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.