dirty stories, real life

let go, just let go

I adore the sounds a girl makes when she’s being fisted. Gutteral, that’s why that word was invented, to describe the sounds from her mouth, her throat, her chest, her belly, her cunt. Such deep noises coming from the center of her.

It didn’t start as fisting. It started as me, strapped on, fucking her, her on her back, me above her, her knees bent, pulled back, held to her chest, calf on my shoulder. But there was some place in her I wasn’t reaching, she kept pressing against me to make my cock hit just the spot, my cock which was really her cock, her strap-on, because I did not come prepared. Her cock wasn’t very large. Slim and decent, sure, but nothing I would call thick.

I turned her onto her stomach. Hips bent over the edge of the bed, toes on the floor. Spread her open with one hand pressed her hips up into that perfect little spiral curve and slipped a finger inside. Two fingers. Just to find the angle, the placement, the mark where my cock would be going. Instead I found her open, so open, opening wider as my fingers moved deeper, three fingers, four, slid in so easily and still hadn’t filled her. I didn’t ask for her permission, didn’t tell her what I was doing, I assumed she could feel it and I tucked my thumb under, pushed inside. Easily. Slid in to my wrist.

And she was filled. With me, my fingers, my palm, my thumb, my wrist.

I don’t know if I’ve ever felt a girl’s cunt open like that before. Lock-and-key open. Dark clouds parting to reveal blue sky open. There is a certain point in the … orgasm arc that they do tend to open deeper, pull my hand cock tongue in even further, but oh so rarely do I feel a girl making a space for my fist inside her.

What a feeling: my whole hand inside her body. This hand, the one I’m using to type. Such connection happens when I can feel every ripple of her body from inside. How her hips gyrate and buck. How her stomach contracts. The noises from her mouth that begin where my knuckles touch muscle and press.

I took her clit in my left hand and attempted, tried, cajoled, but I don’t think she came. She certainly had a release, of some sort, but I think she may have been generally too overstimulated. That’s just a theory. An observation.

Slid out of her slow. I didn’t want to let go of her for a long time after.

That was definitely my favorite part of Saturday night, though the caning, the candle wax, the rope binding, the orgasm that nearly made me cry, and the pigeon family nested on the balcony were also very notable.

I can still hear her whisper, in my ear next to my cheek, her skin so fucking smooth, “let go. just let go.”

journal entries

postscript: about the apartment

ps, my new apartment is amazing. Bee and J. spent the last two days (while I was at work) building a loft for the smaller bedroom – the ceilings are so tall, it turned that room into three rooms. They discovered yesterday that we have a pretty amazing view of the Manhattan skyline from our roof, and since we’re on the top floor pretty much only we have access to it. Bee has great taste in furniture and appliances and such, she loves to eat good food (she is studying to be a nutritionist, after all) and we’re slowly getting things together. She’s really fun and excellent to be around, and even though we’ve never really known each other as adults, and haven’t lived together for 10 years, I think this is going to be a really wonderful place – for both of us.

poetry

for Ally, because she kept me up late last night

tongue
to the back of your knee
ankle
to the top of my shoulder
waiting
for that moment of permission
to slide inside
slide inside

palm
to the camber of your back
wrists
to the wall above your head
waiting
for the telling luminescence
in your eyes
your eyes

lips
to the fragility of your clavicle
teeth
to the tenders of your earlobe
waiting
for the pulse of your hips
waiting
for that ring of fire
waiting
for that shudder of muscle
to make you mine
make you mine

dirty stories, real life

an excerpt from something upcoming

Her tongue on my clit. Soft, so soft, and exquisite. Circling rhythmically and I’m straining at every pore of my skin, willing every nerve ending to move between my legs to feel more.

Then, her fingers pulling at the piercing in my right inner labia, pinching the skin where the metal goes through, and her tongue, her tongue, I feel her tongue on my lips, from her fingers, moving up, pushing apart the slick folds of skin and finding that ridge under my clit where I could lay still poised on her tongue for hours if she let me.

It is not often that I allow myself to be exposed, taken. In fact, it is rare to fuck without my cock strapped on, my safety shield, usually impenetrable. But, tonight, Calley asked me to let her take me.

And now I can’t feel anything but her fingers sliding inside my cunt slowly, her long fingers, three, four, I could take her whole arm inside me, to the elbow, and her jaw is still hinged open with the tip, the length of her tongue on that spot, under my clit, sucking and moving back and forth and my eyes are rolling back, and there is nothing, no feeling at all, except her open mouth between my legs.

