Reality in Writing

I’ve done my share of writing about sex. Abstract, concrete – poetic and prosaic. I’ve written erotic stories and third-person narratives.

But I’ve never written about an actual encounter.

The way a scene unfolds, how I feel during it, tastes of edges and curves – these details come out in the rest of my writing. True stories? Perhaps I have never considered them important stories to tell, to test against my writing talents (meagar as they are). Yet what is the point of this space if I am not going to share a few actual facts? Reality has bite.

What to write of? One of the many scenes between me and my close friend NE? Of hunted prey and frenzied capture?

Arrived, Framed, Caught

Arriving at the door to my apartment, you knock once. Silence. You reach to knock again only to find the door opening. A smile, and I invite you in.

You’re dressed casually – black jeans shorts, light-colored shirt. Escorted into my living room, I stand you in the center and turn to draw the drapes closed. There are hints of light where the drapes don’t quite meet each other, but the main source of light within the room comes from the lamps.

Silently, I gesture for you to stand in the center of the room. Picking my camera up from the table, I slip behind you, body warm against yours. From behind, I reach around – fingers slide into your hair, musing it, and then down, over your eyes, closing them.

The only sound here, for minutes, is the soft clicking of the camera. Blind, you are not quite ready for myhands as they draw your shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the ground. Fingers slip along the edge of your jean shorts, undoing the buttons and letting those too pool at your feet. I tug you forward, and you stand naked except for your panties. Click. Click. And your eyes remain closed.

Fingers draw your hair back over your shoulder, and tilt your head back. Click.

Hands press you down to your knees, hair spilling now over your face. Click.

Your hands held against your back, head lowered…and a light touch, and then harsh twist, your nipples hard – Click.

“Open your eyes.” And you do. “Go into the bedroom and put on the outfit on the bed..”

Doing as bid, you enter the bedroom and take off your panties. Turning to the bed, you see a soft blue satin nightgown. Lifting it up, you let it settle against you, fabric slipping over skin, ending just at the top of your thighs. Too short, you think. But you move back into the other room where I wait.

A smile that almost reaches my eyes and you know I am pleased; a gaze that touches the skin like soft fingertips, draws down along your shoulders, following the contours of your shoulders, breasts, hips, and then the bare skin of your thighs and the soft shadows the nightgown creates. Gesturing to the couch, you follow my direction and lay along it, right knee bent atop your other leg as you look up at me.

“Eyes on me.” With your gaze on me – Click. Click.

“Now stand – and take it off. Slowly.” It takes a moment for the words to register and you find your feet reluctantly. Yet you already can feel that tightening just below your stomach, that slow ember of heat that awakes with a sudden burning hunger, stirred by fear and excitement. You slowly draw the nightgown up along your skin, feeling the cool air against exposed flesh as it slips up and off, leaving you standing naked – all the while, the soft click-click of the camera, taking in each inch of revealed flesh.

“Turn around and lean against the chair.” Your hands come down on the sides of your chair and your skin heats as you find yourself revealing everything to me. With your ass in the air, you wait.

“Higher.” You can actually feel my words, and the soft bite of my hunger with each word, “Higher. I want to see your pussy.” You move to obey, but not quickly enough – a sting, the heated caresses of my hand as it slaps your ass. Click. Click.

Your breath catches in your throat – so lost in awaiting the sound of each click, each picture – when my fingers slide down against your moist heat from behind, it is entirely unexpected. Fingers curl as they slide inside, pressing in, two fingers pressed tight within you.

Breathe. Each breath is ragged, and your skin flushes a soft red, unable to hide the effect his fingers have as they move in an agonizingly slow press – in and out. Instinctively, you press yourself back against my hand. Thumb drawing down along the edge of your ass, between your cheeks, fingers drive in hard, once,reminding you of how cruel my touch can be – how harsh my teasing is…when not so carefully drawing you to the edge, time and time again.

