Flip a Coin

Love and hate are not so much opposites as alternating faces of the same coin. What is it about a person or concept that so drives you to hate it? Anything, anything, that drives you to put so much passion into hating something so fully must be a thing you love, and love with the same vicous passion. Does that person make you angry? Confused? Insane? Frustrated? Hatred is only fucking unfufilled. Hatred is obsession over something you can’t have. Hatred is a contest of wills. Hatred is passion denied.

Night Silk, Part II

She awoke in the room at dusk; rather, the lighting gave the impression of neither night or day but some indeterminable time between the two. Her eyes felt heavy as she struggled to hold them open and glimpse her surroundings.

On her back, the room was somewhat difficult to absorb. When she tried to sit up she found she lacked the strength to do so. She noticed a door on the dark side of the room and a window on the opposite wall which was carefully opened a few inches to allow a soft breeze into the room. Then her eyes closed again as she let herself slide downward once more.

The soft touch of a warm hand against her right ankle startled her into opening her eyes once again. He stood at the edge of the bed, solid and as real to her senses as herself…yet he still seemed to be surreal in a way that she couldn’t describe. Despite her best efforts she couldn’t keep her eyes open and they fluttered close again.

The hand on her ankle moved slowly up over her skin, fingertips just barely touching as they slid over the slow curve of her calf. Her skin warmed under his touch and he continued his caress upward to her knee, fingertips brushing slowly underneath to stroke gently. She stirred slightly on the bed as the heat of his caressing moved through her body; the slowly building heat turned firey blood-like poison. The hands continued to tease, first at the edge of her thigh, slow strokes down between her legs; her skirt slid away to expose her naked skin and his fingers found the silken expanse of her inner thighs, tracing delicate patterns.

His soft strong voice whispered next to her ear, warm breath teasing her neck, “You are mine. Let go…” and his words were followed by the daring touch of his hand sliding deeper, drawing his fingertips along the skin of her inner thighs. Drowned amongst the sensations and his will, she struggled, as if fighting for breath; but each time she approached the surface, his fingers would find new trick to distract her, fingernails against sensitive skin.

Finally his fingers moved back down along her legs and seemed to fade out when they reached her ankles. Curiosity cut through the sleepy laziness that held her and she opened her eyes once more. And she saw him. Really saw him.

His pale skin in the dark. His soulful eyes. Sharp canines between crimson lips. Deep within her, fighting the turmoil of emotions, her soul cried out in fear and ecstasy.

Too late, his hands restrained her as she fought to sit up. His strength was solid though not violent. Tears slid out her eyes, smearing her makeup and the paleness of her skin.

“Not yet…” he whispered as he gathered her into his arms. She could feel the indomitable strength and impossible quickness in his arms as the world spun around her. Out the window…

The night sky danced for a moment before she could closed her eyes and felt the cool night air teasing her skin. She felt him leap form the window to the roof, and for a moment she was free, flying…

“Open your eyes…” his voice was lost in the night and when she opened her eyes, it was to look out over the city, stars above and below in the headlights of cars, neon signs and store windows. He stood just behind her, his hands on her waist.

“You want to fly…” Her feet slid slightly on the edge of the roof and his hands steadied her. “Feel the night! The cool breeze, the darkness engulfing you…the freedom!” And then he was laughing.

Her lips parted as if to taste it, the night. He spun her around and his hands gripped her blouse, ripping the silk in half to expose her black bra. The night air brought her nipples to attention as his lips met the soft skin of her neck as the night surrounded her, his burning lips now on the side of her neck, tongue ever so slowly sliding just behind her ear as if tasting an appetizer, savoring it. One hand cradling the back of her head, fingers sliding along the nape of her neck, his teeth slowly brushed over the soft skin of her neck, the touch of his fangs sending shivers straight down he body, leaving her skin tingling. But he paused, as if struggling within, “No…not yet…”

His hands, once warm, were now as cool as the night. Their touch was the caress of the night as they moved over her sides and down the length of her skirts. Yet his touch made he body burn; his hands sliding her skirt up along her thighs, gathering it about her waist.

