Archive for October, 2006

what I haven’t told you I believe about love

October 27, 2006  |  poetry  |  3 Comments

that I love freely and with dangerous abandonthat I fall in love at least twelve times a day – sometimes with the same person, sometimes each one is different

that love is a choice and must continue to be chosen in order to sustain

that love and sex are not for procreation or recreation, but for concentration – because there are just too many people in the world*

that divinity is within us, and accessed through practices of loving

that I am at my best when I am naked laughing with you

that I am trusting, sometimes to a fault

that I am fiercely loyal

that I believe in romance like a religion and will gladly offer prayer every time I see the edges of you blur a little bit

that sex play is always of the highest priority, and I will always be late, sleep in, and skip obligations for it

that I have never seen anything more gorgeous than you are right now**

that I live in my heart, nestled down into each chamber with a different story to tell and a different wisdom to hear

that I love too hard too fast too soon, but that is the only way I know how to fall

that most of us have unlearned the innate impulse of how to let the soft animals of our bodies love what they love***

that nothing is forever, but if we can bend together to time’s winds, we can weather anything

that I don’t really know what I’m doing or how any of this works, but I think I’m pretty neat, and I trust my strengths and virtues and vices to carry me through all of these paths that I am walking

that love is never permanent, but it changes me every single fucking beautiful time

references/quotes:

* the film “opposite of sex”
** poet andrea gibson
*** poet mary oliver

a note to her I have yet to send

October 25, 2006  |  poetry  |  No Comments
Did you see the sunset tonight?

It cried your name. Or perhaps that was me. Or perhaps that was the book that I’m reading, which seems to make references to you every couple paragraphs. Or perhaps that’s just me, again, because I can’t seem to quite get the timbre, the resonance of your voice off of my fingertips – though the smell of your skin does seem to be fading from my black tee shirt which I don’t want to remove.

distracting myself III

October 24, 2006  |  dirty stories  |  No Comments

Part I

Part II

Her mouth is warm, wet, tightly closed around this penis that is increasingly feeling like part of me. I know the ridges of the roof of her mouth, I know the way her inner lips and tongue are the texture of avocado, so creamy and smooth, not sweet but succulent, smelting. I know the edges of her teeth, the one on the top that is not quite perfectly aligned but makes her smile extra cute. I can almost feel these details through the cyberskin of my cock. The ridge of her mouth on the ridge of the head. Her teeth covered or barely grazing the edge. Sucking. Pulling liquid from deep inside me with the pull of her mouth. Swallowing me.She’s making little noises in her throat as though she’s famished and eating a gourmet meal bite by bite. Strawberries and champagne. Brie and havarti and muenster and gorgonzola. Olives.

I could let this go on, really. Her mouth on my cock. My cock in her mouth. Her hand still on the shaft. She’s kneeling now, feet under her, heel pressed against her own cunt and rocking back and forth as I slide insider her, in and out, in and out. This could go on, just like this, but it won’t. Not tonight.

I tear at her hair, hard, throwing her off balance. I pull her skull back with my fist and push with my hips, guiding her movement. She scrambles, hands reaching, eyes wide, not quite able to get a grip on the floor with her stockinged feet, sliding, until her back hits the wall and I press my hips to her face again. Bring one hand to the wall above her and begin thrusting. She squirms, gasps, cries out a little when my cock goes too deep, pressing her body against the wall and twisting her legs into some sort of half-sitting position after they get caught beneath her body.

Her other hand finds her slit between her legs, wet and slick, clit hard, muscles inside already pulsing. She looks to see if I notice. I do, but my only movement is coming hard from my hips and I let her continue for now. I am glad she enjoys this. She may as well be comfortable now.

And she is, almost. Not quite comfortable, because I’m still inside her mouth on top of her in this vulnerable pose that gives her no room for movement. She can only take my cock however deep I give it to her.

This is when things for me can get dangerous. I will get off from a good blowjob, and she knows it. As desire builds and my brain clears of all clutter, such power mounts in my body that my cock could be steel, the thrust of my hips could be powered by a generator. I can get scared here. I find my eyes rolling back, my body opening, my energy so pointed: I fear I will do something harmful. Want overrides thought and I could hurt her, accidentally, by giving in to this desire, by letting go.

