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.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
august blooms
She likes buying bouquets of flowers. Bundles of sunshine to brighten a whole room with color and soft scent. She chooses carefully, one that feels like August with heat so thick it settles into the skin, then muscles, then bones - yellow, fuchsia, tangerine. On impulse, she buys two.
When she gets home, she puts one in a glass vase in the living room, so that she sees it as she passes throughout the final hours of the afternoon, straightening, dancing, talking on the phone. The other, she rests on the kitchen counter.
When her lover comes home, hair flowing down, office stress releases from her with each step, like residue or a skin being shed. They find each other's lips very quickly as they stumble backward, through the living room and then into the kitchen until they bump abruptly into the counter's edge.
Clothes peel off and it is then that the bouquet is noticed. With a delighted smirk, the one recently home decides to release the rest of her tension. She turns the other around, leaning against the coolness of the surface with bottom and vulva exposed. She grabs the flowers, soft petals and firm stems. Buds rub against the clitoris, then press into the tight and slippery opening. A tease of a few seconds before she pulls away and begins swinging the stems against the curves of ass. Again, again, again with the soft pops forming a melody. Every now and then, the petals brush gentle against sensitive skin, a kiss during downpour. When the flesh goes from baby-girl-rosy to teenage-rocker-pink to do-me-red, she stops.
She weaves her fingers into curly strands, gentle and firm, moving her florist art from the counter to the floor, and presses her own cunt to softly parted lips. She glides, rubs, fucks. Later, she will return th favor, but in this moment, it is all about her and the smell of open flowers, open lust.
When she gets home, she puts one in a glass vase in the living room, so that she sees it as she passes throughout the final hours of the afternoon, straightening, dancing, talking on the phone. The other, she rests on the kitchen counter.
When her lover comes home, hair flowing down, office stress releases from her with each step, like residue or a skin being shed. They find each other's lips very quickly as they stumble backward, through the living room and then into the kitchen until they bump abruptly into the counter's edge.
Clothes peel off and it is then that the bouquet is noticed. With a delighted smirk, the one recently home decides to release the rest of her tension. She turns the other around, leaning against the coolness of the surface with bottom and vulva exposed. She grabs the flowers, soft petals and firm stems. Buds rub against the clitoris, then press into the tight and slippery opening. A tease of a few seconds before she pulls away and begins swinging the stems against the curves of ass. Again, again, again with the soft pops forming a melody. Every now and then, the petals brush gentle against sensitive skin, a kiss during downpour. When the flesh goes from baby-girl-rosy to teenage-rocker-pink to do-me-red, she stops.
She weaves her fingers into curly strands, gentle and firm, moving her florist art from the counter to the floor, and presses her own cunt to softly parted lips. She glides, rubs, fucks. Later, she will return th favor, but in this moment, it is all about her and the smell of open flowers, open lust.
the love in the sex
The song is on the radio - "...only one good thing worth trying to be, and it's love..." This makes her pause and smile. Talking about the sex feels good. But talking about her sex without talking about her love would be incomplete, like a puzzle pieced together with no picture forming.
When she was in highschool, in a bus moving slowly through the neighborhood, she would pretend her eyes were a camera, capturing stills that could later be retreived if carefully indexed in her mind. The swoop of a tree, the trick of shadow and light over the sidewalk, spring in bloom, clouds as objects, a stray ball in a perfectly manicured lawn, simple things.
One of her photos stands out the most: an elderly couple, pushing 80 perhaps, holding hands with a deep tenderness, walking beneath a large and bowing oak as autumn began its descent on the leafs. That's what she wanted, a peaceful love with depth that flowed like bubbling rivers, but felt like a gentle breeze.
It has been over a decade since she first took that photo, imagined it then in black and white to add to its classic quality, and stored it. Now, she is sure she has it with the way he holds her own hand, the way they laugh, the way they kiss each others quirks with gentleness and abandon, the way they have went through life's transitions with some sense of grace, finding ease in storms. They are past that initial infatuation that fills the body is swoops and gasps; they are past the settling in newlywed stretch that aches and wonders; they are years in. They know each other. They know they are everchanging. They know they are in it all together.
They sat at a meeting a few weeks ago and two of the girls joked about how everyone said they should also be married because they do everything together, they buy each other gifts, and they never have sex. They laugh, feeling they know so much about the crazy life dynamics.
But she glanced at her husband out of the corner of her eye, catching his own, having to swallow her laugh as she thought about what they'd do when these visitors left, perhaps in that exact spot where the others were sitting so casually.
It's funny, this, to have it all. A stable partner, a best friend, a strong shoulder, a lover who will push her into the floor and make her bite her lip while the carpet rubs against her knees and forearms, wanting to taste every drop of the experience.
When she was in highschool, in a bus moving slowly through the neighborhood, she would pretend her eyes were a camera, capturing stills that could later be retreived if carefully indexed in her mind. The swoop of a tree, the trick of shadow and light over the sidewalk, spring in bloom, clouds as objects, a stray ball in a perfectly manicured lawn, simple things.
