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there is a moment when the light touch of fingers and nails drawing figures of eight across her back loses the pent curious zeal of lust and starts to feel like a chore. I’m not sure if the the lacking is communicated through fingertips, I couldnt tell you how one touch differs from another. that moment, though, that id-like signifier that that the joy of the beginning has ended, always catches me by surprise.
this is how sunday afternoon should fade into night…
the sweet tart taste of champagne and orange, full bodied deep brown black coffee, molten chocolate cake too early in the afternoon, the lightheaded pleasure of 3 drinks in at 3.30, skin on skin, arms wrapped around, the soft caress of hands in hair. Warm air on bodies, blankets with the kiss of mohair tangled in limbs, the strewn trail of debauchery - clothes, a scarf still attached to headboard, a spluttering candle, garish discarded plastic wrappers, massage oil, massive attack. Cheese and carrs crackers, olives.
the ice coaxed her nipple high, and i kissed it, then bit it, and she gasped and later said - there is a perfect moment when the heat of your lips and the pain overcomes the numbing cold and i am flooded with the warm blood rush of want….
in the name of novelty, we contort ourselves in excruciating poses, but there is some wonderful moment when the pain of discomfort becomes the pleasure of a muscle straining to elicit greater contact.
i’m trying out words which imply monogomous commitment, to see how they feel in my mouth. I still find that words which describe the joy of discovering what brings a smile to an unfamiliar set of lips roll more easily from my tongue.
internally contradictory:
the greatest compliment should not be to enumerate all those little quirks which i love, but to ask questions about all those things of which i am curious. dont let me spell out the things i know, let me marvel at your depth and hint at my attentive observation by asking about the things i dont - it’s finding out about the unknowns that turns me on, they are what keep me coming back.
There is a game i play. I am infinitely curious, and i see the exploration of that curiosity as a purely intellectual excercise. I want to know - everything - what i do which you find seductive, what i do which you don’t, what you would do for me, with me, with somebody else, what the things i could not, physically, experience feel like, what the things i could physically experience feel like for you. I maintain the veneer that this is a purely objective study.
she paused to relish her curiosity, i think, or form a thesis to test, before bending to run her tongue along the mix of menses and cum at the end of my cock, and, realizing there was nothing to fear, returned with wonderful and wanton ardor…
Tension is erotic. The G rating in so much of what I see is due to its lax, limpid passivity. From Playboy and Penthouse as well as the artful nudes of today, it is the lack of tension which diminishes the salacious. Give me Eros, that tense little fucker, with his fear that his aim may be poor, his step trepidatious in pursuit, muscles attached to wings stretched taut, the string of the bow a high pitched quiver, right arm straight, left hand close to the ear. There is a lack of certainty which is delicious, a want which is full of desire, a concentration on purpose which excludes mere comfort. Beware the fat hallmark cherub masquerading as a god - this louche, lethargic figure is a pale reflection of that which Eros symbolizes.
I want to feel want, lust, pain, joy, uncertainty, i want to see tendons stretched and muscles taut, arms extended to grasp desire, fervid mouths feeding hungrily on concupiscence.
mere acquiescence lacks the base humanity which makes this fun. Comfort, I fear, is for the frigid.
she lay with her legs akimbo. there was such femininity in the way that she was splayed… at the same time nurturingly maternal and wantonly vulnerable. It asked for trust, it was an invitation to be depraved.
I will regret the naif exuberance of this tomorrow - but does it feel a little as though we were living in a depressed miasma, that a million people could march in the streets against a war and be told by the powers that be that they didn’t give a fuck, so we all sort of gave up, fell into a torpor? That there was a horrible dissonance between the abuses that we knew did matter and the paris hilton stories and gawker and snark which came to pass as valid social commentary?
and then.
It has all started to matter again. We woke up. I feel as though there are an infinite number of creative projects which were exploring something which had seemed meaningful sitting unfinished because they now seem frivolous.
There is activity which makes sense. They are going to close Guantanamo, withdraw (slowly, strategically) from Iraq. The ridiculousness we lived with which was presented as immutable is, all of a sudden, ridiculous and mutable. Reality feels tangible rather than dreamlike, and full of the possibility of good, even though one is cognizant of how difficult that reality is going to be.
