Judging others' sexual proclivity is objectionable

This week's prompt is:

followed by this statement:

Some time ago Molly from Molly’s Daily Kiss and Sinful Sunday collaborated with Wubbs for the Breast Cancer Awareness month. Wubbs has approached me about spreading the cancer awareness during Movember. And of course, I definitely wanted to help. I let Wubbs speak:

We are coming to the end of Movember. Thousands of men around the world have spent the last month growing a moustache and now they will be considering: do I keep it or shave it? Movember is a month long awareness campaign to highlight men’s health issues, among them prostate cancer.

Any positive awareness is a good thing. My collaboration with Molly and the Sinful Sunday meme for Breast Cancer Awareness was such a big success that I asked Marie, if she would be interested in collaborating with the If Just One Person Reads This cancer awareness project that I run. Once again someone will question why? I will always answer why not?

Use this prompt as you would normally, this isn’t a prompt to write about cancer. Have fun with it!

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Let us know how you were inspired, tell us your stories. Help us spread the word about cancer awareness.
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To tell you the honest truth, I'm not completely sure what to say about this prompt...so I am going to write myself into a corner and stay there until I can behave.  It could be a long night...really.

Decisions

I must ask you a question,
but I'll save it for later,
after the last whispered mention
of the unrepentant satyr

has lifted into the air -
a dizzying array of rumors,
half-truths, but who cares?
Certainly not the whores

who hang suspended from his arms
like cheap costume jewelry -
a lipsticked collection of plastic charms,
fishnets and hairsprayed foolery.

They laugh as loud as his money talks,
smiling and licking their lips,
fingering his cuff-links and teasing his cock,
shifting their breasts and exaggerated hips.

He smiles too wide, exposing teeth
the size of dimes, an overdone black moustache
puffed up above his lips - underneath
an intrusive nose that seemed to bleed cash.

Their dresses, several sizes too small
and his suit, several sizes too big
look ridiculous, like caricatures or dolls
being sold like suckling pigs.

In their heels, the tower above him,
looking down at his greasy parted hair,
their hyena cackles and glassy eyes dimmed
by too much wine and not enough care.

The longer we look at him and his hired entourage,
the less we linger on ourselves.
So easy to let our own egos be massaged
by the widening cracks in his image.

He dances, sandwiched between three women,
to a rhythm that doesn't match the music.
His face contorts into a pained smile, like a sucked lemon,
and he moves with tremors and ticks.

Others watch, sneers plastered
on their high-boned faces,
eyebrows raised above eyes that have mastered
incredulous judgement.

Do any of them realize that he doesn't give a shit?
Or that it isn't anyone's business who he pays
or who he fucks?  None of us need a permit to submit
to our desires or indulge a wayward gaze.

So easy to look down on those who feed lust,
open their legs and welcome it,
fasten it to their thighs and bust
at the seams to keep it.

So much more difficult to admit our own needs,
in the beginning, before we risk everything
to become truly human, and bleed
the virginal truth of our very being.

He presses his ass into each juicy thigh
and purrs audibly as they stroke his pinstriped
cliche of a suit.  The onlookers try
to hide their sneers behind crystal and wine.

Inside, every one of them wishes they could be
that unencumbered by reputation, that unaware,
that naively, blissfully free,
totally and utterly without care.

In their perfect suits and sequined gowns,
glued to their chairs for fear of appearance,
they swallow their own sharp misfortune -
the burden of coherence.

Let me ask, before the music stops
and the coats are retrieved,
as you place your hand on top
of mine:  Do you believe me

when I say, I would rather be him,
in cheap polyester, wild-eyed
and sallow-cheeked, than them,
bound by simulated perfection.

So, I have to say...that was hard.  And I'm not sure how I feel about it.  I sat down with a prompt that really left me hanging.  I took a swing.  Maybe I missed?  Regardless...it was painful.