She knows this happens for me. We’ve spoken of it. She has come to expect it at times when my passion builds strong and intense. She’s looking up at me trying to catch my eyes. Holds eye contact for a moment, urging me. Go on. Do it.

distracting myself II

October 19, 2006  |  dirty stories  |  4 Comments

Part I

She does. Tenderly, her lips on the pink silicone. Tenderly, her mouth sucking her teeth, keeping her lips closed. Looking up at me under her eyelashes, movement restricted by my hand in her hair, breasts thrust forward, nipples peaked. Kissing the edges of it gratefully, moist cock against her mouth. Her lips brush its ridges, the head of it, the veins running down the shaft.“Please,” she says, “please.” Whispering, barely.

My hand is still in her hair. Her head is beginning to do that blow-job bob movement and my hips are responding accordingly, straining at being held back. My ass is flexing which makes my hips begin to thrust. She is parting her lips, but barely, touching only the tip of her tongue to my cock.

I try to keep my eyes open, to watch this creature before me and the way her mouth moves, the way her eyes look, remembering the way her lips pinch cylindrical with my dick deep in her throat.

“Please what?” I say. Oh I’m mean sometimes. I want to hear her say it.

“Please,” she says again, softening, hearing the growl in my voice. She swallows, placing her lips back onto just the tip, circling, touching it with the point of her tongue. “Please, may I use my hands?”

That’s not what I wanted her to say, but she’s got those big eyes staring up at me, and she asked so nicely. “Yes,” I say. Breathe out. Go ahead.

She does. Shakes her hands and shoulders free from the locked position behind her and readjusts herself on her knees. Circles the base of my cock near my pubic bone and presses into my clit the way she knows I like to feel it. She’s an expert here. She invented this game. It’s hard for me to stay ahead.

“Ohh, that’s good,” I say, involuntarily, groaning and leaning back into her fingers sliding up and down the shaft.

“Yeah?” she manages to mumble, still kissing, not opening her mouth more than a clit’s width.

“Ohh yeah.” I say.

“I want to drink you in,” she says between kisses, fingers still supple and circling me, “take you onto my tongue. Swallow you, just like this.”

Fuck. I tighten my grip on the back of her head, on her hair, and press her lips apart with my strapon. I can feel her jaw open as I press inside; she moans in surprise, and closes her eyes.

Part III

distracting myself

October 18, 2006  |  dirty stories  |  2 Comments

Embraced, one hand on the small of her back, fingertips gently on the skin between her shirt and skirt, one hand under her hair, at the back of her neck, touching, wispy, softly. My mouth at her neck. Her jawline. My lips to her earlobe.I whisper: “Get on your knees.”

Her body shudders. Softens, supple against me. She sinks to her knees – willingly, eagerly. Looks up at me with her wide eyes. Lips already parted.

I touch my waistband with my fingers and begin to unbutton, unzip. She moves her hands to assist. I hit them away, almost gently.

“Behind your back,” I say, tone low, consonants hard and deep.

Her chest moves as she breathes in. Moves her arms behind her. Grasps one wrist with the other hand. Keeps looking up at me, her chin level.

My belt clinks as I unbuckle it, metal against metal. I shift my hips to pull the split in my jeans apart. Push down the navy blue briefs and pull out my pink packing strapon, cyberskin, bendable. I wrap my fingers around it and flex it into its long, slightly curved shape. Squeeze gently, feeling the give of the material, the lip under the head of it, the ridges on the shaft. I let my head dip back, eyes closed, pressing the cock against my pubic bone, against my clit.

She’s watching me. Mouth parted, lips full and red. Eyes shifting from my fingers on the tip of my cock to my face.

She is three inches away from me. Two. I put my right hand out, palm up, next to her mouth. “Lube,” I say.

She looks at me like she doesn’t know what I mean, then lowers her eyes to my hand, presses her lips together, and spits saliva onto my fingers. I rub my four fingers with my thumb, spreading and evening the viscus liquid, and take my cock in my hand again, sliding smoothly up and down the shaft of it, my thumb swirling against the head.