In a rare moment of disclosure, I told Calley over blue martinis that I’d once been full-body bound. Told her if I could have anything, it would be that again. Full-body binding and not even an orgasm, necessarily, just being wrapped held tight safe for a while.

“Oh,” she’d said. “If I had you full-body bound there is no way I would resist making your body … sing.”

“It’s hard, I’ve found,” I said, staying cool, staying calm, speaking logistically as if we were discussing a recent film or bicycle repair, “to have the right access with rope. Leaving the right places exposed is tricky.”

“Oh?” She says again. “I wasn’t thinking about using rope.”

… Excerpt from the upcoming story, with full knowledge that my anonymity is fragile and not very veiled. The story involves plastic wrap, hot wax, and an ice dildo. Posted simply because there needs to be more sex on this blog.

miscellany

just wrap tongue over cunt

I just heard that a new story of mine was accepted into an erotica anthology due out in the spring … so having just ran across WordCounter, I combined the two.Here are the words most frequently used in my 7-page, 2,700-word story.

Word Frequency
poetry

I’m being eaten alive

… by bugs. I have bugbites everywhere. Small raised dots all along the arches of my feet. Silent predators taking bite after bite of me and leaving me with small memories of the torture. Beneath my clothes my socks inside my shoes, quietly nagging me, reminding me of the discomfort, of their small triumph over my skin.

And, of course, my bug bite salve is in my storage locker, along with everything else I own.

So all I can do is scratch the itch, and try not to break the skin.

journal entries

who am I to talk of love?

One of my best friends in the world is getting married over Labor Day weekend and I’m heading back to the West Coast to be his best (wo)man next week. We are both performance poets, met in a performance poetry class in fact, and he has asked me to write something for the wedding ceremony.Right now, I feel like I am the worst person to give any sort of relationship/ committment/ marriage advice or poetic waxing to anyone in earshot, let alone at a wedding of someone I deeply care about. What do I know about making love stay, about sustaining a relationship, about falling in love? I feel like an amateur. I barely have any of this figured out.

I’m jealous of their relationship and committment sometimes. And I know them both well enough to know that I am going to learn so much – about relationships, life, love – from the way that they stay committed to each other.

So I don’t have to give relationship advice – or deep insights about love and marriage and commitment. Okay. But then, I guess my question is, what the hell do I say?

I’ve been a bit obsessed with theories of love in the past five-ish years. I have read and do own A Natural History of Love by Diane Ackerman and All About Love by bell hooks and If the Buddha Dated & If the Buddha Married by Charlotte Kasl and Against Love: A Polemic and any other books on love that I could get my hands on, really, including the occasionally cheesy self-help variety (which I actually read frequently).

I’m thinking I’ll start there. Perhaps I can pull some quotes or ideas into one coherent (short) piece and that’ll be enough. General observations about loving, nothing too specific.

I don’t know. I’m working on it.

miscellany

reset: intentions

I’m bored of all this breakup stuff. Sugarbutch Chronicles was meant to be a sexblog, exploring desire and distance and kink and other fun stuff, most of it (probably) fiction. So I’ll do my best to get back to that.I know some of you who are reading this are friends of mine, following my breakup here, but, well, you’ll just have to ask me for the latest dramaupdates. I’m boring myself with all this heartbreak. This ‘persona’ of mine – Sinclair – is supposed to be a player, experimental, slutty. Let’s get back to that.

journal entries

delivered, unintentionally

Today, I saved a little fuzzy yellow caterpillar in Rockefeller Center. It was be-boppin’ along on the (cement) stairs trying to climb the (cement) building next to the (cement) sidewalk just off of the road, in a high traffic place, going the opposite direction of what little (meticulously planted) foliage was nearby. So, I scooped it up and let it off on a leaf. Perhaps that will save it from being squashed by some tourist’s unsuspecting shoe.As I walked along the trees (wrapped in holiday lights) and shrubs and ivy growing along the edge of the Center, I noticed that there were dozens of birds foraging for food (read: grubs) in the same foliage planters.

I may have delivered the poor thing into the beak of the enemy.

journal entries

flight and migration

A red balloon tattooed on the side of my lower right leg. Small, simple, looked like it was floating, maybe the string wrapped around my ankle a little bit. That’s what I visualized clearly yesterday, randomly. Perhaps a little shadow of a person holding the string on the back of my ankle. I have a few tattoo visions really, though I’m not sure if I’ll ever actually get one. Those with tattoos say they’re addictive.The other one I want right now is a (small) flock of (small) birds (starlings perhaps?) on my left shoulderblade, with one perched, not flying, more on the chest side of my left shoulder.

