She is not made up of light - no - she can't imagine being so bright, so full of constellation and dream and air.
Instead:
She is shadow and midnight pond reflections. She is the soggy crunch of leafs that have layered again and again until people have forgotten that the earth was ever an oceans of summer green. She is the moment of peace right before the storm that washes everything away, but only because it blurs so deeply into the storm itself. There's no doubt that she's the storm, the eye, the wind and gush and exhale exhale exhale.
She is not light. She cannot be.
That is not the nature that embroiders itself into her flesh, that leaks out her eyes, that spices the breathe as it whispers away from her lips.
Yet:
There are moments when she hesitates, when her pause is a stumble to her climax instead of its natural, surging climb. When her heart wonders what if. What if. What if she could be that girl wrapped in his arms, or that girl gripped beneath his body, or that girl tasting chocolate desert lingering on his lips, or that girl yelling his name in a way she would never speak outside of that moment in that bed. That girl who experiences, who is, sunrise and gentle spring rain and summer love and breathless euphoria and the taste of honey and dances that sing.
What if.
When she sees the couple with love in their faces and sleep hanging from their limbs, she almost wishes. Almost.
Instead:
Their light is bright, prickling her skin, blowing her hair into a mess, a nest, a tangle of wish and sour and no.
When she moves to them, when she melts into their skin - temporarily, always temporarily - when she fills them like wine glasses, she tastes it all. It makes every bit of her, atoms-soul-chord, shiver. Hard rolling bursts that go on and on, a rush of tide. The light, the love, the life, tastes so good. Temporarily, always temporarily.
When she reforms, awakens, her thighs are wet, the warmth between her legs still clinching, her breath still skipping and tumbling.
Later, the couple will awaken too. Perhaps they'll remember each other and their love, their sweet love. There's always that maybe. Probably though, if she's honest, they will hurry away from each other, not recognizing blue eyes and brown, afraid they've soiled themselves with a fling, with a stranger, with a night that's foggy and faded and nothing worth remembering.
She'll be that hurricane that has made it to land and eaten all the good places.
She is not light. She cannot be.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Saturday, September 25, 2010
needing him tonight
She is a woman defined by the maps contained within her body. Every moment that passes bleeds back into those lines, those crevices, those clothed secrets. Her dress, the color of a night time summer sun, covers some of these. The scars that say she's been hurt, the lines that say she's a mother, the tattoo that says she takes dares seriously.
Tonight, she's going out. Tonight, she's adding temporary detours onto her skin.
When she arrives at the club, the air is thick with noise, rhythm, perspiration, longing. She is not here for that though, not here for them. She's here for only one person. She knows where he will be waiting.
When she reaches the top of the landing, she glances off the balcony to her left. One person can't be distinguished from another. She sees them moving like a tide, a collective sigh, swaying and thrumming together, puddling light in their hair, on the tops of their cheeks, along the curves of their necks.
Up here, it's a cocoon. He's sitting in the chair and there's no one else. The noise and light from the main floor seep in, but the shadows huddle even thicker, the darkness deeper than the light is illuminating. Up here, she'll be hidden in plain sight. Somehow that thrills her.
The thing about detours is that they often initially take us farther away from where we want to go, but eventually we do arrive. We always arrive. She knows this. She likes scenery. She likes him.
As she walks across the span of floor, her dress slips from her body, a pile of sunset on plush carpet. She wears nothing underneath. He sits unmoving, gaze pulling her to him, until her knees touch his.
And then, the night shifts to fog because she can't quite remember. Nothing is clear. A kaleidoscope moving too quickly.
In the end, she knows this: He moves fast. He has a firm grasp that digs into her hips. He has nails that slide into her back and upper thighs, leaving strings of pink art rising from her skin. He has lips that are soft with teeth that are sharp. He has a cock full of need.
In the end she also knows this: She lets him have everything he wants. She wants it too.
Tonight, she's going out. Tonight, she's adding temporary detours onto her skin.
When she arrives at the club, the air is thick with noise, rhythm, perspiration, longing. She is not here for that though, not here for them. She's here for only one person. She knows where he will be waiting.
When she reaches the top of the landing, she glances off the balcony to her left. One person can't be distinguished from another. She sees them moving like a tide, a collective sigh, swaying and thrumming together, puddling light in their hair, on the tops of their cheeks, along the curves of their necks.