She is amused. Watching me, smiling. As though she knows that isn’t enough. She’s gathering saliva, pooling at the bottom of her mouth, feeling it with her tongue and waiting. She knows she’ll get her chance.

I take her head in my left hand, cup the back of her skull like a grip on ball, a game piece. I take a tiny step toward her, my feet barely moving, slightly apart, hips forward. I let the pink dick rub against her cheek briefly, just a feather, and say, “Kiss it.”

Her eyes show a little fear, a little nervousness, but mostly excitement. Turned on and wanting. She makes a move to open her mouth wide and turn her head slightly, but I catch her by the hair and she can’t.

“No. Just your lips. Kiss it.”

part II

Part III

Sugasm #50

October 17, 2006  |  miscellany  |  No Comments

My post Let go, just let go is the editor’s choice for this week’s Sugasm, “the best of the sex blogs this week by the bloggers who blog them.” Thanks!

This Week’s Picks
Dear Diary – Part One (http://wetbeyondbelief.blogspot.com)
The Lure of Darkness (http://www.easilyaroused.co.uk)
Flash (http://gentlygently.blogspot.com)Mr. Sugasm Himself
50 Simultaneous Bloggasms… (http://sugarbank.com)

Editors’ Choice
Let go, just let go (http://sugarbutch.blogspot.com)

More SugasmJoin the Sugasm

Protected: four years of photographs

October 13, 2006  |  journal entries  |  Enter your password to view comments.

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birds or boxing

October 12, 2006  |  journal entries  |  No Comments

Lately, I’ve been obsessed with birds. Flight patterns. Migration. Wings. Traveling by air. The topography of a bird like the wrist, the bard of the wing, the crown, the mandible, the tarsus, the axillers.Everywhere I go bird references occur. I sat next to a girl wearing the same shoes as me and she says “we’ve inherited our sorting habits from a flock of birds.” I bought a journal made from a 1941 copy of A Field Guide to Western Birds. One night I was out, there was a pigeon family nested on the terrace. My best friend sent me a starling necklace. I very much want a small flock of birds tattooed on my shoulder. I have a ‘flight mix’ full of songs about flying, wings, birds, butterflies, the sky, clouds, rising, flying.

I’ve been flying high for miles. Months. Examining the ground below me for a pattern, a map, direction.But it’s no longer time for flight.

It’s time to fight.

keeping my desire in check

October 10, 2006  |  dirty stories  |  5 Comments

She and I spoke last night. Not Callie, not the ex girlfriend, but the girl I’ve known for eight years whom I went to visit this past weekend. As we talked she was lying on her couch, one arm over her head, one leg over the back of the couch, and I know exactly how that looks. Exactly how her living room is configured.“I can’t stop thinking about your skin,” I said. “About you, naked on your couch.”

“You want me naked on my couch?” she asked.

“Yes.”

And then she was. She said, “You’ve got my hands and my mind wandering.”

We talked about the things we didn’t get to do. Her mouth on my cock. (Why didn’t we do that?!) I wanted to have her in every room in her house, though that would’ve taken some coordinating. I wanted to get my cock out more, and she wanted to ask me to get my cock out more, but got shy and didn’t. I wish she would have. She wishes she would have. Why didn’t we do that? I wish I would’ve been more bold about it.

I guess I still get that twinge of “reproducing the gender/sexual binary,” “women fucking women isn’t about a cock, that’s exactly the point,” and “there’s plenty to do without it” …

Well, lesson learned. I know what I want. At least fifty percent of the time. Maybe seventy percent.

You would think I am pretty good at getting what I want. At asking for what I want, or setting it up. And I knew she wanted to feel my cock inside her, feel my weight on top of her. We’ve talked about this for years, literally. I remember calling her after I bought my very first strap-on. What year was that? 2000? So small, in retrospect, with a vinyl harness. Tsk tsk. I was so young back then. Now, I have half a dozen beautiful cocks of different sizes & shapes and three harnesses, though the one I usually use is a thin O-ring harness because it is very small, and therefore the easiest with which to pack. Plus, the jock-strap style of the thin straps hits my clit perfectly and can actually get me off while fucking, which is incredible. Incredible.

