Month: September 2005

Slippery When Wet

Wet sex.

Wet, hot, slippery sex.

Licking water from curves, slick limbs trying to find purchase, water jets in the right place, sex.

I’ve run into trouble with this; during one scene with NE, I ran a bubble bath with the intention of pampering her: making her clean before making her dirty. Turns out some bubble bath lotions don’t react so well with her (…mentioned as I added lotion to the water).

I am undeterred.

I love watching her shower. It’s not so much a voyeuristic tendency as it is a singular window into an intensely honest and yet alluring sensual routine we all go through daily. Watching her shower, naked, vulnerable, is a promise to be made.

Have you ever had eyes watch you in such a quiet, accepting, demmanding, appreciative and yet quietly contemplative way, that you knew, just knew they desired to own every inch of your silvery wet skin and smouldering warmth? Every move – the way you shift your weight as you wash your arms, the way your wet hair falls across the back of your neck, the way your eyes close as you tilt your head back to wash your face – every move under an intensely intimate gaze?

***

04-01

Mandy pages: Oh man…trapped in this office til 8. Allll by my lonesome.
Mandy pages: Bummer. Sometimes I think of just chucking it and licking you all over. But still..I have this promise I made. I’m curious to see how well I do.

D’jaevle pages: ‘I’m curious to how well you do.’.

Mandy pages: well baby…I can do pretty damned well. I think you got a TASTE of that. I take pleasing a man very seriously. And to a degree…The reason why I don’t go casual…Is because sex involves for me…Giving a certain amount of ownership to a man of my body. Even temporarily.

From afar, Mandy licks her lips, runs her fingers through the soft scented kiwi strands of her auburn hair…and means it. I have a couch in my office. So just think of me lazily stretched out on it. Dangling one leg over the back of it…and drawing figures in the carpet below with one fingertip. Hair flowing over the side and painting itself onto the fabric.

D’jaevle pages: ‘Hrmmm. Pants, or skirt?’

Mandy pages: Today…It’s pants. Yesterday…wrap around skirt; the kind that if you tie it wrong…It just falls open to the side, exposing leg up to the thigh. Ya know…And this is no lie…I’ve never been this explicit with anyone in writing before.

Long distance to Mandy: D’jaevle grins. I tend to encourage that in people. I’m horrible.

Mandy pages: These talks took time, courage, and a certain flashback sensation of more physical memories.
Mandy pages: I do great wet hot naked showering too.

Long distance to Mandy: D’jaevle arches a brow. “Really?”

Mandy pages: Oh yeah.

D’jaevle pages: ‘The feel of wet skin rubbing, sliding against wet skin is exquisite. So is licking the water from someone’s thighs, shoulder, neck…

Mandy pages: And there is something verrrrry sensual about slowly running warm soapy fingers across every inch of your own body, enjoying the sensation; having a man contain the incredible rush of hormones as he washes your hair, breathes in deeply, knowing that soon…She will be nice and clean, ready to get hot sweaty…Dirty.

D’jaevle pages: ‘Bending someone over, hands on the wall in front, fingers slipping over a wet ass; or on the knee, her foot on the edge of the tub, thighs spread.’.

Mandy pages: Oh yeah…
Mandy pages: nails digging into moist flesh…

D’jaevle pages: ‘Fingers curling around each cheek, face buried against wet hair, tongue tasting.’

From afar, Mandy wickedly chuckles. I know you’re being prompted outside for a smoke…

Mandy pages: As I leave…I’m going to wonder what the sweet scent of close smoke will taste like on those soft lips. But alas time and circumstances prevail. It will be a taste not realized. Good night my handsome friend.

Writing the Werd

One of the three books I read over my vacation was “The Dog of Marriage” by Amy Hempel; she was so strongly praised by another of my favorite writers, Chuck Palahniuk, that I had to find out why he exulted her so.

I did.

Writing is art. In this respect, it is no different from painting, singing, or playing a musical instrument. If there is a difference, it is in that most other forms of art require at least some physical aptitude to be proficient at. Writing requires only basic communication skills. The rest is pure inspiration, imagination, and motivation.

Like all art, great writing takes many forms. Some master the rules of grammar and structure only to turn them on their heads. Some follow the rules concisely, crafting their stories with precision. Some draw together the threads of a story with a seemingly effortless force of will. Some are generous with their words, writing effusively and with granduer; some whittle away at their words until all that is left are the bare bones. Some rely on style, some on the story, some on character.

No one can tell you how to write. They can provide you with the tools of your trade (spelling, grammar, structure). They can provide guidance. They can offer support. But they can’t tell you how to write something. Doing this has a term already – its called collaboration. This is fine if that is your intent. But never let your voice be drowned out in the chorus of others.

[audio:WonderBoys_NobodyTeachesAWriterAnything.mp3]
Michael Douglas, Wonder Boys

Terrible Storms and Recollections

It is the details that stay with you. The way I caught her lower lip between my teeth, how it felt plump and elastic, springing up to brush my upper lip upon its release. The way the head kept sliding just inside as she tried to impale herself against me; only my hand, wrapped tightly around the base, kept her from getting what she – and I – wanted; teasing myself, torturing her. The way I would play her, making her wet and wet and wet. She could never stay dry. My fingers couched just barely inside, and I would whisper, “mine” in her ear only to feel the blood rush downward, opening her and leaving her slick in a groan of frustrated need because no matter how many times I did it, it was never quite enough for her.

***

Mention my name.
swept in swift lettering, steed to a deft tempest
terrible storms.
drenched.
and left.

slick with the tide,
awash in silk-like sand
drowsy with release, unaware
that you are buried to your neck
and facing the waves alone.

secrets alone keep company, rules beg interference
and the sight of you
wet and hungry
stirs me to part the ocean.

I am the moment you break free, head above water
the first breath like mint.
the piercing cry to the heavens
the fountain
you have become.

our kisses taste like
your tears like
the ocean like
I think I remember the last time
I wept against your skin
and tasted myself
between your sighs