christmas

Posted in Autobiographical on December 13th, 2014 by D'jaevle

20141213_170925

The main reason Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.
George Carlin

betwixt

Posted in Poetry on December 4th, 2014 by D'jaevle

bewitched
by your smile, of course
found first
in your eyes

‘you’re hiding a devil’
said I,
‘somewhere between your smile and your words’

no words now, nor smile

just a grin.

‘Come find it’, it said.

a few of my favorite things

Posted in Autobiographical on December 3rd, 2014 by D'jaevle

My favorite words:

Serenity, kerfuffle, soliloquy, pernicious, tomfoolery, dulcet, sobriquet, flibbertigibbet, ineffable and malevolent.

winter excuses

Posted in Poetry on November 28th, 2014 by D'jaevle

the problem with winter
isn’t a problem at all

cold invites behavior unbecoming
in summer days

the consequences of rhetorical questions

Posted in Autobiographical, Crimson Writ on November 24th, 2014 by D'jaevle

I had to relearn how to lace my fingers through her hair. A grip that was authoritative before painful.

I kept her trapped against the desk. “Do you remember your place?”

“H-here, master.”

Fingers brushed her nipple, caught it, tightening. Her back arched into a gasp.

“It is a yes or no question, NE.”

“Yes! Yes.”

I leaned in, “Can you feel the heat of my hand?”

“Yes.”

“Do you miss how it feels?”

“Y-yes.”

“Where do you belong?”

“Here, master.”

I roughly pulled her head to the side, my fingers biting into the inside of her thigh.”Yes or no. Where do you belong?”

Her breathing was labored, uneven. A second passed, then two. My fingers tightened in her hair “Where do you belong?”

“Yes, master.”

I smiled against her throat.

awoken

Posted in Crimson Writ on November 21st, 2014 by D'jaevle

There is a right way to awaken.

Eyes closed, slumber’s reach still tugging at your edges. The slow awareness of your own body.

A subtlety of place, of fingers brushing hair from your eyes so that it settles on the pillow around you.

And then warmth of hands on your hips, felt through your shift. Fingers gathering the fabric along your hips, drawing it up from your calves, the bottom of your thighs.

A shiver, because the morning is cool and the air on bare skin is more then just the kiss of the world around you; it is a window of exposure, a moment of possibility. But the fingers pause with the shift mid-thigh.

Kiss, left at your pulse, a kiss that savors your own heat as a point of ingress. Nuzzling, nudging your head lightly to the side, teeth nip at your skin just sharp enough to make you gasp. And as your lips part, they are met, a kiss stolen in a most delightfully deceitful way.

because she asked

Posted in Poetry on August 29th, 2014 by D'jaevle

if you think you are as fragile as glass
remember this:

I’m not afraid of your sharp edges.
in fact –
each time you break, I will place your pieces in my pocket

and when all that is left
is sand
I will gather you in my hand and gently send you across the world

until you are a desert, and I a cool wind
and we can sleep beneath the stars

hubris

Posted in Autobiographical, General Musings on June 23rd, 2014 by D'jaevle

Let’s suppose someone has mastered the nuances of human behavior. They’ve spent the better part of four decades watching how people interact, studied their motivations in the face of ambition and desire, learned when instinct outweighs consciousness, examined the patterns that lead to heartbreak and betrayal. Let us say that at first this study was done to learn the art of seduction but later was simply a tool for living a better, happier, life.

Let’s suppose all of this is true.

There remains one other singular fact:

No matter how great their understanding, it is arrogance itself to believe they are not bound by the same motivations, same instincts, and same patterns.

And being arrogant is about as human as it gets.

faith

Posted in Crimson Writ on June 18th, 2014 by D'jaevle

Vulnerability.

Insecurity.

I know these things.

I also know you.

I know the flutter of your heartbeat under my thumb when my hand is wrapped around your throat.

I know your scent when my lips brush the back of your thighs as you are bent over my desk.

I know the line of hunger with you; when my own desire wars with the space I place to stay in control. I know your surrender tests it. Your caught breath presses against it. And your bared skin, brightened red from my hand or blushing with need, almost always breaks it.

I have faith in you.

But if you are unsure. Have faith in me.

I need you to find your feet.

And then find your knees.

postcards from the edge

Posted in Crimson Writ on June 11th, 2014 by D'jaevle

She wrote:

You paint with words.

The problem is relationships have the everyday stuff…who takes out the trash. Someone forgets to pick up the dry cleaning.

The dog needs walking. The kids are sick.

Nothing can be like what you paint all the time. It’s unrealistic.

You are absolutely correct; the world drawn by my words is ephemeral.

It can’t be sustained.

But it’s not meant to.

I write of moments. If life is a journey, these moments are the postcards.

They are our sharpest memories. The ones we remember best.