you could ruin my day
And, so, what if it makes little sense?
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.
Sometimes it is so easy to take something… something that may never have been yours to take in the first place:
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?
(from 19-January, 2009)
The movements were subtle, at first, but definitely noticeable, the almost imperceptible crunching of the down feathers muffled by the cotton accompanying the jostling in the bed. I opened my eyes lazily, slightly, barely.
She was on her stomach, facing away from me, hair spread out on the pillow, the only thing up and above the comforter. It was cold, my face now registering the icy room temperature-– winter had bared its teeth this week, reintroduced us to its howl, and scratched hard with claws of frost. The lumps and folds hid her body, the shape of it unseen and covered, my senses still groggily making their way to the surface, unable to discern at first what she was doing, or if she’d simply been repositioning herself.
Delicate items can’t be tossed into the dryer you know.
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.)
There is an art form, I think, to being so blunt:
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.
She confessed (once) that she had never owned any pearls; her grandmother’s antique necklace and earrings having been claimed by her older sister (for prom or something like that) and owned ever since. And I thought it would go nicely with her blonde hair and slender neck (especially with that hair brought up) so that’s exactly what I purchased for her birthday, feeling a little like a fish out of water in the jewelry store on Fifth Avenue. Even though I was referred by a friend of a friend of a coworker, I couldn’t help feeling like I overpaid, but you make these kinds of mistakes out of unfamiliarity and impulse.
And later that week when she came by with her gaudy floral duffel bag (now her weekend staple), we embraced, kissed, and I pulled the thin knit scarf off her neck, weaving my arms in and around hers, the cool pearls a sudden shock against her bare skin. Her fingers flew to feel it before I could close the clasp, and I placed the hinged box with the earrings in between us. She quickly put the large, near-perfect spheres into her ears (the small, now-evacuated diamond-esque studs now lost into a pocket somewhere) squealed with delight, and we turned to face the mirror in the hallway to see the completed set on her. I saw what looked like a girlfriend in the arms of her boyfriend.
And we had dinner, talked about work, and somehow ended up (as we always do) lips locked and making out like teenagers on the couch with the TV low and the music from my computer playing over the chatter and I wondered if maybe the only thing that we have over the teens is that our movements are no longer awkward and unsteady. That is, we know where it will lead.