Wednesday, April 24, 2013


Music has been such a focal point in my emotional life, it's hard really to pinpoint a particular moment when it played a bigger role than in any other.

That, and...because my memory is less than stellar, it's also difficult to remember the musical specifics of any given event.

One that I can remember is receiving a "mixed tape" from a college boyfriend (I was still in high school - and he was several hundred miles away).  I put the tape on the main house stereo, naively allowing my parents access to the metaphorical depths of the songs he'd chosen.  All was fine and dandy until Nine Inch Nails' "Closer" came on.  I'd never heard the song before, and, well...I about came out of my clothes rushing to turn the damned thing off before it continued to its second bar of "I want to fuck you like an animal..."

Praise the gods above, my parents pretended to not be paying attention (la, la, la....head in sand....our daughter is an innocent flower of, la, la).

I listened to that tape on my walkman day and night for weeks, until he came home.  Eventually the shock from that first listen (I'm pretty sure I blushed crimson for the rest of the evening) wore off, and I began to dissect and over think (like every adolescent girl) the lyrics.  Somehow, I made it our anthem.

And, on the floor of his parent's basement, on a blanket he'd laid out for the purpose...with dozens of pillows...we fucked to that song.

Unfortunately, his younger sister (with the gigantic "tell the entire world everything and then some" mouth) walked in on us.  Though I must commend myself at not succumbing to the instant turn-off of "coitus interruptus".  When she left, we went right back to it.

"Closer" would eventually come to represent the lens the rest of the world had on my sex life - a reminder that nothing is really ever secret for long and that the things we believe to be private rarely ever are.  It also had an openly violent sentiment.

You let me violate you
You let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you
You let me complicate you
(Help me...)
I broke apart my insides
(Help me...)
I've got no soul to sell
(Help me...)
The only thing that works for me
Help me get away from myself,

I wanna fuck you like an animal
I wanna feel you from the inside
I wanna fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to God

You can have my isolation
You can have the hate that it brings
You can have my absence of faith
You can have my everything

(Help me...)
You tear down my reason
(Help me...)
It's your sex I can smell
(Help me...)
You make me perfect
Help me become somebody else

I wanna fuck you like an animal
I wanna feel you from the inside
I wanna fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to God

Through every forest
Above the trees
Within my stomach
Scraped off my knees
I drink the honey, inside your hive...
You are the reason I stay alive...

Interestingly, he was really the first to introduce me to pain (and to the pleasure I acquired from it).  I guess I hadn't made the connection until now, that sending me this song was really probably his attempt at letting me know about his proclivity toward domination.  He was anything but overbearing in daily life. In fact, he was tall and sort of skinny, had shoulder length hair, rather feminine facial features, and defined himself as an artist and musician.  Pretty much the antithesis of "masculine". And I really hadn't thought about this as a possible starting point for my own submissive tendencies, until now.

So, there you have it - an epiphany.

"Closer" was, for all intents and purposes, the theme song for my (not so?) subtle introduction into teenage lover's fingernails digging into the flesh of my back and thighs.  The harder he pushed the more turned on I became.  His teeth in my neck, leaving marks...bruises that would need to be covered by high-necked shirts and scarves.  Scratches that lasted for days.

I had forgotten how much I liked that.  How aroused it made me...and how freaked  out.  I remember feeling a little afraid of the power his touch had over my body and over my psyche.  It wasn't just sexual.  It was mental and emotional.  He indeed violated my own vision of myself (tore down my reason...helped me become somebody else), desecrated my thin wall of innocence, penetrated my body, and complicated my thoughts of sex, and pain, and power.  And to whatever extent a god exists, he certainly got me closer to it.

 This has been a Wicked Wednesday post.  Check out the site to see who else is being Wicked.

Friday, April 19, 2013


Flash Fiction Friday prompt:  Keyword - "stolen", 300 word limit

The stolen car sat outside his rundown apartment.  Leah pulled the tattered blinds and peeked nervously out at it.

"Fuck, baby...we needed a I got us a ride..."

His messy black hair, and his blue eyes pleading with her to accept his gift, made his face look boyish despite the  dark shadow hugging his jaw.

"Joe...why can't you just bring me flowers like a normal guy?"

A deep growling laugh rose from his chest.  He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket, smacked it against his hand several times, and fell onto the frameless mattress, glaring up at the concrete walls.