Our sex was famous, but I forgot your name... (TMI Tuesday)

1. Have you ever had sex with someone famous or who later became famous, if only locally?

I almost had sex with a very well-known professor when I was in college.  He was an actor in local productions and I had been in several of his classes (he was one of those amazingly passionate coked-out pedagogues who'd stand on desks reciting Kubla Khan - dissecting all of its sexual imagery in gory detail - moistening my thighs with every word and gesture).  I was at a cast party at his house (with my boyfriend).  I headed off to the bathroom; the door stop was a woman with her legs spread around the door.  I smiled, moved her out of the way, and forgot to lock the door.  He walked in right as I was zipping my pants.  He moved in to kiss me...and suddenly the spark that seemed so amazingly bright vanished.  The unattainable had suddenly become a pathetic old man in my head.  Total bummer...really.  And I HAVE, indeed, forgotten Professor What-his-name's name.

Sylvia Plath

2. In the spirit of Six Degrees of Separation, have you had sex with someone who had sex with someone who had sex with someone who . . . someone famous?

Well, probably.  But, I don't KNOW about it.  Besides, if I did, I might be jealous.

3. In the opposite direction, have you had sex with someone whose name you didn’t know?

I've always known their name at the time.  But, I'm terrible with names and am likely to forget them as soon as I'm introduced.  It isn't their fault I forget.  I don't think I've forgotten a fuck yet.  So, at least their penises (and vaginas) are memorable.  I mean, really, the only one I HAVE to remember is Mr. LL's.  And the few special people I fuck on a recurrent basis.  Once I have an emotional connection, I'm much less likely to forget.  But once the tie is broken, I make no promises.  No matter how good of a lay someone is.

4. Someone whose name you knew then but have forgotten?

Oy vey!  Yes, indeed.  In, fact...there are a few.  Once I hit 25, scorned and licking my wounds after a 5-year-long, dead-end, waste of a relationship, I decided to become everything I hated about men.  One-night stands, cruel send-offs, no respresponsibility, and less connection.  So there are a few guys that got stuck in that vortex - faces I vaguely remember, but names that have gone the way of the tide.  A guy I noticed in a pub - took home and never called again...maybe it was Vincent or Vinnie or Vaughn?  And another who had a penis the size of my little finger.  I'll give him a little credit and say it swelled to the size of my middle finger when it was hard, but it was the one and only time that I heartlessly kicked a guy out of my house without any explanation other than, "I'm not about to resign myself to a whole night of pretending to enjoy this."  There was another guy who banged on my door in the middle of the night, drunker than hell, professing his undying love for me after I'd told him I was finished.  When I told him I was calling the cops, he threw the empty bottle at my front door and disappeared...forever.  And there have been a few swinger "name casualties".  Hell, it's dark, there are naked people...I can't remember them all for god's sake.

5. Someone who you suspect may have forgotten you?

Oh, sure.  I mean, I'm good at what I do, but it's my mouth or my body or my cunt they'll remember.  Not my name.  If I even gave/give them a real one.  It doesn't hurt my feelings a bit....Now the time Mr. LL called me by his ex-g.f.'s name after sex?  That landed his ass on the couch.  In fact...he relegated himself there before I could even kick him out.  Of course, that was VERY early on in our relationship, so no hard feelings.  It's funnier than it is anything else, because it could happen to anyone, and it meant nothing.

Bonus question: Someone you wish you could forget?

Yes...that guy I told you about above...the one with the pinkie-sized dick.  And there was this guy in high school.  I went down on him under a blanket between the bed and the wall in a crowded hotel room when I was 16.  I'd be cool with letting that one out of my memory.  Shit, the stupid things we do when we're young and desperate to be accepted.  And...he was my ex-boyfriend's best friend.  I know - right?  And there was the guy who I dated who got hooked on meth (even though he was also on anti-psychotics) who took what wasn't offered on the bed of his VW microbus.  I could forget that moment - though I honestly don't hold it against the guy.  Drugs do terrible things to people.

But, honestly...pretty much all of my sexual experiences are a necessary part of who I am as a sexual being.  If it weren't for them, I wouldn't be who I am or do what I do today.  So, I guess I don't really want to forget any of them.  Besides, they provide me with a laugh (to myself) from time to time.

Wearing Nothing but His Socks

She had her hands in the dirty dishwater when he came flying around the corner wearing nothing but his socks, his hair disheveled, and his face unshaven.

"He's outside!  Quick...to the bedroom!"

