Now, the evening is clear, crisp. It feels like fall, sweaters and cider, you standing behind me, your arms around, cold hands beneath the warm wool. Gasp, and you make my eyes shut as the bliss of your pinch registers in my mind, the fire catching the wind and blowing up, sucking oxygen from the air as I hold out a stick and carelessly burn another marshmallow. It looks so innocent here in the grass, a couple and a Weber grill, smores that I will forget to eat as soon as the kitchen door shuts and you have turned me around, pinned my wrists against the wall until my resistance is gone, and we are roughly tugging at clothing, aware of the long craving, aware of the long night.


“No, no.. it’s too cold!” I shout, in just to my ankles in the clear pond.

But I walk deeper, still, to mid-thigh, and let my body adapt to the shock of water.

It never works to enter into these affairs slowly, I know. I yearn for this, for water, and so it is not long before I am underwater, head immersed suddenly despite the chilling breathlessness in the gesture. The discomfort lasts only a moment, but you are already way beyond me, motioning to me to come out past the ropes, deeper. I look back at the land and suddenly fear that my legs will cramp, that I will drown, that something dreadful will happen here–and I wonder why–I know that in another day or two I will find my skin and return, alone if everyone else finds me too foolish to follow.

When you are not here, I dive right in. I defy the lifeguards, lure others out farther, farther out. But when I see you, I feel suddenly shy, want you to lead me even farther into the murky depths, into danger–back home.

And so we are here, once more.

I say “we”, and yet, in this moment, I am alone here, at least physically. I cannot erase you from my mind as I wait, blindfolded, for you to come back to the bedroom and make me pull at the ropes you have secured around my ankles and wrists.  I have known this feeling before, the terror first at relinquishing control, then the soaring freedom, intense and remarkable even in these moments that seem never to end. You have left me here, my shoulders and back covered in the warm blankets, my legs spread to expose all my secrets, my desire. You have filled me, painted me, left me alone to let the sensations wander into my body and stay, heat intensified as my inability to shift, to move becomes uncomfortable, as I think to touch myself and then cannot, as I wait and try to relax.

The door opens. I realize how deep I have gone into myself, how safe I have felt in this permission I grant myself now to abandon the world beyond the bed. You must see the wet spot beneath me, see my glistening skin as you walk around me. Pull me deeper, love, I wish, as you trace a fingertip up the length of my body, stop to twist my nipple, first gently, then harder, harder, until I groan, and arch my back, deeper, deeper into the bed, into my own lust.

Soft caresses tickle my arms, my feet, my belly, then sting once, then twice, then again, then gentle again, soft. I see nothing, imagine you standing above me, wish for your cock now, just to see it, if nothing else, just to lick you, taste you, dig my fingernails into your cheeks, my slick fingers then carefully opening you, excavating, thrilling. I want to satisfy you, but cannot, here, you pushing me beyond you, beyond my need to satisfy you. You, pushing me deep into myself. This is what terrifies me the most.

You are near, not touching, warm, breathing, hot skin.

You, quiet, kneel at the foot of the bed and nuzzle your face into me. You lick. I gasp.

I clench, the vibrations intoxicating, my clit tender and throbbing now just from your breath so close. You lick me again, and I moan, pull at the restraints, and feel near tears now, your hand now not gentle. A sting, then just heat, wet. You pet my blazing skin once more.

This could go on for days, I know, this torturous desire for more. More pain, more kisses, more licks. I want you to fuck me, but I do not want this to end. Not really.

But you are rougher now, the stings becoming regular across my legs, my belly, my breasts, and there seems no end. You have lit the jasmine candles–the room may be dark now–or is it incense? No, I think it is the candle, the one on the windowsill, the one in the blue jar. Yes, oh yes, I try to imagine the room, want something to hold onto now. I could say one word, but I feel myself slip into this protected space, so far away, until I want to stay in this world of pleasure promised. Pleasure, if pleasure only when you stop. Pleasure, if more, much more.

Much more. Your fingers jolt me back close to you, then dive into me, remove the toys you have put there–balls and plugs and such–and return once more, one, two, more. I want more, you, your fingers everywhere, my ass, my nipples red, sore from your attention, your mouth, your cock lively and gliding quickly into my slick cunt, then back out, you panting as you torment me–you may come quickly, I can feel as my cunt grabs, wanting, now my climax, close, your cock once more, gliding in, out, I want more, deeper, want your mouth sucking hard upon my nipples now, and you are, you are. More. Yes.

I want you to untie me now. I want to put my arms around you and hold you deep inside of me while the come pumps out of you. You leave me tied, but do not pull out right away as you lie on top of me, breathless. I feel the ropes loosen, and I pull, now free, now my hands feeling the makings of a beard on you, your face close, though I still cannot see. And then I can barely see, even the candlelight blinding, my feet now free, too, as I pull you close with them, your belly soaked with the come still flowing from me while I kiss you, and you kiss me, here.

We are well beyond the ropes, now. We are in danger, I know.

Swim deeper.


The skin was broken, clean, throbbing, with the blood rushing out.

I reached for a towel, saw the coffee stains on it and paused to consider hygiene, strangely calm as I swooned, hypnotized still by the deep red spilling from my hand.

It ached, but not nearly so much as it had when I watched you, your scar open, red tissue exposed, endless. It seemed your entire guts would open up, that you would turn inside out and moan in pain. But you never did. You looked at me, instead, eyes wide and pale, seized by fear, seared into me as I imagined your pain, worse than my pain right now, pain and fear that beyond any desire I might have ever had in any moment, I desired to spare you, to replace with softness, with love.