Up here, it's a cocoon. He's sitting in the chair and there's no one else. The noise and light from the main floor seep in, but the shadows huddle even thicker, the darkness deeper than the light is illuminating. Up here, she'll be hidden in plain sight. Somehow that thrills her.
The thing about detours is that they often initially take us farther away from where we want to go, but eventually we do arrive. We always arrive. She knows this. She likes scenery. She likes him.
As she walks across the span of floor, her dress slips from her body, a pile of sunset on plush carpet. She wears nothing underneath. He sits unmoving, gaze pulling her to him, until her knees touch his.
And then, the night shifts to fog because she can't quite remember. Nothing is clear. A kaleidoscope moving too quickly.
In the end, she knows this: He moves fast. He has a firm grasp that digs into her hips. He has nails that slide into her back and upper thighs, leaving strings of pink art rising from her skin. He has lips that are soft with teeth that are sharp. He has a cock full of need.
In the end she also knows this: She lets him have everything he wants. She wants it too.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
twilight and us, 1
For A.
*
We are here, by the water's edge, a rhythmic blanketing of our feet with ripples that soak in the colors of the sky - violet, watermellon, juicy orange. The air is noisy with birds, insects, distant hums, but it is silent of voice and people. In this moment, it is only your breath I hear, and as my eyes drift from the water and the sky, it is only you I see.
Time feels lazy, the seconds pile one on top of the other slowly, with a deliberate collapse and merge, an elevator of puzzle pieces. I don't know how long we've been sitting here, but each second longer adds a drop into the charged air moving between, among, and through both of us.
Our fingers are touching, more and more entwined, a wild summer vine that tangles and grows just where needed, just where it is supposed to be.
I smile and lean my head against you, cheek to your shoulder, and it feels like the natural state of things, as though the breeze just toppled me into you with such grace and purpose that nothing would dare shift us away from this exact pose.
Except, that is, for passion.
We both feel the electricity beneath our skin and between our thighs escalate at the same time. We lean back without a word spoken, letting our hunger navigate, and the awakening twilight frame us as silhouettes who cannot handle one more moment without tasting and feeling and being and fucking.
*
We are here, by the water's edge, a rhythmic blanketing of our feet with ripples that soak in the colors of the sky - violet, watermellon, juicy orange. The air is noisy with birds, insects, distant hums, but it is silent of voice and people. In this moment, it is only your breath I hear, and as my eyes drift from the water and the sky, it is only you I see.
Time feels lazy, the seconds pile one on top of the other slowly, with a deliberate collapse and merge, an elevator of puzzle pieces. I don't know how long we've been sitting here, but each second longer adds a drop into the charged air moving between, among, and through both of us.
Our fingers are touching, more and more entwined, a wild summer vine that tangles and grows just where needed, just where it is supposed to be.
I smile and lean my head against you, cheek to your shoulder, and it feels like the natural state of things, as though the breeze just toppled me into you with such grace and purpose that nothing would dare shift us away from this exact pose.
Except, that is, for passion.
We both feel the electricity beneath our skin and between our thighs escalate at the same time. We lean back without a word spoken, letting our hunger navigate, and the awakening twilight frame us as silhouettes who cannot handle one more moment without tasting and feeling and being and fucking.
finding autumn
The leafs are beginning their lazy fall, a sassy float from branch to air to ground. As we walk along, the path before us is golden and splotched with red.
Blonde hair tangled between my fingers as I pull you from the bed, up to my thighs, forehead and cheeks rosy and deepening.
The breeze is gentle, a light touch to the skin, a whispered goodbye of summer and a coy hello of autumn, a comfort in the transition, a blanket in the open.
My fingertips down the back of your neck and over your shoulder blades, feathery skin, a moment of moving pause.
The field ahead is a blend of green and earth-tones, youth to age, dew to solidity.
I lie you back down, my body collapsing to yours, labia between your teeth, the weight of our bodies solid and transparent.
The sun begins its decent, an orb, a burst, a magic before its rest, coloring our walk, taking away our breaths in moments of awe and recognized bliss.
When I feel my insides collapse into themselves, I press harder to you, losing all of myself to your mouth, my energy becoming yours, lost together, and then: found.
Blonde hair tangled between my fingers as I pull you from the bed, up to my thighs, forehead and cheeks rosy and deepening.
The breeze is gentle, a light touch to the skin, a whispered goodbye of summer and a coy hello of autumn, a comfort in the transition, a blanket in the open.
My fingertips down the back of your neck and over your shoulder blades, feathery skin, a moment of moving pause.