"What?!"  she feigned shock, but her naughty smile betrayed her.  Since they'd had kids, "quickies" were definitely where it was at.  They'd tried all kinds of possible places (yes, even the closet), and had been interrupted more than a few times, which was part of the intrigue - they could be caught with their pants down, at any moment.

The difference between a quickie and regular sex was that there was never time for foreplay, no time to undress, no time to think about all the reasons that they shouldn't.

"He's out there with friends...what if he brings them in?" she offered the concern, but knew he was already beyond worrying.  No time.

He grabbed her around the waist, pulled her to the bedroom, and locked the door.  Her cotton lounge pants were hardly an impediment to his searching, as he pulled them down around her ankles and pushed her over the bed, which, handily, was the perfect height for it.  Down on one knee, without romance or a ring, he slid his finger from the crack of her ass, across her puckered asshole, between her lips, and stopped at her clit.  With two hands, he spread her open and licked her to wetness - nothing that could really be called foreplay...really just a fast way to lubricate her.

She listened carefully for the front door, but it was hard to concentrate with his tongue where it was.  And when he stood, and eased his dick into her from behind, she lost her sense of hearing.  Completely deaf, she pushed her ass into him, urging him to go faster.

His hands held tight to the handles created by her position, pulling her to him with each thrust.  She grabbed hold of the quilt and bit it hard, suppressing her verbal reactions.  She was already dripping her own wetness down the inside of one thigh.

He pulled out briefly to turn her over her, still right at the edge so he could remain standing.  He liked the view of her tits bouncing under the tight white t-shirt.  Even in a bra, he could envision the pink nipples pointing at the ceiling.  And he knew he could bring her to instant orgasm this way.  Her feet resting on his shoulders, his palm on her clit, rubbing vigorously in a circular motion, his dick pumping into her pussy.  He could always tell when she was close:  the arched back, the beautifully pained look on her face, her fists clenching whatever they could reach, and all of her lower muscles contracted.  And when she came, he couldn't help but follow.  Just the rhythmic tightening of her pussy was enough to send him over the edge.  And when he gushed his hot cum into her, she came again.  She loved the feeling of him warming her from the inside out...little tendrils of heat moving up her belly, across her chest, around her neck, and settling in her cheeks.  That "freshly fucked" blush of utter contentment.

"Mooooooooommmmmmmmm!"

In unison, they both said, "Oh, shit!" and instantly separated, scurrying to find proper cover.  She grabbed a pair of underwear, hoping to contain the liquid trying so hard to come back out the way it went in; he ran for his robe.

Unlocking the door and peeking her head out, she yelled back down, "What do you need?!"

"James wants to know if I can go to his house for lunch!"

She didn't even think it through...."Yes!  Yes you can!"

Traipsing into the bathroom, she slipped her hands inside his robe, "Looks like we're going to get a little more time on this one..."

She dropped to one knee, without romance or a ring, and took his mostly hard penis into her mouth.
 

Wicked Wednesday: Afternoon in the Park (fiction)

Afternoon in the Park

a story inspired by the Wicked Wednesday prompt above....

The cold, wet air felt good in her lungs as she ran down her driveway and turned left, following the perfect suburban sidewalk all the way to the park.  Her smooth, bare legs bristled with goosebumps, but she knew her body would heat from the inside out with the constant strumming of her feet on the pavement.

There had been a wild storm earlier, and the ground was wet.  She ran around puddles and splashed through patches of grass, until she reached the trail she was aiming for.  Her headphones pumped music into her ears and magnified the sound of her breathing and her heartbeat, as if her ears were clogged.  It made the music sound far away at times, when she focused in on her internal rhythms.

She didn't see him, crouched behind the bushes ahead, but he certainly saw her.  In fact, he saw her on most of her runs.  He watched her from a distance, followed...waited.  Maybe today would be the day.  Maybe he'd have the balls to jump out, grab her from behind, silence her with his gloved hand, and drag her into the bushes.  She'd fight.  Hell yes, she'd fight.  Probably bite a hole right through the leather.  He could see the muscles dancing in her thighs, the slight hollows in her cheeks as she sucked in cold air.  When she released her breath, it left a smoke trail behind her.

His dick started to twitch to life.  Fuck.  He felt wild with indecision as she moved closer and closer.  If he was going to do it, he had no choice but to strike now.  Now.  Now!

