Observant observers can observe such observances:

They lie in the grass, spooned together. They are younger than I am, in their late teens, and a study in contrasts. Of the two, he is the slim and willowy one, a body constructed with a dancer’s build. His hair is ribboned in dreadlocks. He wears a colorful chapeau, an oversized t-shirt, and denim shorts. Her hair is straight, a long and Nordic blonde. She wears a bit of flesh on top of muscle, but it suits her constitution amiably. Her skirt extends to the calves, but it is split and not fully buttoned on the side. The size of her breasts makes her top swell.

I’ve been witness to moments like these. It fills me with a sense of regret, sadness, hope, and happiness all at the same time. It’s a strange mixture.

When my look returns to them, her skirt is bunched up. His hand has shifted to the outside of her thigh, where the contact is less blatant than before. The fingers tickle up and down between the line of the muscles. She covers his dusky palm with hers and scratches. His grasp on the smooth, pale skin is passive instead of possessive, though sexual all the same. She curls her bare foot against his and stretches her arm behind her to clasp the back of his head.

I imagine moments like these to be sun-drenched and over-exposed, like any bright Spring day should be, with colors too-vibrant and blown out. And I ache, a little.

She lives lit up in tiny screens nowadays, with the bright Parisian sun filling in the air around the pictures and sounds. Her hair seems blonder, brighter, in swoops and curls, brought up one day and then flopping fashionably around her face the next. Her voice, too, sounds so colored with French, as if the cuisine has altered the very movements and gestures of her tongue.

And here, with the rainy month of April refusing to give way, it makes me feel like everything around me is so pedestrian and monochromatic. A gray New York is instantly dirty and grimy, like the forgotten and discarded day-old newspapers collecting and brooding in the corners of subway cars. The frequent showers make it all a runny and cold soup.

I tell her of work and stress and things that I shouldn’t be wasting our time with, and it fills me with regret as soon as it leaves my lips. She smiles and I forget my cares. It’s the feeling of missing her that makes it so bittersweet.

Continue reading…

Haven’t we all felt the desire to manipulate the fast currents of time as we drift towards the inevitability of the universe?

Tonight, I want to linger, I want to stop time. I want to seize it, bend it, break it wide open, charging each endless moment with you, losing myself in fulfilling every one of your deepest, darkest desires.

And these deep, dark desires are very much worth reading.

To be honest, no, I probably wasn’t ever going to watch Sucker Punch. But, I suppose there was a chance I could have seen it, or could have wanted to see it, or could have been suckered into seeing it based on the over-stylized commercials and cheap appeal to my repressed and hormonal inner-teen.

But this about seals the deal:

Sucker Punch is an awful movie. You probably have heard that by now. What is really amazing is that it is so bad that I keep thinking about it. I dissect it as I try to identify every little thing wrong with it. My core problem is that the story is shit and I have literally seen better character development from stories told by children on the playground. It is stunningly awful.

I trust Shon Richards. With erotica, and porn, and nerdery, and shit to geek out over, and well, a lot. He’s a guy I can hang with.

So why do I bring up this awful movie at all? I have been in a creative personal slump. Work stress and health stress has eaten away at my creativity and like all insecure artists, I started doubting my ability to tell a story.

Then I see a trashy abortion like Sucker Punch and realize, “Fuck, even a Internet porn writer like myself could do better shit than this.”

Shon: you do way better shit, all the time.

Her legs trembled and quivered as she held her hips above my lap in a deep squat, knees bent and arms held out for balance. Turning her head to look at me with pleading eyes, she shook even more, the stress on her back and thighs wearing her patience thin.

I made her shed the sweaty gym clothes in a crumpled heap by the couch— the yoga pants that were so tight on her ass rolling off her legs, the bulky and shapeless sweatshirt unzipped and slid off her shoulders and arms, and the sports-bra-tank peeled up and over her body. The tight clothing left lines on her skin, and she smelled of fading deodorant and sweat. And then, I put her in position hovering over my lap.

My pants were undone and around my ankles with my cock standing stiff through the fly of my boxers. Any movement caused it to brush against her suspended pussy and she only sighed louder and shook with strain. I bet the tops of her thighs burned with lactic acid, and her back ached with stiffness. She wore sweat on her back like dew and her hair was already matted down from her workout at the gym.

Continue reading…

“I miss the feeling of you next to me,” the tinny voice says, the sound coming to me faster than the image can catch up.

She is in bed, I can tell by the pillows and headrest behind her, and the time difference is like that, because I just grabbed food on the way home from work. I’m hoping the bags under my eyes don’t show. I’m hoping the weary misery of her absence isn’t picked up by the tiny camera and shot over the wires and reformed on her screen for her eyes to see.

“Do you remember that time,” I say slowly, hoping so much that the movement of my lips isn’t too far behind the sound, “we got stuck in the rain over on the West Side?” She nodded.

We’d gone to an Indo-Chinese fusion restaurant that got some review on Yelp, and the food was terrible, over-spiced, and over-priced. The waiter kept looking down her shirt, my napkin was dirty, and we vowed never to trust online reviews again. And after leaving no tip (the first time I think I’ve ever done that), we stepped out to a miserable cold rain that soaked our jackets and seemed to dribble through her umbrella.

“We got home,” I retold the story, “and the first thing we did was peel off all our clothes and climb into bed.” She smiled and interrupted.

“You were an ice cube!”

“Hey, I think I was the one who warmed you up though,” I reminded her.

I smiled and our hearts ached and I’m sure we thought a little about fucking and a lot about how far we were, and just talked a little bit more and both decided it was time for bed, since neither of us was a fan of phone or video sex. Those alternatives would be pale and shallow, and in no way adequate enough.