I hear she’s not there anymore, and I guess for a time she and it, the city, were one and the same, as in, she was there and I was not. I’m in this city, and six hours at the speed of sun separated us even before either of us stood up to move. Facetime and texts and emails made it easier but how easy could it be.
If anyone asks now: no, there wasn’t a happy ending. I’ve never expected one.
I do this sometimes, and I feel the blip of heat wash over my face when I catch myself: I fantasize about what could have been. Is it wrong that now I imagine more the things I could have done more than I recall her face, her smile, her eyes, or the feel of her nude body against mine?
Regret is an awful, terrible thing.
But it feels so tempting and bittersweet, the nostalgia mixing in gently with the sad and sorry feelings that bring at once the false hope of different choices and the sickeningly sweet fantasy of a life different than the one that envelops the reality of the present.
It is times like this, and maybe I’m wrong, but I force myself to recall that which I can have no regret over: the things that have passed and will never pass again – acts and motions and senses and
It was not the last time we fucked, that I choose to remember. It was some time before that, maybe around my birthday, some time she let herself into my apartment and she barely opened her small carry on luggage the entire time she was here. Some time, long ago, when I opened my door to see her waiting for me.
The door shut loudly behind me of its own weight as I kicked off my shoes and in three strides crossed into the living room and where she and I were suddenly face to face and without a word lip to lip and hands and arms wrapped around each other thirsty for each other’s touch as if it would never be quenched without drowning.
The couch was the closest and we collapsed into it together, hips suddenly grinding and those jeans were so tight against her legs and ass that I peeled them off of her so they flipped inside out before her ankles and feet popped out and she deftly reached in to undo my belt and my dress pants. Shirts were pulled up and over our heads and her hair ballooned out before splashing over her shoulders in a golden sunburst the last thing I saw before my eyes closed as I plunged in with my mouth.
It washed over me in waves and I swam up and against the current to meet her lips and the kiss on my lips like a breath to my lungs burning for air before the next wave flushed me down again deeper still and I swam with my body arms and legs and pushing and the current pulling me down and up and again another kiss before going under.
It was like this: it was like drowning; it was like swimming against the current, the pull of the water both so strong and fluid and yet the tighter I held on the more it slipped out of my grasp.
And this is what I choose to remember, like now, in the icy hold of New York City winters where you have to remind yourself of the shortest month as the coldest cruelest month in which winter decides to bare its teeth in a flash you can’t yet tell if will result in a bite.
]]>Time does move forward here, seconds piling on top of seconds like the grains of sand formed by the sighing yield of the craggy titans cliffs; a surrender by inaction, rocks and boulders and rough stone facing a forced retreat into infinitesimilarity to dust. It is nothing, and what was left – the places we built and lived in and told each other stories in and laughed and cried and fucked and slept and woke and slept again were hollowed out long ago before the sea (the golden sea) moved in to take the place of our long forgotten ghosts.
And in the water the sand swirls by the backwash of the waves and beneath the surface it sifts and what we knew settles down down down until the light – the golden sun – is nothing but a haze and it’s far and it’s cold at the bottom and nothing moves anymore not because it can’t but because it’s sunken.
]]>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.
]]>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.
The laptop lid is closed and I put it aside. The bed feels too cold all of a sudden. It is the presence of her absence that sits heavy beside me. A terrible companion that the cheap and free porn on the internet cannot chase. Reading of blogs and other smutty narratives just fall short tonight.
And still I cannot deny the half-hard state the endless Tumblr pages (filled with shot after shot of eroticism) have left me in. And the videos on YouPorn and Redtube leave such a visceral afterimage (whether I want them to or not) that I’m filled with want.
So I shut my eyes and shield myself from everything else (from everything not her) and instead fill my senses with the last memories I have of her, the ones that seem so far away and wrapped in the misty air of recollection. From the last glimpses of her face with eyes closing and lips ready for a kiss, to the smell of her moisturizer/makeup/perfume, to the feel of her skin beneath my fingertips, to the warmth of her body on top of mine, to the reassuring sounds murmured between her lips and tongue, to the weight of her breasts pressing against my chest. I do what I can to dream her up and with me now, time and distance be damned, and to soothe this sting of need.