The second she passed him, he flew from his camouflaged position, grabbed her from behind, wrapping his arms around hers to keep her from swinging her fists.  His next move was to clamp his hand over her lips, grabbing hold of her face and squeezing in order to keep her mouth closed.

He picked her up off her feet, bending backwards to stabilize himself as she flailed her legs wildly.  Behind the cover of dripping foliage, he threw his weight on top of her.

"If you scream, bitch, I will slit your throat, here and now."  He breathed it into her ears through clenched teeth, a stinging whispered order.  In his euphoria, pupils dilated, eyes wide with a crazed, singular motivation, he jammed his knees between hers, ripped the thin fabric of her running shorts, pushed aside the crotch of her panties and plunged his dick into her clenched pussy.

He almost came on contact.  But he willed himself to hold it in for at least a few ecstatic thrusts.  He had waited too long to let it go so quickly.  He wanted to savor her rigid body, and his complete and utter control of it.  Pushing so hard into her, he grunted with effort and release.  And when the climax actually came, a rush of fluid bubbling up from his balls, he could feel the pressure building all the way down his dick...to the head...and into her hot, wet cunt.

"You like that, don't you?"  He heaved the words into the side of her face. "That's what you wanted..."  "You've been asking for it for years, and now, you've gotten what you deserved.  Prancing around the neighborhood in those tight little shorts, wagging your behind and those pert little breasts bouncing with each footfall."

Her body went slack and he released her face.

"Yes."

He rolled her over and looked at her face.

"Yes.  And I can't believe you did it!  You scared the absolute shit out of me, you fucker!"

She laughed out loud, breathless and wild-eyed, smiling like she'd lost her mind.

"Fuck, Aidan.  I really didn't think you had it in you...holy shit!"

"Did it live up to your expectations?" he asked, smiling, a bit sheepishly.

"Holy shit.." was all she could reply.

"I brought you some extra clothes."  He gestured at a black canvas bag on the ground nearby.

"Didn't figure you'd care to prance back through the neighborhood in ripped shorts."  He grinned.  And she put her arms around him and kissed him hard.

"You are so getting fucked tonight.  Holy hell, what got into you?  I've never seen you with so much...fuck...I don't know what to call it...shit that was hot..."

"So, do I get an A for a first attempt?"

"You get an F...for holy fuck, baby..."

(Disclaimer - while I may have had a few strands of "rape fantasy" run through my head from time to time - hey, I like the power dynamic, what can I say - I would never condone rape, nor would I really wish to have this particular scenario played out in my own life.  But, when I read the quote for today, I thought "wild" finds "wild"...untamed...something a little different in my writing repertoire.  And so, here you have it.)

Tattoos (fiction)

All I have to do is look at a different part of his body when he's on top of me, and it's like I'm fucking someone, or something, new every time.

A multi-colored serpent winds itself around his left arm and hangs over his shoulder, resting it's scaly head on his color bone. It's eyes, like a jealous woman, taunt me. It silently claims a part of him, but right now, so do I. My teeth leave an imprint on the serpent's face, a jagged, semi-permanent reminder of our confrontation, and my victory.

I roll him onto his back, taking charge in the way that he likes. The sort of power he lets me have. He thinks it's cute when I run the show. It turns him on. Straddling his hips, I feel like I've been impaled on his massive dick - the kind of phallus that requires forethought, a relaxed cunt, and lots of lube. Rocking very slowly back and forth, easing myself into a more pleasurable state of existence, I run my fingers across his naked chest. There's a tribal mask on his right pectoral muscle. 5 inches of angry African voodoo staring me in the face, it's red eyes dancing with each of my lover's breaths. I put my hand directly over it, letting it peek through my fingers. I want it to watch me as I fuck him. I want it to know who I am, as I suffocate it with my entire weight.

I pull myself upward and off of his erect and swollen shaft, lean on one knee and dismount. Turning my body around and re-straddling, I kiss his lips with my pussy. If it could purr, it would...when he places each hand on an ass cheek, gripping them like basketballs in his palms, spreads them, and licks me from front to back like a sticky lollipop. An octopus wraps itself around his left thigh, sneaking in between his legs, and up on to hollow of his pelvis. Two, small yellow eyes gleam from the sides of its head, bobbing up and down and swaying with the current of his muscles, as they tighten and relax. I kiss the tip of all 8 tentacles, from his pelvic bone to the inside of his thigh.
 
