Letters – Phoenix

This is about us.

And writing.

We write. We are letter-bearers, you and I. The world we live in is one filled with stories and anecdotes. We frame moments in the turn of a phrase. Our conversations trail quotation marks.

This medium has made artists out of us.

We are not special in that we write well, but that we write at all.

***

Phoenix, my version of a Lolita. I was nineteen and she was younger than I. She grew up in Alaska, but was staying with her father in California; I first starting speaking to her my freshman year at college.

I have not touched much on specific taboos – I have not spoken of the harder edges. Rape. Age play.

It is my design to have others go there at my will. These are her words, hand-written and sent to me in the sunset of our relationship.

“…& if I wait they will lose the hunger still in them.

I’m sleeping in Max’s bunk-bed now he’s in Alaska right now. There are blue moose on the flannel sheets and the fuzzy blanket & the primary colors bedspread. Those I usually throw off sometime in the night. There’s a ‘precious moments’ pillowcase. All of that plus the toys scattered around make it very childlike. But — that could be erotic, no?

I particularly like the idea of playing in a child’s bedroom. I imagine binding your hands to the wooden fourposter, moving together on the blue moose and snowman sheets.

In one fantasy, I imagine us in the fourposter bunk, in the lower bunk which is still unmade, the sheets from the upper bed falling around is like curtains, hiding us. I imagine riding you, hips pressed together and rocking, slowly. Both of us naked and sweating a little in the hot night as your hands bound to the head of the bed as I tease you, or else on my hips, my thighs or ass as we move together, rocking the bed like a cradle.

In another fantasy (this one is similar, they both have to do with the bunk-beds. A lovely new place to play). We are together in the upper bank, laying side by side in the tiny space under just the sheets. Dark outside, the curtains drawn, the house still. We face each other, arms and legs forced to overlap, tangled together, breasts to chest, bellies almost touching but not quite. Slowly and lazily we touch one another, leisurely strokes, unhurried and teasing. Our mouths meet, hungry, kissing, biting one another — mouth on flesh, warm palms and fingertips caressing — we tease each other all night, coming over and over until we are spent, exhausted – the pushing further, further — until we fall asleep, sleeping hard, pressed together like that. Waking up in the morning in one another’s arms.

How I want you. So badly. So very far away, in miles at least….”

Snazzy Black Jacket

I’ve had two digital cameras. The first was a slim Canon S10 that saw its way to Ireland. It captured the first four years of after-college friendships before it was stolen. A year later, I picked up a Canon PowerShot A300. More megapixels, less usability.

I have an attachment to cameras; they are quite the toy for me. They can act as an instrument of will. In more intimate settings, it serves as a reminder of place.

The appeal? A statement of trust; an exchange of power; voyuerism and exhibitionism rolled into one act.

Before each scene, I have a list of rules and assignments for NE. Sometimes the assignments are elaborate and sometimes the rule list is long. This time, I had only one task for her, and she did well with it.

I am not going to into the details of the scene; I believe I will let NE describe it in her own words. But I will share this.

***

***

And yes, that small bookcase behind her is filled with fantasy and science-fiction paperbacks. I am a voracious reader, and a consummate geek. The unseen bookcase next to that one is filled with real literature. It is a smaller, nicer, bookcase and contains books like The Stranger, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and The Complete Works of Shakespeare…some of which, I have even read.

SDS: Gluttony

(The Devil’s Task: the Seven Deady Sins)

Have you ever smoked a clove?

I know; smoking is not a good thing. But cloves are one of my vices, enjoyed once or twice a week.

Hold the clove at the end between your first two fingers and thumb and draw it slowly under your nose. Breathe in – take your time, there is no rush – and taste the subtle sweetness. Now part your lips and let the end of it rest between them. Don’t light it yet – pull it away and lick your lips. This is deliberate – this is an act, a prayer at the altar of our senses.