Her lips, yes, wide and full, then wrapped around my cock and that sharp sound of the breath rushing up her nostrils. Or the grasp of her hand at the base before she guides it in with her legs parted and her pussy (wet and) willing. The arch of her back and the tightness as she writhes beside, under, on top, and poured all over me. The twitch of my own coming harder and faster like an echo that grows instead of fading with each time I am inserted deeper and deeper into her.
But as my eyes open it is with a pain and a pop, the fantasy suddenly gone without any of the effort took to conjure it. I’m left with a second to catch my breath, gather myself and wash my hands in the bathroom, before returning to the bed, alone, deflated, and no better or worse.
(This, actually, was prepared in advance, but does fit this week’s Wank Wednesday prompt so here it is.)
]]>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.
]]>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.
]]>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.
I undid my tie and the sound of fabric rubbing was loud in my ears— was it loud in hers? The shirt too, button by button, and I moved slightly when pulling it out from underneath me. The head of my cock pressed against her pussy and she rocked back slowly. She let a whimper escape her lips and I slapped her ass, making her twitch and turning the skin a bright pink.
I pulled my undershirt off my body and over my head, cock bobbing back and forth, tapping against her pussy lips. Her balance was wavering and her arms moved to steady herself. It had been enough.
Pushing her shoulders forward but her ass back toward me, I let her know: “You do all the work.”
She put her weight down, my cock suddenly thrust upward within her fiery hot cunt with a soft squish. Her hands grabbed my knees and she began to bounce up and down. I slouched down further on the couch and my ass slid forward, lower so she could get more leverage.
“Faster,” I said, staying still and watching her ass ripple as it slapped against my hips.
“Faster,” I said, hearing her panting and her grip on my knees tighten.
“Faster,” I said, slapping her ass to spur her on.
She landed hard and squirmed and stopped to catch her breath. Her neck and back glistened.
I pulled her off me and we went into the bed, and she collapsed while I fucked her from behind until my lungs burned and my chest heaved and I too dripped with sweat and tire. She closed her eyes and kept her ass angled up toward me until she finally shuddered with cum— pussy contracting and milking me. I fell forward and my cock slipped out as I came on her ass and thighs.
And that’s how we fell asleep, in sheets damp with sweat and cum and exertion.
(25-April, 2011: And so we meet again, Fleshbot!)
]]>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.
]]>A while back, I proposed a project and asked people who saw themselves as non-vanilla if they’d be willing to answer some questions about themselves in the interest of providing greater insight and some reality-based templates for erotica authors to work from.
Her questionnaire was thorough, thought-provoking, and self-reflective. I am ashamed to say that I don’t fit far enough down the spectrum— that is, I’m actually a little too vanilla, I think.
(Others may disagree?)
Ultimately I decided that there really was no like-with-like or opposites. These people all represent points on a very complex continuum. They all deserved to stand on the page individually. So I’ve decided to post one profile a day to avoid the propensity we all have for making comparisons or for perceiving of something as having less value because it comes in an abundance. All of these people are unique. And all have been gracious participants.
Her portraits are a delightful read.
(Update: These portraits are now available at their own site: Portraits of Kink and Remittance Girl continues to serve as curator.)
]]>Well, it’s my birthday today. I’m 36 years old. It’s amazing how time flies, but I feel like things just get better and better! I’m like a fine wine… Speaking of fine wine, I’ll be having some of that tonight! Going out for a nice meal, indulging in a tasty dessert and spending the day with some people I love… I’m very lucky!
Things get better with time like experience, satisfaction, and intimacy.
]]>But here’s some real talk for you. Anal sex is kind of the biggest deal ever. When my friends tell me stories about doing it with some random they met at a bar, I’m completely stunned. The act is so intense and delicate that I could never give my asshole to just anybody. Entrance is only granted to V.I.P.‘s—Very Important Penises. But this is something the gay community doesn’t always see ass-to-ass on. Some only have anal sex in monogamous relationships and consider oral sex to be intercourse. With others, however, it’s like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. Anal is like the oxygen they need to breathe.
And I’ve heard the “hot dog down a hallway” bit too, but I still laugh every time I see or hear it.
