the cutting side

She wasn’t expecting a knife at her throat.

Standing behind her, with a firm grip in her hair to tilt her chin up, it was easy to keep her neck exposed. The curved blade kissed her skin and I drew her head back until it nestled against my shoulder. I spoke, face resting against her soft blond hair.

“My first. Did you think I would have my knife against anothers neck without first letting it taste your own?”

She didn’t answer. I tightened my grip in her hair.

“You are mine.” The blade fell away from her throat; I placed it on the bookcase beside me. I thought I knew how sharp the blade was, having tested it earlier on my own skin. But I had underestimated it; where the blade had graced her skin, there was a red scrape. I ran my finger over it and it came back crimson.

acta est fabula plaudite

Looking over the list of blogs I read on a consistent basis, I realized today that too many of them had fallen completely silent in the last year; and those that hadn’t, such as my own, had dropped into a low simmer.

I can remember the first sex blog I read. It was about six years ago and was written by a woman in a small town. It described her casual affairs with several men, including her ex-husband truck driver; it gave sordid details of her liaisons, more then one of which occurred in the local barroom’s bathroom.

It was trashy, badly written, and completely fascinating. I couldn’t stop reading it. I was hooked on sex blogs.

So, in celebrating blogs that have passed into the great ether, and blogs that remain to continue to entertain today, here is a sampling of my favorite blogs, past and present:

81 Vaginas, a Pillow Blog
The last post was from Nov 19th, 2005. But thankfully, his words remain, his blog preserved. It’s one of the only blogs I’ve read from start to finish more then once. He writes about sex and women in a fashion that is a mix of poetry, sterile analysis, and stream of consciousness. It is insightful. It is off-putting. It is weirdly arousing.

…solipsubmissive…
Ah, Elise. My favorite masochistic submissive who is neither submissive, nor masochistic. Except when she is. Too intelligent for her own good, she is beautifully adept at using her wit to eviscerate those who don’t meet her fairly high standards. Which is most everyone. On the other hand, she is very polite when doing so.

“Myths and Metawhores”
Here, Magdelana. My dancing muse, the dark silhouette to my own wickedness.

Urban Gypsy
One of two bloggers on this list that I’ve actually met – she’s even more interesting and fun in person then she is on-line (which is saying something). She knows what she wants and has given herself the freedom to enjoy it. Also, she has some damn nice cleavage.

Someday, I still plan to corner her in a dark staircase.

pretty dumb things
Ex-stripper, ex-English teacher, and now ex-blogger – but not, I’m glad to hear, an ex-writer. She still writes, and her blog remains intact. I highly encourage you to start at the beginning and read your way through it. I’m fairly certain she’s added ten to fifteen new words to the English language, and every single one of them should be part of your lexicon.

Bliatz
Closed in January of 2007, Bliatz was one of the first blogs I read about sex that was not only voyeuristic – complete with pictures and audio snippets of her and her husband – it was intelligent. For me, she was the start of smart, cultured, women who wrote about sex.

“If the Collar Fit”
Gone. But not forgotten. Clever girl who had a way with words. You may be noticing a trend here in those I like to read. I tend to enjoy those with a unique perspective on sex and life – and the ability to convey that perspective through words.

“Sadistic Excess”
I don’t read a lot of blogs written by other men. In fact, this is the only one I have in my RSS reader. Read it and you’ll understand why.

art of her flesh

I am the ragged poet
the scarecrow of words
my verses are unwashed,
 dirty and rank

but she loved them

she was the hours in curves
making art of her flesh
both sinuous and sweet
and she reminded me of untouched days
the remnants of something delicate
   an undiscovered jealousy
   or a child's sudden temper

I
the worm to her apple, the snake to her eve
brutally faithful to her failings
trusted companion to her worser half

I
dreamt her with outstretched arms
and the callous grace of the unforgiving liar

she was mine.
 my darling soliloquy
 my most unfaithful servant

and now she is yours, as well

“nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands”

It was raining when I arrived at her place, and it would be raining when I left.

It was a downstairs apartment, the bottom floor of a townhouse, and the entrance was along the side of the building. I waited in the small stone alcove, away from the rain,  and she greeted me at the door in a sheer nightgown over a pair of boy shorts that accentuated her curved hips.

Her living room was decorated with tasteful items collected from her travels; it wasn't a large apartment, but it was crafted with warm character. She offered me a glass of wine from the opened bottle on the stone kitchen aisle; I nodded, and she poured us both drinks, bringing them to the couch.

It was late, and I knew she was tired, but there was curiosity in her eyes and I could scent the lingering affects of our phone conversation forty minutes earlier.

I was here because she could quote e.e.cummings. And because she drew herself in the shape of a woman who knew the value of release.

An hour into the conversation, she stood and walked to the bedroom door. She assumed I would follow her; she had made it clear that were I to come over, she wanted me to spend the night.

I followed.

She was standing by the side of the bed when I came up behind her, slipping the robe from her shoulders. My fingers drew her short dark hair to the side and my lips found the curve of her throat. She leaned into the kiss, her head tilting backwards, and I drank in the warmth of her skin, brushing my lips across the nape of her neck.

Gently, I turned her around and pressed her down onto the bed, my fingers catching the sides of her white boy shorts, tugging them over her hips and legs, and then she was under me, soft and pliant. I learned her through kisses, slow lingering kisses along her collar bone, selfish hungry ones along the slopes of her breasts.

We slept in moments that night; again, and again, I woke her with a light touch along her hip, or the inside of her thigh, and I would spend the next hour savoring the length of her, a languid insatiability explored through the subtleties of unceasingly desire until we would fall asleep, only to wake again soon after.

breakfast of champions

When I was a child, my breakfast of choice was Corn Flakes. In fact, I ate it so often that my grandmother began teasing me about it.

Years later, long after I had outgrown my obsession with milk, corn flakes, and sugar, my grandmother bought me a set of Kellog glasses. Six small OJ glasses and a large glass pitcher, each with the Kellog rooster stenciled on the side.

I don't often have large breakfasts that require six neat little OJ glasses, but I have found a use for them.

Or rather, NE has, and I've followed suit. It turns out those Kellog glasses are perfect for the casual glass of wine.

I'm not sure my grandmother had thought of this use when she gifted them to me, but I can't help but think of her and smile each time they are used.

bad, bad thing

You shouldn't.

You really shouldn't.

But you are.

You're thinking of how delicious it would feel.  How utterly sweet the agony of surrender, the process of devolution into panting and slick skin.

But the fucking isn't sweet. It's coarse, crude, and dirty. Half-dressed bodies, muffled screams, and hard surfaces. Fingers scrabbling for purchase, an attempt to find balance where there is none. The serene obscenity of animal hunger.

It is you, doing what you shouldn't.

winter comes

Last week I stayed home a day, sick, and spent most of it in my study.

At one point, there was a strong wind and I looked out my window to see leaves falling steadily for twenty minutes straight.

It looked like it was raining gold.

Now the trees are almost bare, just a few stubborn orange leaves and one tree filled in bright yellow.

Winter is here, and I am not yet ready for it.

This past summer has been filled with some interesting challenges. In moments I have allowed my darker half full reign and then had to deal with the subsequent consequences; it is an axiom that we learn the true value of what we have only when it is at risk. It is an idea better left untested, for the hurt it carries, but in its cost is a fundamental understanding on where one stands.