Part I of this story was written by a woman, and I responded with Part II, which plays with the classial myth of Diana and Actaeon as given, for instance, in Ovid's Metamorphosis.
Writers always advise that should write about what you know. I did not do this in this story. I've never been to this part of the United States--the Great Smokies--and I had never made love in nature when I wrote this story. But waterfalls are certainly very erotic--and provocative. For good reason, Niagara Falls in the northeast part of the United States was the #1 honeymoon spot in the 19th century.
Part I
This is not my first time hiking the Appalachian Trail, but it is my first hike to Bridal Veil Falls. Until now, I've only driven through Roaring Fork. It's hard to believe that this piece of untouched pristine forest exists so close to Gatlinburg. The rains have been heavy this year and the falls should be spectacular. I'm sitting in a booth at Waldo Pepper's enjoying my coffee, when I hear someone say "Hello, I was wondering what happened to you."
I turn, and see that it's Neil. I saw him a couple of times on the trail, it's his first time here. "Hi Neil" I say with a smile, "would you like to join me?" And with that he does, he orders coffee and we do the normal "trail" talk.
It seems he loves mountains, and there's plenty of them along the trail. I ask him if he's going to finish the trail and he say's he's not sure, and inquires as to what I'm doing. I tell him of my love for waterfalls and how I have always fantasized about showering under one, and I'm going to. He stretches his long frame, brushing his legs against mine under the table and says that he would like to see that.
I inquire as to whether or not he is alone and he says, "Are you interested?" I say no, not wanting to let on that I find him arousing. I tell him that I only wanted to show him around, seeing as I have spent lots of time here and this is his first visit.
Neil agrees and I ask him to accompany me to the Dixie Stampede in Pigeon Forge. I tell him what's it about, it's a dinner theater, with horses and trick riders, and an audience participation reenactment of the civil war. There are no utensils for eating the food, you have to use your hands, and it's not too messy, just a lot of fun. Seeing as how I am a true southern belle, I ask for us to be seated in that section.
We are both laughing, enjoying the show and each others company, he loved the pig race. The drive back to our rooms in Gatlinburg only takes a few minutes, Neil and I are both staying at the Leconte, he walks me to my door. "I really enjoyed your company." he says. He kisses me on the cheek and turns to go. Neil looks back and asks if I'm sure I don't want him to accompany me to the falls, laughing he says he would gladly pay for the privilege of watching me shower. I smile and say "Good night, Neil."
It's 5am, time to go. By the time I get to the falls it will be almost noon. It's supposed to be 90 degrees today, perfect for skinny dipping. As I pull my car into the parking lot, I see I am the only one here. In a way I'm disappointed, I was hoping for some sort of audience, the thought of being watched during such an intimate moment arouses me. Maybe I should have brought Neil.
The trail is well worn from continuous use. It's not a hard trail, just long. Eight miles, from the parking lot. I love the sounds of the forest. The singing of the birds, deer scurrying away, the air so clean and clear. The unmistakable fragrance of men's cologne hangs in the air, so, I'm not alone. Once again the thought of being watched warms my loins. My heart quickens as I imagine the scene.
Almost there now, I can smell the water. Breaking through the trees, I see it, Bridal Veil Falls. It does look like a veil, coming down in a single stream, then hitting the rocks and spreading, falling over the outcropping. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful. I walk closer, bending down I dip my fingers in the water, cool, but not enough to keep me from taking a dip.
I am aware that I am being watched, the cologne drifting in on the breeze. Taking my time, desiring to put on a good show for my audience, I begin to undress. Boots first, then socks, I unzip my shorts and wiggle out of them, bending over slowly to pick them up as I step out of them. I take both hands and place them on my butt, caressing my cheeks, I slide my thong panties down to my knees and repeat the process, bending over slowly, and rising again, I turn my back to the falls, so my watcher can get a good look at me unbuttoning my blouse. Still moving slowly, intending to cause great arousal to the person watching, I let my shirt fall to the ground and place my hands on my flat abdomen, sliding them slowly up my body and over my breasts. Reaching behind me, I unhook my bra and let it fall. I cup my breasts in my hands and turning I step into the cool water. It is chilly, I catch my breath and wade further, heading for the falls.
