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.
]]>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.
]]>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.
]]>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
]]>Eight dark smudges
indelible beneath skin
a quartet nestled
beside each hip bone.
The staggering of words, the linebreaks… all to create artistically with both what is written, and what is not.
Small purple anemones
bloom under my jawline,
in the crook of my arm
and just next to
my left nipple.
Positive and negative, what is present and what is absent, is, to me, poetry.
]]>I can’t be there, in his bed, wrapped in his arms. I can’t be there, so I close my eyes and just imagine it. Remember it, more correctly.
Indulge, a little bit, in the soft sins we commit to memory. After all, these are little more than waking dreams.
His hands wander farther south, loving every inch of me as he whispers sweet nothings into my ears. I’m melting into the moment, not wanting it to end. I feel like I’m turning into a woman [now], like I’ve been a little girl my entire life and didn’t even know it.
He’s dominant in the purest way. He doesn’t tie me up or force me on my back or make demands. He just takes what is his. He moves from behind me and move me to my back, slipping a finger in me. And then, I realize how crazily I want him, how wet I am, how close I am to orgasming already. He got me to that point before even touching my pussy, before even thinking about touching my pussy.
And for the rest of us? Well, a memory not ours can simply be a fantasy. A very good fantasy.
]]>It makes little sense this passion for you; this hunger that marks my days and my nights, this craving that racks flesh yielding and soft, this torrent of carnality, sultry sensuality, this yearning that shakes me through to the core.
Oh but sometimes it is nonsense that is the best sense.
]]>I see you.
You’re sitting in the dark, your legs stretched out in front of you, your back propped against a corner of the wall. The telephone cable snakes across the bare floorboards; your right arm is bent, holding the receiver to your ear.
And you are naked.
And once you take it, can you ever really give it back? Would you even want to?
As I stand in the middle of the floor, transfixed by the view through my window and yours, I watch your left hand, lit by a slash of light across your torso and legs, creeping slowly towards the erection standing thick and proud from below the taut muscles on your belly.
Who is it you are talking to, I wonder? Is it a woman? A man? A lover? Someone you desperately wish to have as a lover? Whoever it is, I can tell how much you want them.
Your fingers curl around your shaft, and you begin to stroke. Slowly, at first. Taking your time. Rubbing the ball of your thumb over the crown, spreading the beads of precum already forming over the tip. Making it glimmer slickly in the sodium light.
Watching really isn’t a crime, is it?
]]>She notices their fast stride easing to a meandering gait once they spy her up high on the small balcony. Even though she continues to busy herself taking no obvious interest, she can not help but smile slyly at the flirtatious laces and gauzes of ivory and blushing pink, at the seductive silks and satins of ebony and midnight black which have caught their attentions so effortlessly.
And yes I do like sentences that run on forever and ever:
With the suspender belts and stockings, corsets, panties and brassieres dripping their perfect diamond droplets in the glittering sun, her mind drifts to other men, to another man, to the man whose erotic desires are fuelled by these very garments, to the man whose eyes have lingered upon the lines drawn tight across her reclining body, to the man whose digits have fingered the fine mesh then pulled the gusset aside to sink his hard naked cock into her voracious sex, to the man whose hands possess her hips while he fucks her with deep thrusting strokes that cause her to cry out, to call out his name over and again.
(It’s a wonderful thought that it’s Fall in Australia— Autumn is my favorite season.)
]]>Fuck me.
Don’t think about it. I don’t care if you’re looking for a relationship. I don’t give a shit if you’re not interested in one night stands. Don’t call me baby and you’d better not ask me how I want it. Don’t you dare talk about it.
Ahh yes, less talk. More fuck.
Pound my cunt like you’re flattening meat. Rip me apart from the inside and feed me. Feed me your cock. Feed me your cum. Use me like a doll and position me for your pleasure. Defile my holes and hold me down. Don’t worry about my breaths, I’ll find a way to steal them. Ignore my please for restraint. I’m lying. I promise.
Oh I like her. I like her a lot.
]]>“You kiss good,” she purred against my lips.
I pushed her shirt up to expose her breasts. They were not as large as mine but beautiful with nipples larger than my own. I pressed my thigh between her legs and she let out a whimper. My head bent down to kiss her nipple as the other hand tweaked the free one. She told me she was coming as I started to bite on her hard nub. I pressed my thigh even more against her and I felt her cunt give way to me.
Yoga pants are wonderful, am I right?
]]>My legs had straddled her leg as I pressed my cunt against her thigh. We were only wearing thin t-shirts and yoga pants. It was a perfect and planned stormed that erupted in my living room floor. She kept coming against my thigh, my hand slid down to feel her heat and she let out a gasp.