It’s impossible for me not to feel close to someone when all of this happening. There’s a bond that develops that makes it impossible for it to happen with men who don’t mean a thing to me. Anal sex is a special thing. I’m unwilling to perceive it as casual. I feel like putting someone’s P in a V is more manageable and impersonal, but what do I know? I just know that it feels crazy to get fucked in the ass. It hurts, it feels good, it feels wrong, it feels right. It’s a dick going deep into your ass. It’s a connection. I recommend it to all.
I don’t ever take putting a “P” in someone’s “V” lightly— but I can see where he’s going with this. I don’t have to agree with it entirely.
What It Feels Like to Get F*cked in the Ass @ Thought Catalog
]]>I had pressed dildos and vibrators inside during the past weeks. But there’s nothing like a cock.
No argument from me, although from an entirely different perspective.
The muscles inside stretched to oblige the circumference of his erection, then collapsed themselves against it. It was a snug fit, and I compressed the vagina to make myself even tighter inside. Fingers spidered over his pectorals. The tops of my boots flush with his flank, I held him by the hip. He pushed the cock in until the balls slapped below my cunt and withdrew until just the glans was seated between the lips. The motion was slow and deliberate. I felt the inch by inch slide. I felt the lubrication spilling over from the walls to facilitate the movements within. He fondled my tits while he fucked me. I concentrated on the ticking of the clock in the room, the noises of the birds outside, the exquisite reach of the penis, how thick it was, the fullness within. A cock completed my pussy. He didn’t last long, that first time, in the narrowness of my cunt. A horizontal dance marked the end of the dry season. The semen fell like rain.
It is very nice to have her back and writing.
]]>The television was on, but the volume was off, and the lights were off, so the room was lit with the flashbangs of commercials, scene changes, and random washes of green and blue. The sweat had cooled and the sheets now soaked us back. In all honesty, these were signs I should have gotten up, dressed, and made my way home.
“Yeah,” I said, acknowledging my limp and shrunken cock. I wasn’t offended or joking, but answered with the same tone as hers: “I’m a grow-er not a show-er.”
She left her hand on me and her fingers made the smallest of motions, and that was enough. I grew and it was soon that I was stiffer and fuller, and she noted the size difference.
“Travel-size,” she said, holding her index finger and thumb apart. “And fun-size,” she stretched them apart as wide as she could, but this play— this light-hearted and tender moment— was much too much for me to bear and I put my hand on her head, grabbed a fistful of her short brown hair, and roughly brought her mouth to my cock— it must have tasted salty with drying traces of my cum and her pussy— and the talking stopped because she knew what I wanted her to do.
]]>I cover the bed with a beach towel as a precaution. Mister sits on the bed and pushes my knees apart. “If it feels like you need to pee, just go with it,” he tells me. Without warning, he slaps my pussy hard with his open hand. It startles me, but I like it. My pussy instantly feels warm and tingly.
“Put some fingers in,” I suggest, suddenly wanting to be stuffed with cock.
“Nope, we’re doing it this way,” Mister says. “Brings the blood right to the surface, makes it more sensitive.”
The man sounds like he knows what he’s doing.
Thwack. Mister smacks me again and again. I feel a pressure building, my cunt is already wet and waiting. “Stop holding back,” he says. Thwack. “Shit, I’m gonna pee,” I moan. Mister smacks me harder and faster. I try to hold it in. “Let it go,” he orders. I can’t. It feels like I have to piss and I just can’t bring myself to go there.
Mister brings his face close to mine and grabs a handful of my hair. “Listen slut, I told you to squirt. Do it.” He hits between my legs with his free hand. “Do it, let it go,” he hisses between clenched teeth. As he yanks my hair harder, the pressure in my pussy hits critical mass. My whole body feels like it’s teetering on a precipice. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it all in. “Now,” Mister roars.
And letting go, sometimes, is what you need to be ordered to do.
"Oh shit, stop! Stop!" I say to Mister. @ The True Life Sex Adventures of Daisy Danger
]]>There was fear in her eyes, in certain lights, and I would catch it every now and then. We sat on her couch awkwardly and at a strange distance as our bodies didn’t know how close or how far to be from each other.