Now light it. Watch the tip burn red, and if your clove is a Djarum Black like mine, watch the crimson tip burn down against the black. Draw in the smoke…you can practically feel yourself drawing the flame towards you, encouraging it to draw down the length of the clove.

Taste, smell, fire. Ahh.

We all know smoking is bad (even if you don’t inhale). It leads to decreased lung capacity and cancer. It can be fatal. But so many of us still do it. For many it is a nicotine addiction. For some it is habit. For a few it is an indulgence, and I am one to indulge.

Smoking isn’t the only dangerous vice we actively engage in as a species. Unprotected sex. Habitual infidelity. Driving fast. And yet we still throw ourselves head long into these activities, knowing the consequences (no intelligent person can truly claim ignorance). Humans are a foolhardy species, and yet, I like the fact that we are so intent on tasting the vigors of life. That we understand that experience is our way of knowing, that the markers in our life are made up of all the shivers and aches in the pleasure and pains of our lives; that the scars we have are often worn with some pride (including those garnered by the most cruel of circumstances).

Because they show we lived, and sometimes that is all we have to show.

My gluttony is the sin of decadence. It is in wanting more from life, requiring more from life. It is in taking from life. It is Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson. It is Nikola Tesla and Lord Byron.

Be unafraid, be a bit foolish. Trace your steps between the lines of risk and certainty.

A Thousand Kisses (in words)

I was recently reminded of these words; favorites of mine. I would suggest listening to the words before reading them (look to the bottom of the post for the audio version).

—

I am going to write you out in a thousand words. A word for each kiss. A kiss in each word.

The first will be soft, the sort of kiss that is intimate and deceptively gentle. The kind of kiss that leads into another, and another, until you are lost.

The next will be brazen, a kiss that dares to enjoy you; a kiss without inhibitions or lines; a kiss that reverberates within until your insides are molten and liquid quicksilver appetite. A kiss that quiets you. A broken conversation in bites and nips.

My kisses are solvent, seductive in series. My kisses are an aphrodisiac for life.

These are the imagined kisses born in daydreams and nighttime prayers. Extravagance of mind made real in a kiss.

Needful kisses meant to complete, meant to assure, meant to bestow peace of mind; a kiss as proof (but kisses can lie).

I write of hungry unresolved kisses that never end.

Here, now – a kiss that is a whisper along your skin that tickles and provokes; it divulges secrets. It discloses the truth amid the lies; it murmurs things you already know but fear to admit. It leads you down a path in golden chains.

I have memories of a kiss, the right kind of kiss, etched in a single moment and echoed in every recreation since.

A kiss to know, to perceive the truth in engagement. Understanding in the learning, belief in the patience.

I kiss where I want. My kisses are a crisis of ambition, a craving not quite satisfied in the act. Destiny in the progression, I lay them out against your skin like prophecy. I want you under me, covering your lips, nose, and eyes with kisses. I want you on top, each kiss stolen between the weaving and bucking of bodies in motion.

Forever in a kiss.

A kiss to catch you, a kiss to be caught.

This kiss is a song, sung between each heartbeat.

Salvation in a kiss; absolved and awakened. A purity of spirit, clarity in the presence of a kiss that has meaning, that provides context.

Fucking in a kiss, speaking a language subliminal and instinctive. A frenzied extension of limbs, a rolling of bodies and tongues, a shared feast of bared skin and borrowed sentiment.

Possession in a kiss; a claim made against your breasts, belly, and thighs. Kisses that are hot enough to brand your skin. Kisses that are reminders of your place.

Orchestration of nerve endings that begins and ends with a kiss.

Perhaps a kiss between the lines, if you know what I mean.

A mistaken kiss, taken unwittingly and all the sweeter for it.

This kiss tells a story. Denial and determination. There is love here, yes, and plenty of lust as well. A bit of pathos, and the theme is easy to taste. It has a clear beginning, a slow middle, and a surprise twist at the end where the kiss is revealed to be not just a kiss, but a poetic statement on state of human indulgence brought to a climax in the visage of an orgy, raw and decadently described. The story ends abruptly, leaving you wanting more.