The field ahead is a blend of green and earth-tones, youth to age, dew to solidity.
I lie you back down, my body collapsing to yours, labia between your teeth, the weight of our bodies solid and transparent.
The sun begins its decent, an orb, a burst, a magic before its rest, coloring our walk, taking away our breaths in moments of awe and recognized bliss.
When I feel my insides collapse into themselves, I press harder to you, losing all of myself to your mouth, my energy becoming yours, lost together, and then: found.
Friday, September 12, 2008
upon awakening
To earn Odd-Goof-ball Status - as promised, for you, J. :)
*
It is here, at this time in-between, when summer is breathing slower, shedding the last of its heat in easy exhales, and autumn is perched waiting, that she experiences something beyond her scope of living, beyond her perception of real. Yet, when it does not make her blush and glance away in embarrassment, the experience creates within her a squirm of unspoken delight, and draws a wetness. She has to hide gasps at random moments throughout the day when the images form clearly within her memory.
It happens like this:
She is in the garden, walking sideways and then forward, sometimes feeling the stepping stones beneath her bare feet, sometimes only moist soil. She is going through thoughts, feelings, impressions of her day thus far, and of the week already behind her. The removal of weeds is being performed by some other version of herself, one that can do things even when she isn't fully present. It is in this murky state that, as she leans forward to grab another green intruider, she tumbles. It happens very quickly, too much so to catch her balance, and she feels the slight roughness of the porch's edge cradle her face roughly, right before she is forced to sleep. She awakens some time later to:
Soil and plants molding around her body, a blurred tree stretched strongly above. Still in the garden, fine, and now to get up. Yet, nothing, as though her muscles are liquid. She doesn't see or feel anything actually restraining her, but her body seems to have no inclination to move. It is then that she catches movement from the corner of her eye.
Every year, as summer clearances wind down, her partner surprises her with a new garden gnome, a silly joke, to add a little sass to the pristine version of flowers and flow she creates.
While she doesn't at first quite believe it, she knows she sees it. The little men and women are moving busily about. And when she feels her dress being raised and her panties being slipped off, she can do nothing except shriek a protest. Some part of her speculates that even if her body reformed again, found its strength, she may still lie there and watch the story unfold, or unravel, or form again and again.
This is where her story gets very hazy because suddenly she only feels. Her world is a shadow to the sensations of one, two, five, seven pairs of miniature hands and mouths grabbing at her, biting, tickling, and certainly teasing. She doesn't know who, what, or how, but when she is entered, stretched, taken, she wants more, and more she is given. And then, after a climax, and another, her body wraps itself in a fulfilled fatigue and dozes into another sleep.
When she awakens again, the afternoon warmth has melted away and the sun is drooping in the sky, hanging by a last thread. She feels the weight of her body, and the normalcy of everything, her vision, her muscles, her thoughts. She sits up, and to her right, one of her gnomes. Or, at least, she assumes it is, though she is sure he was once standing, fully clothed, with a gleeful expression. Now he is bent in her direction, pants dropped, and she is sure he must be smirking a reminder.
She thinks she must better watch her step next time. Perhaps.
*
It is here, at this time in-between, when summer is breathing slower, shedding the last of its heat in easy exhales, and autumn is perched waiting, that she experiences something beyond her scope of living, beyond her perception of real. Yet, when it does not make her blush and glance away in embarrassment, the experience creates within her a squirm of unspoken delight, and draws a wetness. She has to hide gasps at random moments throughout the day when the images form clearly within her memory.
It happens like this:
She is in the garden, walking sideways and then forward, sometimes feeling the stepping stones beneath her bare feet, sometimes only moist soil. She is going through thoughts, feelings, impressions of her day thus far, and of the week already behind her. The removal of weeds is being performed by some other version of herself, one that can do things even when she isn't fully present. It is in this murky state that, as she leans forward to grab another green intruider, she tumbles. It happens very quickly, too much so to catch her balance, and she feels the slight roughness of the porch's edge cradle her face roughly, right before she is forced to sleep. She awakens some time later to:
Soil and plants molding around her body, a blurred tree stretched strongly above. Still in the garden, fine, and now to get up. Yet, nothing, as though her muscles are liquid. She doesn't see or feel anything actually restraining her, but her body seems to have no inclination to move. It is then that she catches movement from the corner of her eye.
Every year, as summer clearances wind down, her partner surprises her with a new garden gnome, a silly joke, to add a little sass to the pristine version of flowers and flow she creates.
