Thursday, May 31, 2012


The sun's warmth stains the sheets.

It filters through the window,
caressing skin,
like the touch of a lover,
confident and prolonged.

He whispers heat across my face,
and tells me the time is coming
for him to rise above me,
the pleasure-burn on my skin,
red prints -
the marks of his bold touch.

Photographs (fiction, part 1)

Tanya was a pretty, yet plain woman.  The only thing that set her apart from the crowd was her hair -- a fiery orange-red and naturally curly.  She kept it long only because she had no other choice.  If she cut it, she'd be sporting an afro, which would look odd atop her 5'7", 140 pound, translucently pale and abundantly freckled frame.  She wore simple, dark clothing and avoided patterns, figuring her hair was resplendent enough.  Even her eyes seem to know better and kept themselves to a light gray most days.

She worked downtown as a legal secretary (not the kind you have an affair with, mind you).  Her organizational skills and attention to detail were unmatched, and while others seem to come and go like the daily news, Tanya had held her position for nearly 15 years.

She was single, by choice, having not yet met a man equal to her expectations.  Besides, she was shy and bookish and didn't get out much.

As she boarded the early bus, she glanced quickly to the back hoping to find her usual seat empty.  A creature of habit, she became nervous and agitated when things took a turn toward the unknown.  Luckily, her place was available, and she skittered down the aisle.  Few people took the bus this early.  She intentionally chose this time and route precisely because of that.

Settling into the red vinyl-covered seat, she pulled out her book -- a real-deal, hard-bound monster of a thing -- and began to read.

She was so engrossed in her novel that the bus's frequent stops and changing passengers remained a distant, ignorable non-event.

Tanya usually kept time by the sun.  A certain slant of light across the page let her know her stop was near.  Closing her book, and setting it in her lap, she noticed, for the first time, that a male passenger had taken the seat beside her.  Tanya found this odd, since the majority of the seats around her were empty.  The only other people on the bus were near the doors, prepared for a convenient and quick exit.

The man, in a grey suit and lavender striped tie, was thin and young.  His face was distinguished and clean-shaven.  Not a hair was out of place.  His manicured hands set lightly on his thighs, and his posture was perfect - erect.

Tanya tried to size the man up with a sideways glance, attempting to avoid eye contact and the possible conversation it could cause.  It wasn't that she was anti-social, but she disliked strangers and hated introductions.

The bus squealed to a stop and let out it's characteristic "shhhhh" as the doors opened to release her.  She stood, dropping her book on the floor.  The man bent so expeditiously that Tanya flinched upright to avoid the inevitable collision of heads or hands or some other part of her she was sure she didn't want touched.  He handed the book up to her with a simple, wordless smile.

"Thank you."  It came out as nearly a whisper, her voice still hoarse as she had not yet used it this morning.  She cleared her throat and repeated the obligatory response to his civil action, "Thank you."  Her eyes squinted and her lips pursed into the semblance of a smile.

Heaving her brown leather bag onto her shoulder, she weaved her way toward the door.  When she got there, she looked back to man.  With two fingers to his forehead, he offered her a friendly salute.  She nodded in acceptance and exited the bus, slightly annoyed that she'd bothered to glance back at all.

As she walked briskly along the heavily peopled city sidewalk, she looked down only long enough to slip her book back into her bag.  She noticed, however, a slip of paper edging out from the top of the book, like a bookmark -- something she never used because she always remembered exactly where she left off.  Slowing her pace and moving to the edge of the sidewalk nearest the buildings to avoid the mad dash of bodies, she opened the book.  It was a black and white, quite obviously professional, photo depicting a nude man reclined on a chaise lounge.  Taken aback by the discovery, Tanya nearly dropped her book...and the picture.  Instead, she slammed the book closed, the photo still inside, buried the book in her bag, flipped her hair out of her face, and continued on her way.  Quite humanly, and involuntarily, however, Tanya felt a nearly-forgotten tingle in her thighs which made her cheeks color.  It was a lovely pink blush that washed across her round, pale cheeks, and a very real sensation she hadn't felt since Jared had gone.

She had a quite solid suspicion that the man in the photo was the man on the bus.  She hadn't looked long enough or closely enough to tell, and the man in the photo had his head turned into the shadows, making it difficult to be sure.

How very odd, she thought to herself, her brow furrowing and her face scrunching up in confusion.

When Tanya finally removed her coat and settled in to her deliciously comfortable and ridiculously expensive leather office chair, she slipped her hand into her bag, retrieving the photograph.  Nervously, with the erratic movement of a bird, Tanya opened her top drawer and placed the photo inside, facing up.  This gave her the ability to look at the photo and remove it from sight at the slightest noise without appearing too guilty about her actions.