It's a constant battle between psyche and art. May this war last an eternity.

"Man with an Octopus Tattoo II" (2011) by Richard Learoyd. This life-sized nude photograph has a pose similar to that of works by Ingres. Photographer: Richard Learoyd/McKee Gallery New York/National Gallery via Bloomberg

One drink away from your first kiss with another girl

So once, at a swingers meet and greet, a guy told me that every woman is just a few drinks away from her first kiss with another girl.

Hmmm...I'm not sure if that is true, really (maybe it was just his "hope" talking).  It certainly was for me.  But, for others?  I refuse to presume what others want or don't want...but in my opinion, we're all pretty fluid, if we are truly honest with ourselves.

Honestly, I think society (nurture) has had a greater impact on our psyches than (nature), which seems to get beaten out of us at every turn.  We're told exactly what to think, how to feel, what to believe, who to love, who to trust, who to stay away from.  And interestingly, we still have addiction, behavioral and mental disorders, and people act outside the "cultural norm" all the time - even when punishment for it is imminent.

Can't fit yourself into the main stream - one-on-one - man and wife - nuclear family with a two-car garage, 2 1/2 kids, and a dog - stereotype?  Don't worry, very few of us (if any) can.  Taking a virtual walk down the aisles of the personal ads on Craigslist; you'll see a never ending supply of people seeking "something else", something "new", something "dangerous" or "naughty".  Married men offering to suck cock, women looking for gang-bangs or hoping to fulfill rape fantasies with a stranger, couples looking for a single woman or man, men asking for used underwear....all with the promise and request of complete discretion.  You name it - there is a fetish for every day of the year, and hundreds of people to revel in each one.

There is no way to judge another without first judging ourselves.  So, really, it's best to avoid it.  If no one is being harmed (i.e. everyone involved is a consenting adult)...it really shouldn't matter to anyone...and the more it matters to a person, the more likely it is that transference is the real problem.

I don't like to call myself anything.  I'm not really bi-sexual...because I don't have sex with women on a regular basis, and I prefer men.  I'm not really a swinger...because I haven't really committed to the "lifestyle".  I do what I want, when I want.  Hot chic?  I'll fuck her.  Sexy group of couples, I'm in!  Sexy time alone with my one-and-only?  Absolutely...he's my soul mate; that's why I said, "I do."  And I can truly say that I am thankful to have such an open, honest relationship where we can discuss ALL of our desires - even if they make us feel uncomfortable or embarrassed.

Labels are almost always inaccurate, and they tend to not only categorize us unfairly, but they also sometimes make us feel or act a certain way that we might not without them.  I don't like to be pigeon-holed.  And I don't like feeling guilty for natural desires (and really, all desires are natural - as we are all produced by nature)...whether they are right or wrong or not - well, that is a personal decision).

To me...sex is a feeling - pure sensation.  As is love.  Neither can really, fully be explained...nor should it.  There is a certain magic in not being able to define humanity.  There is wonder in not knowing.  Best to just live life, enjoy the opportunities when they present themselves, and stop questioning so much whether it's right or wrong. 

Wicked Wednesday

 

Masturbating in the Shower

On my back in the bed,
legs splayed lazily,
my breathing was slowing down.

A liquid mix of us
dripped between my cheeks,
tickling my backdoor.

It was such a good afternoon fuck.

You dressed and headed back
out to the kitchen or the couch
so I could shower.

I stood slowly, letting the come
make lines down the insides of both thighs,
squeezing my muscles to encourage its release.

I put my hand between my legs,
cupping my entire pussy
to feel the wet heat,

sliding one finger in to feel
the swollen sides and the slickness
you left behind.

In the shower, I couldn't help it.
The come all over my hands,
I stuck two, then three fingers inside.

On my toes, holding on to the wall,
my thighs and calves clenched, fingers
squeezed tight, but not immobile...

small movements, for a few minutes,
and a quick, biting orgasm,
led to a final gush of fluid.