One of her photos stands out the most: an elderly couple, pushing 80 perhaps, holding hands with a deep tenderness, walking beneath a large and bowing oak as autumn began its descent on the leafs. That's what she wanted, a peaceful love with depth that flowed like bubbling rivers, but felt like a gentle breeze.
It has been over a decade since she first took that photo, imagined it then in black and white to add to its classic quality, and stored it. Now, she is sure she has it with the way he holds her own hand, the way they laugh, the way they kiss each others quirks with gentleness and abandon, the way they have went through life's transitions with some sense of grace, finding ease in storms. They are past that initial infatuation that fills the body is swoops and gasps; they are past the settling in newlywed stretch that aches and wonders; they are years in. They know each other. They know they are everchanging. They know they are in it all together.
They sat at a meeting a few weeks ago and two of the girls joked about how everyone said they should also be married because they do everything together, they buy each other gifts, and they never have sex. They laugh, feeling they know so much about the crazy life dynamics.
But she glanced at her husband out of the corner of her eye, catching his own, having to swallow her laugh as she thought about what they'd do when these visitors left, perhaps in that exact spot where the others were sitting so casually.
It's funny, this, to have it all. A stable partner, a best friend, a strong shoulder, a lover who will push her into the floor and make her bite her lip while the carpet rubs against her knees and forearms, wanting to taste every drop of the experience.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
to be raw
Today, she is rage.
First:
She takes off her clothes, slowly, piece by piece, as if balancing between the inhale and exhale, motionless time. Sandals, skirt, top, bra, hair tie.
She opens the paint tins and finds red, orange, purple, black. She dips her hands in, the slippery liquid coating her palms, fingers, cuticles, gaps beneath her nails, like rain-drenched mud or a sunset ocean. She smears the paint in streams, puddles, clumps against her body. Hair, cheeks, collarbone, breasts, belly, thighs, bottom, calves, toes.
Then:
She slams her body against the white wall, slides down into a sitting position, rolls, presses, claws, kisses, stands again. The paint blurs into the surface, an abstract whirlwind, with a simple pause of truth every now and then: a fingerprint or a strand of hair outlined perfectly or a curve that more than resembles her, like a pressed flower or a sun-print, a piece of refined soul.
Finally:
She is tired. She curls on the floor, and lets her eyes close as the light rolls into the room, an open tide, sweeping her into its arms.
And later:
She'll wake up and take a long shower, yet still carry with her smudges of this rage for days as the dried paint sticks to the creases of her skin, hiding from sight until she notices at random times - using the toilet, waiting in an elevator, doodling in a meeting, having tea with a friend.
Tomorrow, when this afternoon is a distant enough memory, she'll meditate, twist her body into yoga, make jokes with her lover, and be shades of blue, green, peach, the hues of peace and forgiveness and little lullabies.
But today, just today, when he arrives home, she'll be a fire, a scandal, a storm in the bedroom. And in his most breathless moments, he will like it, and wish for more days that are volcanic and raw.
*
Note: Summer company has now all went byebye, yay! So, I should be better about posting weekly - I've managed to almost do weekly, but not quite. If any of you have a story request, please share: gender mix (ie. female / female or whatever) and basic theme. :) I appreciate all of your comments, and plan to respond individually soon. xo.
First:
She takes off her clothes, slowly, piece by piece, as if balancing between the inhale and exhale, motionless time. Sandals, skirt, top, bra, hair tie.
She opens the paint tins and finds red, orange, purple, black. She dips her hands in, the slippery liquid coating her palms, fingers, cuticles, gaps beneath her nails, like rain-drenched mud or a sunset ocean. She smears the paint in streams, puddles, clumps against her body. Hair, cheeks, collarbone, breasts, belly, thighs, bottom, calves, toes.
Then:
She slams her body against the white wall, slides down into a sitting position, rolls, presses, claws, kisses, stands again. The paint blurs into the surface, an abstract whirlwind, with a simple pause of truth every now and then: a fingerprint or a strand of hair outlined perfectly or a curve that more than resembles her, like a pressed flower or a sun-print, a piece of refined soul.
Finally:
She is tired. She curls on the floor, and lets her eyes close as the light rolls into the room, an open tide, sweeping her into its arms.
And later:
She'll wake up and take a long shower, yet still carry with her smudges of this rage for days as the dried paint sticks to the creases of her skin, hiding from sight until she notices at random times - using the toilet, waiting in an elevator, doodling in a meeting, having tea with a friend.
Tomorrow, when this afternoon is a distant enough memory, she'll meditate, twist her body into yoga, make jokes with her lover, and be shades of blue, green, peach, the hues of peace and forgiveness and little lullabies.
But today, just today, when he arrives home, she'll be a fire, a scandal, a storm in the bedroom. And in his most breathless moments, he will like it, and wish for more days that are volcanic and raw.
*
Note: Summer company has now all went byebye, yay! So, I should be better about posting weekly - I've managed to almost do weekly, but not quite. If any of you have a story request, please share: gender mix (ie. female / female or whatever) and basic theme. :) I appreciate all of your comments, and plan to respond individually soon. xo.
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