I get hard just thinking about it.

“I like that you know what my cocks look like,” I said. “Now when I tell you I’m putting on my red one, squeezing lube onto my fingers, and taking my cock in my hand, you know what that looks like.”

“Wouldn’t it have been nice,” she said, “if, when we’d gotten home from the battlefield, instead of just fingering me in the kitchen, you’d bent me over the counter and fucked me?”

“Um … yes.” Fuck.

“I’m getting up, I’m moving into the kitchen. ‘Cause now, you know what that looks like. And I can bend over the counter and imagine you fucking me.”

Oh god, this girl.

I cleared my throat. I will keep my desire in check. I will not lose control. “The counter seems a little high. Is it comfortable?”

“Not really. I’m on my tiptoes.”

“The kitchen table might be a better height. It’s glass though, it might be kind of chilly, or sharp on the edges.” I assessed every surface in her house for its fuckability.

She moved to the kitchen doorway. Told me she wants to remember how it felt when I lifted her hands over her head, pressed my hips into her into the door so she couldn’t move.

I told her, if I was there now, I wouldn’t let her linger in the doorway. I would push her onto the table a little too roughly.

She gasped as she laid herself on the tabletop. Her torso was bare, nipples against the cold glass.

“Is it the right height?” I asked. (It is. I already know it is.)

“Yes. Cold.” She whispered into the phone.

“Remember my mouth next to your ear?” I started. “Remember my fist in your hair? Remember how it feels to have me standing behind you, my hand pressing between your shoulderblades?”

I whispered, “I’m going to slide inside you … ”

Tangle my fingers in your hair and grab a fistful. Crane your neck just a little. Watch your mouth open and gasp and your breath fogs the glass, feeling the tip of my red cock against your pink pussy. I’d move the dick to curve down instead of up so it would hit still your clit from inside. Your cheek against the cold, smooth surface. Pushing your legs apart, hand between your thighs, pulling on your flesh, fingers on your outer labia so I can hold you open. Slide inside you slow. Gripping your hip with my right hand. Sliding my arm under you to cradle your waist as I keep sliding in and out, in and out, harder, a little harder, a little faster.I will lose myself in this position. I will lose control. I will not keep my desire in check, I will begin to slide inside faster, hips bucking against you in a rhythm and pattern coming from inside me, a fierceness I never remember I have. After a while it stops becoming even an in-out motion and just becomes me vibrating, grinding hard at every angle, every circular motion, feeling your muscles pull on my cock which pulls on the strap between my legs, rubs against my clit.

Like that. Yes.

And my thighs pressed together, clit straining to be touched, to be pressed against the base of my cock thrusting into you.

Yes, like that. Like that. Oh god.

“Are you touching your clit?” I asked. “While I fuck you? Remember what it felt like to have my cock inside you?”

She groaned. Gasped. Made all those little noises that I knew, that I’d heard next to my ear, whispered into my neck, that I’d pressed out from inside of her.

God I loved making her come. Every fucking time. Surprising, and so beautiful.

One of my favorite moments was at dinner, at her favorite Italian restaurant where I drank too much wine and got her to talk about theatre, about the show she did recently, about what she’s going to do next. She was so animated. Luminous. I just watched her from across the table, her eyes shining, skin glowing, hair tussled from all the sex.

She had excellent after-sex hair. All curvy and full of waves and body. Mine was horrible: typical boycut-number-four which goes flat and gets cowlicks if it isn’t carefully sculpted.

She said one of her favorite moments of the weekend was when we were at the rock show on Saturday night. It was hot inside, though cold outside, and she carried her thin jacket until I took it from her, folded it gently and draped it over my arm. Held it for her all night.

Later, back outside, I held it for her while she slid her arms into it. She said felt taken care of. Like a girl.

And I felt butch. Tough and indestructible and oh-so-honored that this beautiful creature would even consider letting me hold her jacket (let alone all the things that I was to do to her later that night). I wanted everyone to see that I had taken it from her, that I was holding it for her. I kept one hand on the small of her back, kept touching the hem of her shirt, feeling the knitted fabric between my fingers. Remembering how the folds of her labia felt just as soft.