The water was hot,
and the fan muffled my cries,
as I nearly collapsed.

And no one heard a thing.

Hot, unplanned sex in the middle of the day when it shouldn't be possible is a blessing that should not be taken for granted.  Especially for those of us with children.  It must be fast, and furious, and may be interrupted at any stage of the game.  Maybe that's what makes it good.  Masturbating in the shower is similar...it must be quick, and you have to be quiet, and someone might just walk in on you.  I know, I know, lock the door...but what's the fun in that?

The Sensualist - a tale of massage...with a twist

A long time ago I read Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses.  While reading it, I learned that each of us is ruled more by one sense than all the others.  For some of us, smells elicit the strongest emotional and primal reactions.  For others, it is purely visual...or auditory.  For me, it is touch.  Blindfold me and let your fingers lead the conversation - that would be my choice, above all other things.  Sweet nothings in my ear are nice, a beautiful smile is a turn on, the taste of salt on skin is enticing, and the smell of cologne can be intoxicating...but I will take touch any day of the week.

This is why, today, I am thankful for massage.  I try to go at least once a month, for my mental and physical well-being.  But, it's hard, when you're a deeply sexual being, not to derive at least some sensual pleasure from being naked in the room with another human, indulging in skin-to-skin contact.

The lavender chamomile massage oil, the soft music, the dark room, the pretty girl with glasses whose hands warm and soothe my muscles.  It's amazing to me that not every single person on the planet takes advantage of this.

I go mainly for my back, but since it is always offered, I take the full-body massage.  And I've had enough different massage therapists that I've learned to appreciate the ones who have fewer "boundaries", so to speak.  And I wonder, if just maybe, they sometimes have the same feeling...that tingle of interest as their hands slide, palms open, across the small of a person's back.

The majority of my stress sets up shop between my shoulder blades and at the sacrum, where sciatica is an unwelcome, occasional guest.  Since that has begun to happen, painful knots have been growing in places too intimate for a massage therapist to attempt on their own.

But what if...

I walked into the dim room, removed my clothes, and slipped under the soft flannel sheet and smoky blue down comforter.  Face down, I eased myself into a comfortable position, placed my hands at my side and waited.  When she returned, tapping softly on the door to alert me to her presence, she said nothing.  With my eyes closed, I could hear the tiny clank of bottles and her hands rubbing together, slippery, heating the oil in her palms; the scent permeated the room. 

She began at my shoulders, gliding her hands down my spine, following the curve as it dipped down and then back up to the top of my ass.  Kneading, and circling her palms, she searched for areas of tightness to loosen.  As she worked her way from my neck down to my lower back, my breathing evened and I let go of my entire day, sinking deeper into the table.

Per our earlier conversation, she spent a good amount of time on my neck and my shoulders, which felt so good that it was impossible not to let out a little moan of pleasure and approval.  I felt a bit self-conscious about it, but somehow, it seem to encourage her.  She put a bit more pressure in to her movements, pushing her thumbs deep against my spine until they reached the lowest part of my back.  As was expected, this was the place that ached most for her attention.  It took very little time before her actions were eliciting from me sharp intakes of air and appreciative whimpers that, I'm sure, told her all she needed to know.  She moved lower still, no more than inches away from my anus.  The knots abounded here, and the feeling of pain and pleasure mixed enticingly, making it hard to stay still.

"Do you mind if I move on to the table, to help secure your position?" she said, in a buttery voice.

"That might help," I replied.  "This is the place it all seems to congregate...my husband tries to rub them out, and it helps, but they keep coming back.  I have no idea what causes it."

"Let me know if the pressure is good, or if you want me to move.  I'll need you to move your arms up toward your head."

She placed her knee on the table and I felt a slight flush of air as her leg brushed over my head.  Her knees rested on either side of my torso, her thighs holding her hovering above my shoulders.  From here, she continued to push and prod her fingers all over my behind with intention.

As the tightness finally began to let go, she gracefully climbed back off of the table, hardly making a sound, and pulled the sheet over my back, covering my shoulders.  She peeled back the sheet from my leg, pulling it outward a bit to expose as much as she could while still allowing for my modesty.  I heard the tiny clank of bottles again as she poured more oil between her hands and rubbed them together.  She began at my calf, moved up to my knee, and then to the back of my leg.  Her fingers moved up underneath the sheet to the inside of my thigh, fingertips just brushing the edge of my labia.