The man was thin, but muscular, holding himself up on his left elbow and looking upward.  The light, which appeared to be a ray of sunshine, spotlighted his body, leaving his face shielded by the dark.  His body was turned toward the camera, his left leg flush with the chair and extended...his right leg bent, knee pointing up, his left forearm resting on top of it.  Between his legs, impossible to ignore, was his erect penis, his testicles seated on his left thigh.

The photo was crisp, the blacks and whites and grays clearly delineated.  It wasn't taken by an amateur.  And it didn't look like the first time this man had posed.

Is it him?  She wondered.  And if it is, why?  Why do I have it?  Did he put it in my book?  Why on earth would he do that?  Even more strangely, If he didn't put it there, who did?  How did it get there?

Artist:  Michael Meyersfeld "Deceit"

(So, I'm just getting started it something I should continue?  I'm not married to it, but the characters intrigue me.  I'm not even sure I know where this is going yet, and I know very little about the man.  I could easily flesh this out - but I wonder, would anyone read it?  Am I taking too much time with the set up?  Not enough?  The ideas are there...maybe more photographs?)

Monday, May 21, 2012

Going Down on Girls

Poetic Form:  The Haibun

Examples of the form.

Going Down on Girls

The first time I went down on a girl, our husbands were watching.  I'm sure they were both smiling as wide as the horizon in a desert -- red, swollen with heat, and seemingly endless.  The problem was, I couldn't find her clitoris.  And it isn't like I wouldn't know where to find it...that tender little nub of sensory perfection -- I find mine on a daily basis.  No, it just didn't seem to be there.  What does a girl do with a flat...or, dare I say, concave pleasure button?  As my tongue licked blind figure eights in the general vicinity of where her clit should have been, a war waged in my head.  I knew I was being watched by two men who were thoroughly enjoying the scene.  Why wouldn't they?  Two naked women -- one with her head buried between the others' thighs.  It's a beautiful sight really.  I can only imagine her - head bent back, mouth open, back arched.  But at the time, all I could think is - where the fuck is it?  Eventually I gave up the search and just licked and sucked with wild abandon, hoping I'd manage to graze it enough times to get her off.  Maybe she faked it...I sure as hell did.  In all reality, I don't even really remember what she looked like.  It didn't really matter.

True sexual pleasure
cannot be felt anywhere
but the subconscious.

Friday, May 18, 2012

e[lust] #36

Photo courtesy of A Couple of Wankers
Welcome to e[lust] - The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at e[lust]. Want to be included in e[lust] #37? Start with the newly updated rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!
~ Top 3 ~
The Cheshire Cat - Alice felt whiskers tickle her skin and was wracked with sobs of fear. �Oh, little girl, don�t cry. You can stand much more than you think you can.�
Vaginal Overexposure? - I see a lot of vaginas. A lot. One of my favorite things to tell Vincent and his friends is, "I see more vagina that you ever will!"
Marionette - "I'm writing out a fantasy of mine, but I'm not sure what to do with some of it. I'm hoping you can help me figure it out." "Yes Ma'am."
~ Featured Post (Picked by Lilly) ~
Journeys - These insecurities are at the root of my fears. I don�t know how to combat them, how to turn those tapes off in my head.
~ e[lust] Editress ~
I�ve found a new secret to my G-spot - This g-spot thing might be hard to find since it can�t be mapped, but believe me it is real and with time, exploration, a good clitoral orgasm and a willing set of fingers and/or dildos you CAN find it.

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the �read more�� tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!
Kink & Fetish
A Pixie Calls Me Daddy
Afterwards, kissing
Another Try at Topping
Bent Over and Exposed
Female Orgasm: Where Do You Get Off?
Letting the Sadist Out to Play
more con-slut...
pain & sadism: how they intertwine
Tied Up and Tossed in a Corner
Waiting My Turn
Warm Up
Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor
Fifty Shades Of Me
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
Buying a Toy: What You Need to Know
Bring on the wanks
I want your sex
My Mother, The Whore
Poly Fallacies #4
Q&A # 3: Childhood BDSM Fantasies
Sticks and Stones...
Small World of Swinging
The Gauge
Us Lately
White and Nerdy
Erotic Writing
Around and 'round
DownGolden girl
Hard Love
Hot sunny sex on a rainy day
It Ain't Sex
I Want to be Watched
I made him watch me masturbate
Lazy Day
Lost in Submission
Making out
On Display
Pussy Doctor
Perfect Cover
Pussy Eating- The Fun Way
Rack and Ruin part II
Shower Scene
The Third Date
Tickle Monster
Waiting for It
Watching Skylarks

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Night Shift

Poetic Form: Ghazal  

The ghazal is composed of a minimum of five couplets—and typically no more than fifteen—that are structurally, thematically, and emotionally autonomous. Each line of the poem must be of the same length, though meter is not imposed in English. The first couplet introduces a scheme, made up of a rhyme followed by a refrain. Subsequent couplets pick up the same scheme in the second line only, repeating the refrain and rhyming the second line with both lines of the first stanza. The final couplet usually includes the poet's signature, referring to the author in the first or third person, and frequently including the poet's own name or a derivation of its meaning.