I didn’t think she wanted to talk. It was simply too soon. And I knew that I was also struggling to understand what happened last time, and why I made her cry— no, why it felt the way it did to make her cry, and to make her bleed. “Get up,” I finally said, even though we had just sat down. I issued another command: “Bedroom.”
She reached for the hem of her shirt— this large, oversized thing with an oversized scoop-neck that slung off her shoulder— while walking and I batted her hands away. She turned her head and I placed my hand on the nape of her neck and guided her the fifteen more steps to the edge of the bed. I wanted to undress her.
Grabbing at the shirt I slowly raised it off her body and her arms went up with it. Noticing a thin tank top underneath it, I bunched up the two fabrics and brought them up together. At her neck I guided the shirts over her head and the short brown hair fluffed a little. The pair were thrown towards the closet and her back was bare to me.
I lay a hand between her shoulder blades and pushed until she leaned forward onto the bed. Her knee raised as if to crawl onto it but I held her hips and brought her ass against me— my cock already lewdly forming a tent in my slacks. Silently, she stood bent over and I reached my fingertips under the waistband of her tights. I didn’t feel another band of elastic. I didn’t see panty lines.
With a quick yank I pulled the dark gray tights down off her ass and to her mid thigh. The elastic stretched but still dug into her skin and her ass blossomed up and out of it. I might have heard her gasp in surprise.
This is how I left her and she wisely didn’t move as I stepped back and unknotted my tie, the silk scratchy and rough and very audible in the silent room. It rubbed against my collar with a vhurr and I undid my shirt, button by button, each almost with a snap. I slid the shirt off my shoulders and laid them on top of an open drawer of her dresser. The belt buckle clanged a little and it too vhurred out of the belt loops of my dress pants. The zipper zipped and I stepped out of my pants and boxers and socks.
She was waiting, very patiently.
My bare footsteps brought me behind her and I placed my left hand on her left ass cheek and the skin was cold to the touch. My thumb was at her tailbone and I held it firm. I raised my right hand and my arm loaded with tension and even though she lay with her chest on the bed and her head on its side she could only see the left side of my body and the sound of something moving through the air came to her at about the same time as my hand landed flush on her ass and the skin rippled and gave way with the deafening slap surprising even me as I realized I hit her harder than I had planned but thoughts were out the window at this point as my hand pulled back and off her skin but I didn’t look at it or her ass cheek as I heard her yelp now and my hips thrust forward and cock violently shoved inside her slippery wet cunt creating a louder yelp— mid-yelp— and maybe we can call it a cry now.
I didn’t move and I was pushed in her as far as I could go with her legs unable to spread apart because of the waistband of her tights round her thighs. I felt the wetness around my cock and maybe even against the top of my balls but really my mind was to her back trembling and her hands grabbing fistfuls of the blanket and sheets as she cried into the bed. I let her notice that I stood still. She gulped back her tears. She swallowed and she said my name.
Grabbing her waist I bent my knees and loaded my weight and pulled out of her entirely before ramming in again with her pussy almost sucking me back in. She buried her face into the bed and her ass up with her on her tiptoes and absorbing each thrust and push and my legs burning with lactic acid and maybe I even grunted in exertion. Each time out the cold air splashed against the head of my cock and each time in the heat burning all the way to the base.
I was able to reach down and I tore at her tights as she raised one leg and we somehow got them around her knees and she was able to crawl up onto the bed as I followed her while still crashing my cock in and out of her pussy. Her foot pulled out of the tights and was ice against my knee and we managed to both climb onto the bed, her head still down and her hips still propped up with her knees. She was pushing back as much as I was pushing forward and I could feel the sweat forming on her back.
The underside of my cock was rubbing right against the front wall of her pussy and I panted and shut my eyes and felt the swell at the tops of my thighs and my ass clench. She had raised her upper body up on her elbows and whimpered. I came first, and my cock felt like it grew twice as thick or she became twice as tight. Shuddering, she sucked in a breath and shook and came right as I jerked and twitched hard in her cunt. Somehow we’d stopped moving but the room was still spinning as if still had to catch up to our frenzied motions.
And she melted as soon as I pulled out of her, lifeless and spent on the bed, soaking the sheets in a puddle of cum and sweat underneath me, and this transition to the liquid state is where we’ll leave it all for now.
]]>