I do not often write here of bruises, of the head bashed against the rock, the burning flesh, the motionless disassembled bodies pushed into emergency departments, a car seat in tow. I do not write here about the gaping wounds left by gun shots, the vomiting terror of a threat–he may mean it this time. I do not write here of the desperate faces on the street corner, the swagger of momentary entitlement as nameless human beings defy a street light, daring me to run them over as my car rushes to make the green. I swerve and I curse, and they win just that one moment, when they are not invisible. But I never write about this here.

I write about the clear days, the smile I see in your eyes when I look down at you, and you look back up at me–I cannot see the smile, the real smile, because your mouth is busy, and it is grand, oh yes grand to have such luxury in an ordinary day.

But let’s consider the blood, the oozing pain as I find the clean towel and wrap it around my hand. I can so easily share this news with anyone: my careless chopping of onions, garlic, carrots, celery, the magic mirepoix, my plans now thwarted perhaps by the mishap, the violence, the small inconvenience that is nothing–nothing–even close to a shattered life, blood that is easily everyday, everywhere.

We say it is unspeakable. But we speak about violence, remember it, gawk at it, share in its graphic tragedy. We speak of this terrible passion, that steals our souls, but we speak so rarely, so carefully, of the passion it takes from us, in joy, in love.

Do not speak.

Say nothing about pleasure.

Say nothing of gentleness, fingers in hair, of skin, open, throbbing, the come rushing out.

Say nothing, and perhaps it will never harm us.


The pond is cool, despite the heat of the days, the sweat running down my back.. but I have been running, working, and my legs are tired and sore. I have ached for this long afternoon, a lazy late day, a luxury.

September has come, and the leaves are brittle, some fallen now in rain, ground into the sandy trails I wander to find a secluded place to swim. The air is spicy, smoky in the breeze that sweeps down from up above, a few persistent picnickers reveling in these last few days of summer. It feels like the end, and so, in many ways it is the end.

Never swim alone, they say, and yet I take my chances here, in deep water, in the refreshing respite from everything that remains on shore. I dive into the pond and swim out, then turn back, if only because I fear I may swim clear across before I stop. No one is here. I peel my wet suit off, throw it back into the sand, let the cool water caress my ankles, knees, my whole naked body here in the low September sun.

It is like making love, here, but lonelier. The water touches me gently, and the sky overwhelms me, the sun, the pink clouds, a goose flying over, two. I swim out now, here to the very deep, to the middle, where I tread water, terrified only when I stop and find myself surrounded by such expanses–no land–exhilarated more that I can make it so far, look back at the distant shore and know that this pond is mine. I can swim across, and find myself naked on the other side, spent, free to walk through the paths with no cover, or to swim back, back through the deep cold.

The beach here, too, is deserted, and I hear no voices on the paths. No towel, I make the sand wet beneath me, my hair stuck to my head and shoulders. I could walk, yes–it might be prudent to stay on the ground now, to stay and make my way back on land, relative safety.

I walk. My hair is still sopping, and the breeze chills my wet skin, leaving goose bumps on my arms, leaving my nipples hard.

I know this path, have taken it countless times before. It is a rare day that an eccentric hiker would not venture here, a wanderer in search of some historic natural relevance. But no. I am completely alone as I walk on the pine needles, and in the soft soil beneath me, wet sand, now truly mud as I am farther from the water, higher, beneath the trees. I now feel completely naked, the breeze uncovering me, my fear of animals and insects more pronounced as I venture barefoot into the small sticks and pine cones.

My skin dries quickly, and I relax, now hearing the chatter of birds, the wind rustling the trees. A plane zooms high above. I am no longer cold, or hot, but hiking here, laughing as I recall the German parks, the F.K.K. sections–Freikörperkultur, free body culture. I am free. I am a nudist.

Even walking barefoot, a grown-up with no protection, I have always sensed some unspoken rule broken–no shoes, as though my feet had never been uncovered. It got better then, later, my feet stronger. Here, too, my body feels stronger, my long protected belly exposed to the light, the air. I am aware of the changes in my skin as I cross a tree, my legs spread, my sex exposed, too, and it excites me. It should not, I tell myself, wanting my body, only–not simply the heat. I suppress my wish to fuck you here in the woods. I take a breath, and walk on.

And I think of this, too: the vulnerability of bodies, the want and the need, the wish and the wandering there, the need to touch, to touch myself if not another.

My body is tired from the swim, bewitched by the water, drunk with the crunch of leaves, the breeze. I want so much more, but love what is here in spite of it, and life goes on, and I still want, still touch, still find my way around the paths, the chipmunks running into their hiding places, the stones in my way–they are my way, I do know.

I do not want to know my way, not all the time. I want to find a new way, the path more traveled. I am naked, expect any moment to be surprised by you, a surprise in the woods, a misplaced picnic, a Yogi, a boo boo, you, bare, your kisses soft and enticing. I am terrible at not wanting.

It is a cool day, a school day, a quiet weekday, and I make my way around to the cove where I left my clothes, my towel, my car keys, my writing book. Even my hair is nearly dry now, my body nearly used–the run, and the work, and the swim and the hike, the silence, desire. I will make risotto tonight, pour myself a glass of wine, play only songs I love, and sing along, love the soothing tiredness of my body, the day, my hair now waved and messy from the pond, my pond. I will cut the black-eyed susans, just a few for the table, more, laugh, hear all the news, the real world once more, climb into a warm bath, a soft bed. Yes, this is all good.

It is autumn, I know.