Traditionally invoking melancholy, love, longing, and metaphysical questions, ghazals are often sung by Iranian, Indian, and Pakistani musicians. The form has roots in seventh-century Arabia, and gained prominence in the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century thanks to such Persian poets as Rumi and Hafiz. In the eighteenth-century, the ghazal was used by poets writing in Urdu, a mix of the medieval languages of Northern India, including Persian. Among these poets, Ghalib is the recognized master.

Night Shift

Under a late spring moon, I wonder when you will come
slip in beside me; between skin-heated sheets, you will come

whisper in my ear, vibrating the lobe with the hum
of your lips, a quick, subtle warning that you will come.

I open the door of my being, two mouths that speak
in different tongues, licking at your soul, so you will come

closer than flesh allows -- blood pounds through quivering veins.
Blue lines travel down my fingers, knowing you will come

rescue me from the cold, reddened cheeks, wind-burned and raw,
waiting in blustery morning wind for you to come.

I have lain beneath this bare-branched tree for too long.
Loneliness aches, easily forgetting that you will come.

Until I relax, the strain is like a car rolling over my chest;
breathless, I gasp, seizing up, tightening as you come.

The moment when I stop breathing, close my eyes and float
through the slow darkness of the spinning room, you will come.

Under the early spring sun, white petals spread themselves wide,
their siren song grasping the bees, they say, "You will come."

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Lost and Found

Poetic Form: Found Poem Found poems take existing texts and refashion them, reorder them, and present them as poems. The literary equivalent of a collage, found poetry is often made from newspaper articles, street signs, graffiti, speeches, letters, or even other poems. A pure found poem consists exclusively of outside texts: the words of the poem remain as they were found, with few additions or omissions. Decisions of form, such as where to break a line, are left to the poet.

 *So this is how it's gonna work (feel free to try this one on yourself sometime). I've done found poems quite a few times using magazines. The idea is to look through magazines, find words that strike your fancy, cut them out, and then arrange them on a sheet of paper. It comes out looking something like a ransom note, but it's usually pretty cool. I like the surprise element: not knowing really what I'm going to write about or where it's going until it's done. I often have no idea what the topic is going to be until I'm well into the arrangement phase. I don't have many magazines hanging around right now, so I'm going to use the current posts from my "voyeuristic tendencies" list. Let's see what you all have to offer me today! The added benefit here is I have an assignment - to catch up on my blog reading.  

Lost and Found

One Slut at a Time,
a slightly lower dose -
 fragile, needy intention
decidedly made things much worse.

The girl was certainly up for a gangbang.
The prettiest hoarder -
silver knees arched freely -
raw, coarse edges.

"You don't need permission, do you?"
The woman had his balls in a jar.

"My plan is to become more comfortable with anal."
They stumbled out of the bar, glistening.

"I'd like to fuck you."
Breathless with need, he parted her thighs.

"I don't know quite where this came from..."
He dug his fingers into the hollow of her hip bones,
sucked the fat coral bead of her earring into his mouth.

His third eye wept.

Drunk sex brought back memories,
impure arousal;
a sermon of sex parted our bodies in dissonance.

"Be careful of the lipstick. It could stain your leather."

"Fucking hell, man."
We make this shit up as it pleases us.

"Wait...kneel...down...all the way down...on all fours...bend over."
The language of hunger,
implies violence,
curling around
leashed deprivation --
calls clarity to mind.

Tender thighs offer a tempting space,
like some private ornament of sexual self indulgence.
My fingers drift;
in exhilaration,
I see her ass winking at me,
a glorious white light at the end of the tunnel.

My mind drifts to a place,
smells of euphoria,
time-faded, but relevant --
 pretty is nice,
but performance really matters.

Sexuality is not the drug.
I need to ease the ache.

"I wonder if you know I'm masturbating for you."

Delphine Riffard - Solitary Pleasure

Monday, May 7, 2012

Letter to My Lover

Poetic Form: Epistle (with the added bonus of stanzas written in Haiku)  

Epistolary poems, from the Latin "epistula" for "letter," are, quite literally, poems that read as letters. As poems of direct address, they can be intimate and colloquial or formal and measured. The subject matter can range from philosophical investigation to a declaration of love to a list of errands, and epistles can take any form, from heroic couplets to free verse.