Underneath and below, kisses that exist in the lines drawn from the small of your back, across curves that begin and end in a parting.

A kiss between friends, is a friendly kiss (isn’t it?)

Some kisses are silent, and some cry out. Some are breathless and some are nothing but air, a kiss felt more in the presence than in the touch.

A kiss by the car, a kiss against the door, and a kiss atop the bed. On the couch, a kiss, and once more on the floor.

Silver kisses painted on your thighs.

Candy kisses melting on your tongue.

A kiss goodnight, a kiss to awake. A kiss to say goodbye, another to say hello. A kiss of remembrance, a kiss to forget. One to break a vow, another to make a promise. A kiss to betray and another to forgive.

There are kisses in rain and trails of kisses. There are packs of kisses, litters of kisses, gaggles of kisses.

A kiss that starts at your wrist; a play of moistened lips that cool the skin and find the pulse. The smooth skin of your arm a pathway to your elbow, elegantly bent so that the next is nestled along the inside. To the shoulder, a kiss more teeth then lips, little burning reminders left on the way to your neck. The throat is a sculpture of ingress, a place of worship and potential, a way within. A kiss is dangerous here, it knows you well. Delicate in its tease, deliberate in its patience. Small, moist, and searing against the curve between shoulder and neck; expansive and distracting along the side; soft as the lure when felt just below your ear.

A fancy kiss, crafted choreography in form – a kiss with intentions. A simple kiss, a kiss with a statement.

Kisses that taste of tears.

Dreamt kisses, feathery light kisses that slip away in wisps of consciousness.

Scared kisses, tentative and fearful. Vulnerability in trembling anticipation. Culpability in the acceptance. A delicate negotiation of faith.

An affectionate kiss. A familiar kiss.

A naughty kiss.

Angry kisses; frenzied frustration both nakedly unapologetic and perverse in its course; a clash in tongues and wit; opposing manner explained in a long hard fuck against the wall.

I kiss you with my fingers, wet from us.

Kisses that question; kisses that ask again and again, always the same question, always wanting the same answer, but louder, louder, LOUDER.

A kiss that isn’t a kiss. A kiss that is parted lips and torturously sweet in tongues and teeth but is found not on your lips or your skin. This kiss is felt inside. This kiss opens you.

This kiss tests your resolve. This kiss is enough to bring you to your knees.

This kiss is an invitation.

—

[audio:Djaevle_AThousandKisses_All.mp3]
D'jaevle, A Thousand Kisses

Vineyard

Just when winter speaks
and cries with lightning blood
and speeds the words away
and I realize I’ve spent
much too much time wandering
about a vineyard of circuitry
without finding
whatever it is
I seek

Poetry, on-line chat logs, scene reports, audible movie quotes and vain snippets of my own voice; pictures of knives, pin-ups, and faceless paramours.

Enough?

Perhaps.

Counting Candles

Thirty. A threshold of sorts.

When I was fourteen I used to look at the years between me and twenty and they were forever. I had all the time in the world. It is said that time speeds up as you get older. Is it because there is less wonder in the world for the experienced? Less things to hold onto, to peg as memorable?

I know there there is greatness beyond thirty; I have seen it. And I aim to find it.

Now, close your eyes and listen.

[audio:Djaevle_ScarletWords.mp3]
D’jaevle, Scarlet Words

Beauty

Subspace_1

A word, if I may, on beauty.

Beauty is in honesty; it is in the baring of skin in a shy yet brilliantly brazen snapshot of self. An expression on the face that promises that she is exactly where you think she should be. A robe casually yet deliberately parted to reveal the curve of a calf, a thigh, a breast.

Naked is beauty, but it is in the accessibility of it. It is the threat of vulnerability, the ease of concession when a hand can part her thighs and find her wet to the touch.