She also said there was an alley outside that building that would’ve been a perfect place in which to fuck. Damn, if only I’d known.

It’s been hard to separate from her since I’ve returned home. But she knows I am in no place to give my heart away. She knows my limitations.

She’s reading this right now.

southern hospitality – part one

October 9, 2006  |  dirty stories  |  6 Comments

The first time, she said no one ever made her come from inside before. Over the next fourty hours, I did it somewhere between nine and thirteen more times, inside and out; we lost count, the nights melted together.Desire pooled between us and the contours of our bodies were gutters, runoffs, ditches in which it collected and flowed: the line where her thighs touch. In between her breasts. The undersides of my wrists. The place where my pink and red cocks (which are my favorites) press against my pubic bone.

I didn’t get to fuck her strapped on as much as I’d have liked to (which would have been every time). I get shy about my cock sometimes. So much wanting. It’s embarassing to want something so much. Plus, there’s that moment, if I haven’t pre-planned by packing, that I have to get up, disrobe, pull on the harness, slip on the dildo, suit her up in a condom, and then come back to the open wanting girl watching me, waiting. And when I get back to bed I feel like I have to start all over again with foreplay instead of just stickin it in, which is my impulse.

On Saturday, I did pre-plan, and packed after my morning shower. We walked the dog walked around a civil war battleground while I hid my pink packing cock. The tourists stared at me (so obvious) and I stared at her. Watched her body move. Left my hands in my pockets most of the time to conceal the bulge. Did she know I was packing all day? Did she know when we walked off the path into the woods onto the rocks that we could have fucked right there, that I was envisioning her on her knees, sucking my cock through the zipper of my jeans?

I’m not sure when she discovered I was packing. After the walk I slid my fingers into her in the kitchen up against the counter and I think she felt it with her hands. Yes, I know she did. That was the third time I made her come and I knew then what she would do, how her body would fold and buckle, how her fingers on my wrist meant stop – but don’t pull out yet.

She just kept letting me take her, whenever I wanted, where ever I wanted, so I did. I wouldn’t usually be so bold as to push her skirt up to her hips and finger her in the kitchen. I wouldn’t usually assume it was okay to fuck her in the middle of the day, twice, three times – I would think about it, I would wish I could, but she would give me a look that meant stop you’re being inappropriate and I would shirk off to my corner, obedient.

But we didn’t have much time. Barely over fourty hours together, and I wanted every minute to count.

And she didn’t do that. She didn’t turn me away. In fact, she just wanted me more every time I put my hands on her electric body. Conducted her like a gold-plated wire. Completed the circuit and she flowed into me every time I touched her.

Every time I kissed her: forget it. At first it would just be a kiss, just good morning or okay I’m going to take a shower now or thanks for making me that delicious pesto-tomato grilled cheese sandwich but then it became oh god and please do that more, again and if you don’t stop I’m going to take you right here right now. And of course she didn’t stop. So I did take her. When I wanted. Where I wanted. How I wanted.

I told her I would try to restrain myself. She said don’t.

I did fuck her with my strapon that day. I lose myself when I’m fucking that way, different than when I am using fingers or lips. I forget about her pleasure and concentrate on mine. Concentrate on the tight ring of her cunt around the ridge of my cock, how her muscles pull and press. I make noises I wouldn’t usually; instead of listening to what her body wants and the sounds her mouth makes, I’m only feeling the thrust into her. Groaning with the pressure building in my cunt. The way it feels when she squeezes.

Later, I had her from behind bent over the bed, fingers inside her – again my fingers inside, always I was slipping my fingers inside her, searching for something, for life, for that clitoral ridge, for her soft spot, pulling rubies from her cervix – left hand on the back of her head, in her hair, pushing her into the bedspread. Yeah. A little bit harder.

That may have been my favorite part of the day.

That, and later, when I went down on her for hours. That, and when I pressed her up against the door in the kitchen, kicked her legs apart, held her hands above her head. We were expecting guests but she said, memorize. Memorize this right now.

That was Saturday. I was only getting started.