Then the other leg...and just to the edge, once again.

Once she had finished my feet, she asked be to roll over on to my back.  She held the sheet and comforter up toward her, allowing me to twist around under cover without knotting the blankets up.  I situated myself, and she pushed the blanket back from my leg.  Again, the calf, the knee, the quadriceps, the inside of the thigh, and the hint of an intimate touch, held for just a moment longer.

Then the other leg...just to the edge, and then a pause.  Her fingers briefly traveled into the crevice between thigh and lip, small massaging circles, as if testing for a reaction.  I stayed still and moved my leg, just slightly outward in subtle encouragement.

Her slippery finger traced the outside of my shaved outer lips, upward...and then the inside, downward.  She may not have been able to tell, with her oiled fingers, that I was wet, and I tried very hard to remain still.  I didn't want to question why or what, just relish the moment, which was fleeting...leaving me with that sort of delicious disappointment that licks at ones deepest desires - teasing and torturing the lust to the surface.  The want that is not fulfilled.

She replaced the blankets and moved up above my head, sitting on a stool.  She peeled the comforter and sheet down to expose the just the upper swell of my breasts, and began pushing her fingers below my collar bone, to the indentation before my shoulder.  Both hands in sync on either side of my upper body, she worked several paths from my neck between, around, and above my breasts, just barely allowing the edges of her palms and the tips of her fingers to brush them.  On her final sweep upward, she let her hands graze my nipples, which were completely extended, sending gooseflesh down my entire torso, connecting one erotic zone to the other in a conversation of mutually unfulfilled hunger.

My arms, my hands, my head...

And she ended by holding her hands to my temples long enough for her heat to mix with mine, the pulse above my ears and the pulse in her fingers speaking a language only the body knows.  Wordless.

"Take your time getting dressed.  I look forward to our next appointment."  And she swept from the room.

As do I...as do I. 


I have to admit, that while I definitely took liberty with reality here, all of this is based on true experience.  No, she did not actually touch any of my intimate places, though she came closer than most of my prior therapists.  And I do deride some sexual pleasure from this.  She did not straddle me, but she did place one knee on the table to ground herself and allow her to put greater pressure on my sciatic area.  Basically, every sexy part of this story was just one or two steps past the real experience.  I don't expect that it will ever reach the extent that I have drawn out here, but my mind can go there (which I promise you it will), with my eyes closed, senses overcome by herbal relaxants.
  

Wicked Wednesday: "Change"

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is:





Age 10

Standing at the edge of the empty playground,
she whispered in my ear,
"He says you give him a boner."
I asked her what "a boner" was.
She said I made him "hard."
I asked her what that meant.
Her explanation caused roses to
bloom up the sides of my neck.

Age 13

We stood facing each other,
though I was at least 3 inches taller.
The only thought in my head was
"Please don't let our braces lock."

Age 16

He came all over the backseat of
my mother's car.
I spent 20 minutes at the carwash
trying to erase it.

Age 19

I laid a towel on the floor
and we made a bloody mess of it.

Age 20

Her black curls and
freckled cheeks
tightened my thighs
and made me question
my intentions.

Age 23


I was already bored,
but I was sure it was love.
I'd never known a man
to want it less than I could.

Age 27

I met my match.

Age 28

He asked me what I thought
about the prospect of
a threesome.
I giggled.
Uncomfortably.

Age 29

He asked me what I thought
about the prospect of
swinging.
I cried.

Age 30

We went to a club,
left our clothing and
our inhibitions
in the locker room.
Naked,
we ascended the stairs to
a red velvet wonderland of
curtained beds,
writhing bodies,
and moaning lovers.

Age 31

I checked the box.
"Bi-curious."
I checked the box.
"Bi-sexual."

Age 3__

I sit next to him on the couch,
our laptop screens glowing like two eyes,
showing us whatever version of
the world we seek.
I write a poem about sexual identity.
He researches the election.

My poem could suck.
The guy we didn't want could win.

We'll still have sex.
And that's the beauty of it.