Apparently, I am being drawn to flight.

miscellany

The ABCs of Intimacy

an article my mom forwarded to me this week. Thought you might like it too.

The ABCs of Intimacy – a toolkit for getting closer

by Nina Utne, page 56 of Nov-Dec 2004 issue

During nearly 24 years of marriage, my husband Eric and I have picked up a few relationship-saving practices. Though we learned them to help navigate our marriage, they are useful in any relationship.


The Art of Apology
. An effective apology begins with a sincere ‘I’m sorry.” Don’t bother with excuses or explanations until you know your apology has registered.

The Re-Do. If you blunder into a delicate communication, request a re-do lest you dig yourself in any deeper. When you’re granting a re-do, let your hackles down and listen as if for the first time. (It’s also a good idea to offer the option of a re-do if someone is flailing too much to request one.)

Freeze-Frame. You may have heard the saying “Be still and know.” When you practice Freeze-Frame, a stress-prevention technique devised by the Institute of HeartMath ( www.heartmath.org), you simply stop so you can evaluate a situation more clearly, become still inside, and frame the moment. Then, focusing on the area around your heart, generate a positive feeling. Using your intuition, ask your heart for an answer to the stressful situation. Most importantly, listen to what your heart says.

The Faithfulness Verse. During a particularly low moment in our marriage, I issued a desperate silent plea for something, anything, that might lift us out of the mire. At that moment, a piece of paper that had been tacked to a bulletin board wafted to the floor. On it was Rudolf Steiner’s Faithfulness verse. It isn’t about sexual faithfulness, but about the dogged commitment to see what is best and highest in those around us. Eric and I said it out loud together every night for a year (sometimes even over the phone when one of us was out of town), and we still say it sometimes. I swear it works a potent alchemy. Here it is:

“Create for yourself a new indomitable perception of faithfulness. What is usually called faithfulness passes so quickly. Let this be your faithfulness: You will experience moments, fleeting moments, with the other person. The human being will appear to you then as if filled, irradiated with the archetype of his/her spirit. And then there may be, indeed will be, other moments, long periods of time when human beings are darkened. At such times, you will learn to say to yourself. ‘The spirit makes me strong. I remember the archetype, I saw it once. No illusion, no deception shall rob me of it.’ Always struggle for the image that you saw. This struggle is faithfulness. Striving thus for faithfulness you shall be close to one another as if endowed with the protective powers of angels.” -Rudolf Steiner.


Be Nice
. Don’t underestimate the power of simply being kind. John Gottman, a psychology professor at the University of Washington, has developed an uncanny ability to predict which marriages will dissolve based solely on the number of kind and unkind interactions. His formula? When the ratio falls below five to one, sound the death knell.

journal entries

new rules for being me

dear self,

it’s okay to be scared. it’s okay to be a little mad at me, but don’t be too hard on me please. this wasn’t planned, this isn’t the end of the world, it matters more how you deal with this sticky awful complex situation than whether or not you could/would have avoided it all together.

this is an opportunity for growth, for change, for fixing something that isn’t working. these are growing pains. this is hard, and that’s okay.

these are the new rules:

  1. be honest. especially to yourself.
  2. be daring. jump into the unknown confidently and trust there will be something there to break the fall. the moment you step off is the moment you touch down.
  3. be kind. think and think and think before saying or doing things that will hurt other people’s feelings, and try to do the kindest thing, if possible. treat these beautiful women (and everybody) with respect, because they deserve that.
  4. have courage. you are strong. worthy. worthwhile. try to remember that.
journal entries

something has to change

dear girlfriend,

we’ve been together almost four years and it isn’t working.

um, i’m not sure what else to say except that.

i’m not sure what you’ll say. you knew when you left for africa for the summer that it was a gamble, you were afriad I would fall for someone else or leave you or both and look, voila, here we are. I have confronted you, told you what I needed, asked for your help to fix us, at various times in the past and things have never changed. even if you said just what I wanted you to say – that you love me, you’re committed to work on this, that you want to, that you’ll fight for me – I’m not sure that’s enough anymore.

no. it isn’t enough anymore. and even if those things change, I don’t think it will be enough. we’re too different, we want different things, our life paths are going different places.

funny, sometimes i think this stuff up to tell you and I see your reaction as completely calm. not only you were expecting it, but you agree, and have some relief to be free of me.

it is not a relief to be leaving you, to be without you. it’s terrifying. I know what it feels like to break up with someone, both with desperate wanting that nothing will stop and with some hesitation but with knowledge that it’s the best thing. this is neither of those, this is only terror and anxiety.

but somewhere underneath I still know it has to happen. something has to change. and since it hasn’t been you, I think it has to be me.