August 2008
15 posts
there is that moment as I look up at her, legs spread over my hips, and see this dichotomy of connectedness … her eyes closed as she chases that thought, that image, that feeling which will push her over the edge, lost in another world …. yet, as I look along my body, along me, inside her, there is infinte connection, that place of immeasurable contact, the source of (i’m sure)...
i like blemishes - pallid clear expanses make me think of automatons. I want to see signs of a life well lived, of accidents and too much fun, i want to hear the stories behind bruises, i want to find out how that scar came about. It’s the imperfections which create beauty. Is there any cuter word than freckle ?
The shrill scream, with the ring of the unhinged, was designed to incite the anger she felt represented a passion we lacked. It worked, I was angry, and held her hands together above her head and pushed her down against the bed. Even as my antipathy reached a pinnacle this fury seemed to prove to her that i cared and acted as an aphrodisiac, and she smiled and became more lustful than docile.
I am always amazed, as i kiss the bruises the next morning, not that they have appeared, as i could not forget bringing my hand down on her or pushing her against the dresser, but that she felt real pleasure in their creation. It seems so other worldly, that night of lust, a mere 7 hours ago.
there is a way that we lie, both on our sides, you the inside spoon, but with my weight slightly on you, my arm under your head, my other arm around you, between your breasts, enveloping you, which creates a self fulfilling sense of provision of protection, strength, comfort. Primal ideals reflected from me to you, happiness impenetrable by the outside world.
i am awed and intoxicated by the power your vulnerability grants me…
I’ve read that a mans masturbatory fodder is a scrapbook of scenes based in reality which he flips through in a sequence which is increasingly debased (true in this case), while a woman seduces herself with convoluted scenes plucked from the ether - do you think this is correct ?
guys - why are we so lacking imagination that we cannot escape the confines of actuality
women - could you...
I need to create some new footage. I’ve seen this rerun too many times:
I steady my cock with my hand as she lined the coke along it before taking the rolled 50 and snorting, then slowly licking off any remains, and sucking it to make sure. “turn around” as I pull on a rubber and cover it in lube, push a ky covered finger into her perfectly presented posterior, and then replace it, slowly, with my...
she couldnt wear her bikini because the large purple bruises on the back of her upper thigh showed. Instead, she wore a great light blue diaphanous sun dress, which she looked wonderful in and which, as an added bonus, provided much better protection from the sun
i love the days I have a post coital grin and the answer to the question “the last time i … ?” is found by looking at my watch, not my calendar.
there was something about the way the late afternoon light fell which made her seem ethereal as as she lay on the picnic rug - each strand of hair was luminous, the halo over her skin a soft bright gold, and even as we touched we seemed to move with a synchonicity which was chimerical - her back slowly shimmying while she lay as my fingertips danced over her, pre-empting a kiss by offering her...
I have a book idea for you (do people still write them ?) - a tumblr roll - the cathartic confessions of the anonymous, the fantasies of men and women, the pithy cliched idiom of mythical ideals, a cast of characters floating in and out on dashboards, a folly of the followed (what is the collective noun ?) that reveals more about the first person, the one who congregates this cavalcade...
I couldnt tell if your desire to be my plaything, to be debased, to please, came from the insecurity of the need for approbation or the security of the desire to explore, and after a short time i didnt care.
i try to analyze why i find this erotic, and cannot…
she is held, not against her will, but against what she would say she wanted, perhaps. A man on either side of her is pushing a shoulder down and has his other hand behind her knee, spreading her legs, keeping her prone. The assembled men are on the right side of fit, the wrong side of kempt and are milling about, waiting their turn....
“The light illuminates only the sides of the mirrors, for a solar-eclipse effect that makes the mirror seem to hover in retrograde Satanic ecstasy, watching as you struggle blindly with openly hostile mutant-octopus cardigans that suddenly have 117 sleeves, no neck holes and no capacity for mercy.”
making shopping sound fun again