A moan escapes, an inarticulate cry for more. Wet fingers draw out and up over your ass, leaving a moist trail. Warm lips follow the trail, tasting you against your skin and teeth nip lightly before you feel my tongue so close…

“We are done.” You glance up and see me standing a few feet away, near the door, the slight catch in my breathing the only hint of the effect you’ve had on me.

I smile. Yes, I always have been good at being cruel.

Vending Lottery

There is a vending machine in the break area. It offers the normal assortment of fizzy beverages in cold 12oz cans for .65 cents. A larger, plastic-bottled, version is offered by a nearby vending machine; these cost 1.25.

I prefer the cans. Metallic tasting diet coke always wins.

But I digress.

The .65 vending machine is broked. Oh, it will take all of my coins – but about one in three won’t register in the machine’s small calculating electronic brain. I’ve lost a good two or three dollars in change over the last year to this machine.

And then, a few weeks ago, I figured it out: the coins that the machine ate sounded as if they weren’t going far enough in – they were making it just enough to fall into some kind of crack. But if I flicked the coin in with decent velocity, and at the right angle, the coin machine would always register it. This works very well for quarters and dimes. Nickels, on the other hand, are proving to be tricky.

Now each time I approach the vending machine, I know it’s secret. I accept its challenge. Just me against the vending machine.

Trop de sommeil

I’ve been sleeping too much.

I wake up, and I want to stay in bed.

I get up, take a shower, and want to lay down on my large leather chair and close my eyes.

I get to work and I want to listen to classical music and forget where I am.

Too much sleep is a classic sign of depression. But I’m not depressed. I know this because I became intimately familar with depression in my adolesence. I never tested the bottom of that dark river – never felt true despair. In fact, there was a certain comfort in the melancholic embrace it had – it gave me permission to withdraw. But it was a temporary retreat, a false promise of solace that lead nowhere.

So why am I so…unmotiviated? I am still engaged in life – I do things. But I have no great challenge, no great reason.

Decent well-paying job? Check.
Nice, if small, house? Check.
Good friends? Check.

Maybe I just need a vacation.

Indefinable Belief, Satiate and Submit

Just how hungry am I?

Hungry enough to strip you bare and then clothe you in the firm grip of hands that know the fine places to touch you – the places that make you go weak in the knees while anticipation drives your pulse to race and your skin to tingle. Hungry enough to reveal you layer by layer – removing all pretension and lies until you are completely exposed and yet anonymous in the truth of who and what you are.

Naked, you feel everything.

Hungry enough to see just how far you’ll go to find the edge. To see your boundaries – to push you over with one hand while keeping your head above water with the other. Drown you in heat while giving you breath in kisses that never quite end, but move one into another, on lips, neck, curves.

Hungry enough to whisper of things that you’ve often thought of but never let touch your lips. Hungry enough to make you speak words that burn when spoken but taste like sweet indulgence. Hungry enough to draw out each desire with fingertips that find the most sensitive spots – just behind your knees, the small of your back, the side of your neck; fingertips that write naughty poetry on your thighs; fingertips that speak in a language you have to lose yourself in to understand.

Hungry enough to trap you. Have you ever been caught in a gaze that knows you better then you know yourself? Knows which way you’re going to run? Knows where you are most vulnerable? Knows how to go for your throat – and wants you to know he can. And he waits, until the tension is sharp enough that the delicate coiled heat inside of you can be set off with just one touch, one word.

Hungry enough to teach you what it means to be so bad that it feels good – and reminds you that you are, indeed, *alive*.

How hungry are you?

One Voice

Why do so many people, including me, find themselves putting up their personal thoughts, detailing life’s minutiae, expounding on the pros and cons of Kerry, euthanasia, and cunninglinus?

I can guess; some of it must derive from the human need to connect to others, to share. Some of it must be the writer in us finally being given space to exist. Some of it must be our desire to leave a written legacy, something that says we were here – we thought – we blogged. And some of it – perhaps a lot of it – is our attempt to get attention.