The pictures I adore? Those that are wanton, but not indifferent. A stolen moment, a captured moment. Unexpected but required.

Archives (mind the creaky step)

Well then. Bliatz has tagged me – and if Bliatz can find the time to tag me, I must attend.

The rules of this tag:
1. Delve into your blog archive.
2. Search the archives for the 23rd post.
3. Find the 5th sentence, or closest to.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions. Ponder it for meaning, subtext or hidden agendas.
5. Tag 5 people to do the same.

I can be quite good at following rules, when inclined. Result?

I knew she wanted to be taken down.

Which, pardon the eccentricities of speech, begs the question: how do I know when she wants to be taken down?

It is in the way she shies away from my hand when I reach over to touch her cheek, afraid to let me that close least it become *too* apparent.

It is in the way she dares me, an intricate dance of words and looks that are meant to push me into taking it from her.

It is in the way she steps back far enough for me to see all of her.

It is in the way she sighs into my grip when my hand finds a place against her.

It is in the way she dresses in black and red when she wants my attention.

It is in the way she is vulnerable, her trust a gift of responsibility and a promise of submitted redemption.

It is in the way that she reacts to every touch as if they were meant somewhere more intimate and closer to the skin.

It is in the way she sees me as my better half.

And it is in how her need carves from me the essence of her wants and in its weight I become everything to her.

Some dreams stretch like clouds…

Wrote in memory of my grandmother, dedicated today in memory of NE’s grandfather.

***

Some dreams stretch like clouds.
And carry soft rain like memories.

Some dreams are summer days.
Filled with sunshine and children’s laughter.

Some dreams are autumn.
Gold and red and crisp.

Some dreams are of yesterday
Youth and love and tears and hugs and regret and joy.

Some dreams are of tomorrow
Resolution and desire and fear and hope.

This one dream, today, is an ache,
a quiet within, an emptiness forgotten.

But all dreams come to an end
When the sleeper awakes.

Devil’s Task (SDS)

Being evil takes work. It is the devil of me that prescribes my thoughts today.

Forbidding something is the fastest way to ensure that it be done: tell a child that *this* room is off-limits; place a sign over the big red button saying ‘Do Not Touch’; tell your submissive that she absolutely, positively, must not think about how it would feel to be chained (yes, chained) to the bed with smaller silver chains connecting the more sensitive parts of her body.

We are fascinated with that which we should not have. Having grown up Catholic, I am particularly taken with the idea of sin. Because my entire perspective on life has always been relatively separatistic, I managed to avoid the ‘Catholic guilt’ syndrome that has afflicted so many of my fellow disaffected brethren; my interests in sin are more academic rather than spiritually driven.

To me, there is a very distinct division between what is wrong and what is sinful. And between what is right and what is virtuous. I think that the wrong found in both sin and virtue is not in their state of being, but in their excess. Too much lust and your life is consumed by that single desire; too much envy and you are eaten alive from within. Too much self-sacrifice, and there is little left for you to exist for. Too much zeal and you lose your sense of self.

With this in mind, I am going to show that living a sinful life has its rewards. This is a view I am not entirely alone on; society now associates so many enjoyable, yet relatively mundane, aspects of life as sinful: that double-chocolate german cake was sinfully delicious.

My checklist in this endeavor will be the seven deadly sins. Their origins aren’t strictly biblical, but in the late 6th century, Pope Gregory the Great revised the Greek theologian Evagrius’s list of eight into the current seven we have today. If a Pope has prescribed them as particularly menacing, that is good enough for me.

Keeping in mind that my goal is not to enjoy each sin to extreme excess (which is not particularly healthy), but to sample each interpreted sin in a manner that is both memorable and personal. And fucking insidious as possible; I want it in my blood.

Care to be evil with me?

[audio:Djaevle_Shown.mp3]
D’jaevle, Shown