The water isn't deep, and soon my body adjusts to the temperature. I look down at two very erect nipples, is it because of the cool water or because I'm being watched? Now, finally I am under the falls, the water feels so good streaming down my body. I am alone in thinking that this is the most erotic experience in the world. I lift my hands to catch the water, touching my face, letting one hand fondle my breast as the other slides down, down to my mound, seeking my sweetness, teasing my petals, lost in the feel of the water. I open my eyes to see Neil standing beside my pile of clothes, without speaking he undresses and steps into the water, walking toward me, his arousal evident, his manhood standing hard and erect against his body, I reach my hand out to him inviting him to join me.......
Part II
I accept the invitation, approaching you boldly, assuredly, with manifest desire. You retreat a bit, and playfully splash some water down low, dousing my desire, and then you scoop up a handful and sprinkle it over my face, in my hair. Taken aback, I stop. The birds scatter in the trees above. You scoop up another handful, again sprinkling my face, wetting my hair, my neck.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Just trying to remove the scent," you reply. "I smelled your cologne from a distance. I like my men natural, very natural."
Taking my cue, I dunk my head in the pool, covering it, washing out all the smell in the cool water, then surfacing and shaking myself off like a dog, spraying you with the drops. We laugh, and I resume my approach, my hunt.
Again, you retreat, this time all the way back into the plume of the falls: the water cascades against your neck, over your shoulders, sending up spray and hiding from sight the taut nipples that had stood out like a beacon guiding me into your arms. It almost seems now as if you are blushing. Coyly, you cover your bosoms with an arm and your little patch of venus fur with a hand, holding me off, making me all the more desirous. I'm not a man to be teased.
"Where are your hounds, Neil? Did you leave them behind?"
"Yes, of course, I only take them out when I am hunting. Why do
you ask?"
"Just curious."
The coolness of the water, your reserve, your questions, have had its effect, and my ardor begins to subside. I must look forlorn. I've been sprouting horns for you forever it seems. I have always loved tomboys, the Annie Oakleys, and you, Diane, I thought to myself, were always the best: you knew the woods better than the guys, you were faster on the track than any woman and most of the men, and you knew how to shoot better than sew.
For years, I had been consumed with desire, sparked by your athletic body and ignited by your intelligence, your creativity. You had given the best paper and oral report on Faulkner's As I Lay Dying in high school dazzling not just the students but Mr. Hicks and Mr. Morgan with your passion, your poise, your poetry. Even your teachers had crushes on you.
Now, as if reliving a nighttime teenage fantasy, you are before me, nude, au naturel in body as well as spirit. You notice my look of dismay, and your face breaks into a grin, your eyes lighten up and then they smolder with fire, drawing a bead, the huntress Diana. Your arms unfold, and you beckon me forward.
As I approach, your hands dip into the water, deep, not to come up splashing this time, but to find the quarry. You grasp and cradle my balls, tightly, with meaning. I harden again instantly. You draw me towards you, as if seizing a javelin, a spear to hunt some wild boar you've spotted crashing through the woods. I look back, over my shoulder, checking to make sure no one has spotted us, that we are alone, in peace. "Now tell me," you ask, blushing slightly, "exactly what were you thinking as I stripped off my clothes?"
"Oh, my God," I replied, "What wasn't I thinking? When you wiggled out of your shorts, I was thinking about all the times in literature class when I dreamed that you would use your muse of fire to write me love poetry, an erotic story. When you unhooked your bra, I remembered all the times I stripped you naked in my mind as you ran around in your warm up suit and track outfit. When I saw the thong and when it came off, I remembered all the times I had lain awake in bed, torn apart by the hounds of adolescent lust, fantasizing about making love to you by streams, in caves, on cliffs, in meadows, amidst wild flowers. I've wanted you for so long. I swear I've been hard ever since our legs brushed together at the restaurant."
"You know how much I love the mountains, this trail. You love it too. You know it as well as I do, maybe better. I wanted you to come with me so bad. I'm a little shy, sometimes. But not out here. Come now and know me. Come explore me. Come hunt for whatever you want, whatever you desire. Take me, mountain man, take me."