Deep inside, Leah felt that even though Joe was a bit ethically-challenged, he was basically a good guy with misguided ideas about how to make a girl happy.

Oddly, she felt guilty for the stolen car.  He wouldn't steal shit if it weren't for her.  He did what he did out of fear of losing her, even though he'd never admit it.

She sighed inwardly and shook her head, dropping to her knees.  No matter how much he fucked up, she couldn't help loving him.  She climbed on top of him and pulled her t-shirt over her head.  Her braless chest bared to him, he focused in on her eyes.

"You've gotta take it back."

"I can't...the fucking cops'll nab me."

"Joe..." she scolded.

"Fuck me, Leah..."  He almost whined it, running his hand through his hair in exasperation.  "No really, fuck me.  Fuck me so hard I want to take the fucking car back."

"Oh, I will, Joe.  I will.  I'd rather ride your cock than a shitty old Buick any day."

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

The Dance

The tempo changes repeatedly,
shifting us from waltz to sultry
tango, but he is always in the lead,
guiding my movements, as if my body

could subconsciously steer his hands.
which, solid and warm above my waist,
wordlessly decide, slowly or in haste,
just how much I can withstand.

Taking my wrist between his fingers,
placing them against his neck, he straightens
my posture.  His gaze controls my attention,
and his silent commands linger.

The music plays, but the room recedes,
as he manages my every move with ease.

This has been a Wicked Wednesday post, in response to a prompt involving BDSM.

This has also been a poetry challenge poem...#5 in an ongoing series based on The Poet's Garret list of poetic forms. --Australian Sonnet

Friday, April 12, 2013

FFF: In the Bath

"A watched kettle never boils."  She looked at me slyly, her right eyebrow lifted slightly and her lip curled up in a naughty smirk.

She laid back in the water, and her breasts floated, surrounded by soft white bubbles.  I set my glass of wine down and leaned over the edge of the tub, took her nipple into my mouth and sucked it until she moaned.  Squeezing it between my teeth, I bit, tenderly, pulling her breast upward and letting it drop, enjoying the sight and sound of it slapping the water as it made contact with her torso again.

I looked into her eyes as she took my face into her hands, her mouth devouring mine.  She pulled me forward far enough that I instinctually put out my hand to keep myself from falling into the water, which, of course, soaked the sleeve of my shirt.  Somehow, this served as an invitation to pull me in further; she put her hands on my breasts, which pulsed beneath the fabric of my shirt and bra, and the wine took over, telling me that getting in the tub, fully clothed, was a completely acceptable idea.

Water sloshed over the edge of the tub, but as my mouth again met hers, I hardly cared about the mess, or my clothes, or...anything...other than her lips and her simmering skin and the hot water.  I straddled her naked body, and her hands wrapped around me, slid down around my waist and pulled my hips forward to grind against her pelvis.

When her fingers slipped between my legs and into my shorts, delving under the edge of my panties, searching for entrance, I gladly folded my hips forward to make access easier.  I slipped my own hand into the water, past her forearm, between her thighs, pressed tight between my own, and squeezed two fingers into the V of her sex.  Her clit wasn't hard to find...swollen and expectant.

As the water splashed all over the tile floor, we finger fucked each other in synchronized movements and laughed out loud as we came together, our gushing orgasms vibrating and filling the water that held our bodies in a warm embrace.

"You're right," I said, "the kettle needs more than watching."


This has been an FFF post.  Keyword:  "Simmer"...

Check out other writers' interpretation of this week's prompt.  CLICK HERE!

Tuesday, April 9, 2013


our colors run
into deep black

your blue
eyes meet
my green

subtle ivory
blushes pink
with the imprint
of your touch

curled strands of
gold, bronze, copper
secured tightly
in your hand

ice-gray sheets
twist beneath coverlets of
crimson, ochre, aqua
wrap around feet
and hold down limbs
searching release
from bonds

music in soft hues
of sienna, chestnut,
and caramel
sift through the air
muffling false protests

the magenta feather
the sterling implements
the tawny candle
smelling of vanilla

which we are not

dancing shadows
punctuate the amber glow

and the sounds are hardly words

they take on the qualities
of sight, smell, taste, touch

clear sweat
the last thing I witness
dripping down your neck
onto the pillow

I close my eyes
to black
breathe in the sweet
and sour
salt of the body

swimming in the ether
of sensory overload
and absence of thought

utterly spent

This has been a Wicked Wednesday post.  Click HERE to see who else is being wicked this week.