She moaned softly. Standing at the edge of the building, clothed only in her bra and her skirt about her waist, this moment brought her body to the edge…and his hands drew her over. His palm slid up along her silken thighs and against the burning moist heat. His fingers slowly spread as they teased her.

“Oh…oh…please…” her voice seemed foreign to her as she gave herself over to it, the heat between her thighs almost unbearable and the night daring to envelop her.


His teeth nibbled for a moment and then breached the skin, and the heat exploded into an intense fire, her blood burning in her veins as he leaned her backwards over the city, her chest heaving as she struggled to breath.

She wasn’t sure if what she was experiencing was sexual, but it felt like an on-going rush. Each moment brought her higher, the heat turning into a sensation unlike anything she had felt before. The source of these sensations came from her neck, but she was too lost to understand what was happening. She craved only for it not to stop.

And it didn’t…even as she felt herself weakening, she felt into the abyss of pleasure, lost utterly.

The morning brought sunlight through the shades. Her eyes opened to an empty room.

Night Silk, Part I

Wrote this quite a long time ago (nineteen maybe?). One of the first short stories I actually managed to finish. Slightly editted, but mostly in it’s rough state.

Within the dark came the whisper of silk on silk and the jingle of tiny bells. A patch of light exposed the thrash-strewn ground of the alleyway as the door to the club opened and she stepped inside. Across the room, through various tables scrawled about, she made her way to the bar. The seat she took was between two hazy men, each with dark drinks sitting before them. She shrugged off her purse and placed it on top of the bar.

Her eyes met the mirror behind the bar as she opened the top of her purse. Her hair was bound with a crimson band, forcing her dirty gold hair to remain immobile as her head moved slowly from side to side strangely as if mesmerized by her own image; no vanity by the white pale glimmer of her skin, just a curious fascination. her green eyes seemed to throw off the pale image before her in the mirror, not distorting the appearance so much as accentuating her skin.

Her dark violet silk blouse shimmered slightly in the light of the bar, leading down to her swishing black skirt and long legs, and the source of the jingle: a band of small bells around her ankle.

“Would ya care for a drink lady?” Startled out of her reverie, she looked up into the burly face of the bartender.

“Jack Daniels please.”

The large bartender poured the drink and set it before her. Without looking, she reached into her purse and placed a few bills next to the drink. The bartender picked them up and moved along the bar to speak to another customer.

She idly stirred the dark liquid, brought a finger to her lips, let her tongue slide along the sides. She closed her eyes to enjoy the taste; she opened her eyes a moment later to find herself gazing at the mirror again. Except this time there was a man standing behind her.

His eyes were an odd color of brown, almost magenta. She slowly closed her eyes, and opened them again, curious to see where he would be next. He was now standing right behind her.

Long black hair framed his face; pale in the candlelight, pale in the mirror, pale even against her skin. He was dressed comfortably in a black cotton jerkin and black slacks. The collar of his shirt opened to expose a silver chain that held a miniature sterling rose with petals of onyx.

The black rose held her attention for a long moment before she slowly turned her head to the side, seeing him out of the corner of her eye, as if verifying his existence. She returned to her drink, lifting the glass to sip slowly, her eyes on the mirror. His eyes met hers.

Her lips parted and she took another sip; eyes closed once more to focus on feel of the liquid burning a path down her throat. Slowly opening her eyes, she placed the empty glass on the counter and looked into the mirror again but the man was no longer there. Turning her head to the side, she scanned the room, failing to find him.

Frowning slightly, she stared at the empty glass for a moment before shrugging slightly. Picking up her purse she stood and turned from the bar. Her eyes continued to scan the bar, but he was no longer within the room. Her slow steps brought her to the door and she left quietly.