A Letter to My Lover

The smell of your sex,
like perfume, lingers on skin,
so tangibly thick.

Each fingerprint bruised
into the surface of my flesh
reminds me of night.

The heavy pipe smoke
has saturated my hair
and pools in each pore.

Awake at morning,
my thoughts wander down freely
to rest on my thighs:

The ghost of your weight
presses itself between them,
and I open wide --

A voracious mouth,
desperate to be filled with you,
and overflowing.

A mess on the sheets,
evidence of our union,
is still dark and damp.

I lie here naked,
drunk and dazed by thoughts of you,
eagerly waiting. - Bjoern Mainz (photographer)

Saturday, May 5, 2012


Poetic Form: Elegy  

The elegy began as an ancient Greek metrical form and is traditionally written in response to the death of a person or group. Though similar in function, the elegy is distinct from the epitaph, ode, and eulogy: the epitaph is very brief; the ode solely exalts; and the eulogy is most often written in formal prose.
The elements of a traditional elegy mirror three stages of loss. First, there is a lament, where the speaker expresses grief and sorrow, then praise and admiration of the idealized dead, and finally consolation and solace.


It is some twenty-years gone,
that tight-lipped innocence,
held close out of social expectation.
My sweet-sixteen fingers
wrapped around its neck,
choking it back.

Like an experienced hunter letting
the younger bucks pass,
he held onto a hope
more important than bragging rights.

At night, in a trailer park far
from my mother's polished kitchen,
he closed his bedroom door
and told me I was his first.
He cupped my face and leaned me back
onto a mattress on the floor.

Slowly, steadily, he pushed himself into me.
Thankful for the cover of darkness,
I screwed up my face in pain,
bit my lip and faked pleasure.
I hummed and moaned and sighed
and convinced myself I would learn to like it.

When he was finished,
he walked me, naked, into the bathroom,
drew a bath and held me in the water.
I could hear his parents
watching television in the other room,
and I couldn't stop
staring at the cracked vinyl floor.

He laughed and called me "lucky 7".
Confused, I asked him why.
So much for the first.
So much for honesty.
So much for all that was lost.
And yet, the boyish sweetness was not wasted on me.

Somehow, I looked past the lie,
the sound of his father's wheezy laughter
and his mother's complaining whine.
I romanticized the dingy tile and rusty drain.
In the flickering light, I found myself,
not a woman, per se, but changed.

The small yet immense act of opening my legs
to a boy who, unbeknownst to me, lied,
but indeed loved me, stepped me gently
but realistically, into the world of lust.
I knew then, lying in that water,
propped against his chest and
squeezed between his knees,
why women offer themselves up
and why men swallow their pride.
There is nothing on this planet
quite so tantalizing as sex.
Nothing quite so addictive or destructive
or uplifting and freeing.

I wondered, that night, alone
in my own crisp white sheets,
why we put so much importance on
protecting our virginity.
I was already a better person,
more aware, and softer,
and real.

Lessons like this linger
and become part of a mythology
we carry with us throughout life.
Like a religion, our sexual past marks us,
filters through our dreams and
comes out the other side
in a fog of fantasy.
We look back on it,
through the ether of time,
remembering it, or not,
the way we want to.

That girl, biting back her cries
and wiping away tears she would not show,
is the queen of my physical memory.
Like a first wife, she sits atop her throne
ruling with the quiet wisdom
of experience.  She can raise the red lantern
or not.  But, she will always hold her place:
stoic, undefeated, and resilient.

Thursday, May 3, 2012


The cinquain, also known as a quintain or quintet, is a poem or stanza composed of five lines. Examples of cinquains can be found in many European languages, and the origin of the form dates back to medieval French poetry.  The most common cinquains in English follow a rhyme scheme of ababb, abaab or abccb.


It is cradled within the curve of your cheek,
nestled between your lips,
a rising vibration unable to keep
quiet, as tiny tendrils of electricity spread upward toward your hips;
so unendurable, the little death rips

open the rose, already too full --
on the verge of bursting,
a mess of pink petals strewn, ungraceful,
hungry and thirsting,
heaving and cursing.

That one syllable, whispered low
collecting volume with each thrust,
simple, primal, like a domino
it knocks over all the other words with a gust
of heat and sweat and lust.

It's the check mate in a game of sexual chess,
the easiest thing to say
when language and thought are suppressed
in reverence to the body.
At that very moment, all you can utter is, yes.