While she doesn't at first quite believe it, she knows she sees it. The little men and women are moving busily about. And when she feels her dress being raised and her panties being slipped off, she can do nothing except shriek a protest. Some part of her speculates that even if her body reformed again, found its strength, she may still lie there and watch the story unfold, or unravel, or form again and again.
This is where her story gets very hazy because suddenly she only feels. Her world is a shadow to the sensations of one, two, five, seven pairs of miniature hands and mouths grabbing at her, biting, tickling, and certainly teasing. She doesn't know who, what, or how, but when she is entered, stretched, taken, she wants more, and more she is given. And then, after a climax, and another, her body wraps itself in a fulfilled fatigue and dozes into another sleep.
When she awakens again, the afternoon warmth has melted away and the sun is drooping in the sky, hanging by a last thread. She feels the weight of her body, and the normalcy of everything, her vision, her muscles, her thoughts. She sits up, and to her right, one of her gnomes. Or, at least, she assumes it is, though she is sure he was once standing, fully clothed, with a gleeful expression. Now he is bent in her direction, pants dropped, and she is sure he must be smirking a reminder.
She thinks she must better watch her step next time. Perhaps.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
gardens don't tell secrets
It was that time of summer when everything whispered a secret. Or, stood swaying in the light breeze, lips pursed, holding to the hush at the back of the throat, determined that the secret remain so, though tempted by the ecstasy contained in the telling.
Hers was this:
Digging weeds and plucking fresh vegetables from the soil not only helped her to feel grounded and alive, not only made her moist from perspiration, but also summoned: aroused and ready.
She read in a book about people getting back to their roots, back to the ways of their great-great-grandparents, through gardening. She wonders if people of that era also carefully chose the largest cucumber to wash and use as an afternoon companion. And with a laugh, she does, thinking of the coolness touching her entrance, and then the fucking that opens her more with each plunge.
The ride she goes on sheds her outer layers, leaving her in a state of floating and blur. Her head, neck, arms, torso, legs, feet, all collapse into her center, as if she is only a bundle of warm, electric energy right at her vulva and pelvis.
When the heat and momentum implode, muscles clench a harmony and an encore, and she is left feeling the secret on every millimeter of her skin.
Hers was this:
Digging weeds and plucking fresh vegetables from the soil not only helped her to feel grounded and alive, not only made her moist from perspiration, but also summoned: aroused and ready.
She read in a book about people getting back to their roots, back to the ways of their great-great-grandparents, through gardening. She wonders if people of that era also carefully chose the largest cucumber to wash and use as an afternoon companion. And with a laugh, she does, thinking of the coolness touching her entrance, and then the fucking that opens her more with each plunge.
The ride she goes on sheds her outer layers, leaving her in a state of floating and blur. Her head, neck, arms, torso, legs, feet, all collapse into her center, as if she is only a bundle of warm, electric energy right at her vulva and pelvis.
When the heat and momentum implode, muscles clench a harmony and an encore, and she is left feeling the secret on every millimeter of her skin.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
a summer mystery
She wonders how it must feel for a man, the sudden envelopment of heat, silk, liquid. The complete imersion of pulsing nerve endings into their comfort source, their vice, their cliff of steep slope and no return. She imagines the thrill of tight flesh wrapped around, a window that whispers, "It's summer, the heat lies outside in piles, I leave a gap open for a breeze, an escape for this moment, won't you sneak in?"
And, will you?
When you walk into the room, colors of the August sky hanging on the window sill and echoing against walls, when you see her lying there, wrapped in a thin white sheet, like a spider web caught in breeze, when you catch her eyes that cha-cha, yet remain unmoving, will you?
Will you push open the window, allowing a gust of wind to wash over her, stealing away her voice and the smoothness of her heartbeat? Will you feel the way her body loses its form and molds against your own? Will you release yourself into the summer trance and return changed, or at the least, breathless?
She waits.
And, will you?
When you walk into the room, colors of the August sky hanging on the window sill and echoing against walls, when you see her lying there, wrapped in a thin white sheet, like a spider web caught in breeze, when you catch her eyes that cha-cha, yet remain unmoving, will you?
Will you push open the window, allowing a gust of wind to wash over her, stealing away her voice and the smoothness of her heartbeat? Will you feel the way her body loses its form and molds against your own? Will you release yourself into the summer trance and return changed, or at the least, breathless?
She waits.
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