The darkness encompassed her again as the door to the bar closed and left her alone in the alleyway. Shivering slightly she took a few steps down the alleyway before coming to an abrupt stop. Her eyes widened briefly when she saw the man leaning against the wall at the end of the alleyway.

She almost stumbled to a stop. His eyes were easily discernible within the darkness of the alley, illuminating the rest of his face; his dark clothes lent themselves to the shadows, keeping the attention on his face.

She stood in the middle of the alley for a long moment as he watched her. She shivered, unsure if it was the cold of his eyes that affected her so. An irresistible urge to approach him washed over her like a wave. She struggled for a moment before giving in. After the first step, the rest were easy.

Blurred images of his eyes on hers as he stood within inches of her, his voice like a soft harsh whisper, “I thought you were one mine with your pretty pale skin…it is dangerous to attract such attention.” Like a caress, his voice and warm breath teased her skin. Reality seemed to fade against the background of his eyes.

Reality in Writing, Part Deux

I’ve continued to think on how best to handle writing about true life encounters. The issue I keep running up against is that my past relationships (even those that didn’t last more then a night or two) are all distinct in general, but specifics on encounters would be hard to get perfect. And if I am going to get creative with the details, then I am potentially defeating the purpose.

More recent adventures, for which the details can still be recalled with startling (and, at times, very distracting) clarity, I am hesitant to write about out of respect for my partners. Yes, this is a semi-anonymous blog, but I consider trust between my partner and I to be more then just important – it is integral. Changing names and details helps, but not enough to make me comfortable enough to write about it. Yet.

Of course, permission given, I can and will write. NE, a dear friend, has acquiesced so there may be some stories about her in the near future.

Hollywood Kisses

My relationship with the Hollywood kiss has progressed through three distinct stages: Development, Disappointment, and Enlightenment.

Development. I had just reached that point, somewhere in my mid-teen years, where my interest in on-screen romance went from bland ignorance to cautious curiosity. Boy meets girl. Girl gets into trouble. Boy saves girl. Girl rewards boy with kiss (ok, ok, nowadays it’s more – boy meets girl, boy gets girl into trouble, girl gets herself (and the boy) out of trouble, girl uses boy for some quick and dirty sex, and then turns out to be a psychotic murderer in the requisite plot-twist). I watched the on-screen kisses with a mixture of awe and nervousness. They were a lot to live up to. This was how kisses were done. Every kiss must be like that. Right?

Disappointment. Wrong – so wrong. From my late teens to early adulthood, kissing never even came close to what I had seen in the movies. It was either too fast, too slow, or too wet – too little or too much. Noses bumped. Teeth clanked. The first woman (I was sixteen, she was thirty) I ever kissed tasted like the butt-end of a used cigarette (she must have had a three-pack a day habit). It was like kissing an ash-tray. This was kissing? The only people who kissed like what I saw in the movies were the actors and actresses making them. Under the guidance of a director. With perfect lighting. And breath mints.

Enlightenment. I was twenty-two the first time it happened. I actually thought, ‘So this is it.’. It started tentative – a small bite, teeth grazing her lower lip. Her lips parting for me, her hands tightening along my sides, pulling me a bit closer. She tasted like vanilla and peppermint. We were moving in synch, her tongue brushing mine almost shyly as we found each other; the kiss deepened, became harder, more forceful, the natural progression as we wanted more and more and…a pause, a shuddering breath as we found ourselves practically clinging to each other.

So what is the moral of all this? Not all kisses are Hollywood kisses. I don’t even want them all to be. The thing about Hollywood kisses isn’t their caliber – some of the best kisses I’ve ever shared were sloppy and frenzied, or slow and so subtle they were almost imagined. Hollywood kisses are just those kisses where all the pieces seem to fall together. They surprise you. They have magic.

Class dismissed. Except for you – the pretty brunette in the back. I need you to stay after for some more practice. Because practice makes…well, in this case, broken hearts, Jerry Springer shows, and sometimes, just sometimes, the perfect kiss.

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.