Me! Me! Over here! Helllo! Pay attention! Pay attentttttion!

Seriously, though – we all want to think we are unique, special – and we want recognition of this. And, well, yes – as individuals, we are quite different from each other. But being a human – one of billions, stretching back thousands of years – really, as a rule, we’re not likely to say something that hasn’t been said before.

So why do it?

There are quite a lot of people livejournalling, blogging, RnR Craiglist posting; but it’s not the number of people doing it that surprises me – it’s the fact that there are so many doing it well; that fact makes me pause. So many people who can write in such a fashion and about things that are so interesting that you want to read on. You want to unravel the serial adventures of their lives, you want to know what they think about tongue piercings, copyright law, and their mother’s broken car.

Therapy for the masses? Still debating this with myself. In the mean time though, I have to go read how that postal work’s affair with his mother-in-law is working out…

Active Participant

Ever stop to smell the roses?

This phrase, unfortunately, has lost a lot of the magic it once had; it has become a Hallmark card, the lesson learned by a forty-something construction worker after a 90 minute after-school special. This doesn’t make it any less true or important – but it has certainly lost some of its punch.

So I have a new idea.

If we liken roses to those things in life that we enjoy, those things which are good, then the concept embodied by it only takes the idea part of the way. What about the time spent away from the roses? The hard, sad, and indifferent times? Few of us have the luxury of cultivating rose gardens. Should we pull back from life when it becomes hard?

I was discussing this with my brother the other day- he’s going to be making some difficult choices in the near future. It is easy to avoid making choices; you can let life make them for you. But in allowing things to happen – you are no longer driving – you are a passenger. For me, it is important that I be an active participant in my life – all of it. It’s not just the roses that are precious, but the thorns that draw blood and remind of how fragile life is. It is the soil we tend and the act of nurturing it so that good things come.

It is about being in front when we do things. There is a distinction between doing things and experiencing them. An obvious example is the way we tune out when driving to and from work; it is automatic, a motion we are going through. Now imagine this state pervading your whole life, without you realizing it. This is the state most of us are in, until something, amazing wonderful or devastatingly bad, wakes us up.

I want to experience life, not just pass through it. I want to be an active participant in my life.

The First Time

I was fourteen. It was the eighties and I was on a 2400 baud modem. I’d only recently discovered the excitement of being able to chat on a BBS with two or more people simultaneously. There were even rumors of Bulletin Board Systems out there that had twenty, thirty people on at once.


The BBS was called Future Wave, and it was homed out of Massachusetts. I had struck up a conversation with…well I don’t recall her handle, but her real name was Jenny. She was about the same age as I and was feeling rather down about something.

So I tried to cheer her up. I was a very creative fourteen year old. Described taking her out to a nice restraunt. The snowfight afterwards. She decided she needed to shower to warm up after having snow poured down the front of her shirt.

She described the towel she wore as she stepped out of the shower.

I don’t recall what happened next – but it did not involve hot naked sex. I think I might have fled in confusion over what to do next.

But I had tasted something – and, well, I wanted more. I never did manage to get Jenny in a one-on-one chat again.

Still, she did send me a rather nice Christmas card.

Of course, I said. It is an Intro.

Neither Wikpedia, nor, were very helpful in defining ‘introduction’.

I am neither a musical passage, nor, despite my meandering words, a novel. I am simply human and all the good, evil, and otherwise that comes with it. So this introduction will be done without guidance. I’m just going to free-style it.

Hello, nice to meet you.

Half the fun of a blog is seeing details emerge. The shape of a person. The way they craft their words, the glimpses into their life. I would not want to rob you of this by giving away too much at the beginning. Some of you already know way too much about me. But a few guideposts would be appropriate.

I’m part of the male half of the species. I live on the east coast. I read (a lot).

I am a sinner. I like being a sinner. At one point I thought I might want to be a priest; someday perhaps. I’m not quite done with the sinning.

I’ll leave a taste of my sinning in the next couple of posts. Just a feel of them.