Quickly, wordlessly, we lock together in a tight embrace, a mix of affection and lust, and you make it more intense, the strength of your arms crushing us together. I reply with the passion of my lips, the desire of my tongue, skipping the soft stuff, going straight up into overdrive, pressing you back against the outcropping, prodding your inner thighs with my cock, informing you of my strength, my desire, my passion, trapping your bosoms in my grasp, then manhandling your nipples, your loins, your butt, everything.
Maybe I'm too rough at first. You free yourself from my grasp and lean back on the rocks, catching your breath, giving me a little time out signal with your hands. You make me want to tear my hair off, tear my skin off and unleash the Satyr of sex within me, pouncing on you from behind, a hound in heat, fucking you doggie style, hard and deep, driving you wild, unleashing you from the lace of Southern bellehood, turning you into a black leather dress woman, a leopard-skin pantied woman, a tigress of sex. In my lust, however, I am metamorphosed: the surging passion of my cock spreads its heat, like a backfire forming inside me, and its flames lick up to my heart, and I become, in the instant, it seems, a changed man, no longer a beast, a satyr, but your lover.
You can smell my true scent now, and you can see it in my eyes. I whisper, "I love you." Your legs part open for me, and I feel again like an animal in heat, a stag ready to rut, but now I am also half-god, a man possessed with a "Song of Solomon" love. For a moment, you appear to me like a queen, a goddess, on some ancient throne, expecting me to kneel down, to worship your diadem. But you have made me strong, cockstrong, and I want you to feel my power. You want my tender tongue, and I want to be thrusting deep inside you. I stride up to you, my cock in my hand, wiggling it for you up and down, strutting my stuff, displaying my self-evident size, air fucking. But you turn away, jumping off the rock and into the water, back to the falls, the stream.
I follow you, my quarry. I plunge after you, catching you by your legs. I pull you towards me, as if you are caught in a net, and I lift you up and turn you upside down, like some cheerleader routine, flopping your legs over my shoulders, cunt now in my face, your head falling down me behind me, backwards, almost touching the water. I tongue you hard, fast, relentlessly, until you tense for a moment and then relent. Your body becomes limp, soft, and I take you up in my arms, cradling your body, a groom taking his bride over the transom, a man taking his captured prey into Bridal Veil Falls. In our rutting we have become too hot and sweaty, and we sink down into the water, still embracing, and then we arise in its flow, its cascade: the water hitting our heads, our chests, our shoulders, soothing us and invigorating us, nature's own jacuzzi, and then I, stand behind you, doubling the pleasure: the power of the falls is matched by the power of my hands, an X-rated Swedish massage.
I enwrap you in my arms and feel you up all over: hands rubbing up and down your sides...hands circling you flat, hard stomach...hands caressing your boobs, enjoying every contour and curve...hands and fingers strumming your nipples, keeping them taut, making them sing and dance....a hand going down and grasping your pussy tighter than any thong, a finger sliding up and down its length, pressing just inside, entering furtively. I then lift you off the ground, arms under your legs, holding you open, calling upon the forces of nature to take you, to pleasure you, as if you are sneaking in a bath in the middle of the dog days of August, letting the spigot of water do all the work as you cool yourself down, giving yourself the little hidden pleasure you deserve and need, the chance to romance yourself, escaping in your fantasies to waterfalls all around the world, escaping into the arms of a hidden admirer, a stranger on an elevator, or a man who knows the woods, a man who knows how to pleasure a woman as if he were a woman, a man with rough, calloused hand but soft enough and slow enough to enter you after the flute finishes on "Bolero" and not come until the end, with you, in full orchestral accompaniment.
The eroticism of the waterfall arouses us fully, readying us for our own plunging fury. I turn you around, and as I lift, you hop a bit into my arms, your legs wrapping around me, tight, your hands clasping behind my neck, your pussy brushing up against my cock, and then you wiggle yourself onto me, provoking from both of us a little gasp, and then you suck me in and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, making me groan in pure joy, loud and louder and loudest. You have the tightest love muscles I have ever felt, the love muscles of a goddess, of a huntress who can catch her quarry and never let go. I want to hold you there forever, almost still and almost silent, the wetness of Bridal Veil Falls circling around us, covering us in its mist and spray, and the wetness of your pussy circling around my cock, surrounding me in its moistness, in its honey-thick nectar, the inner ambrosia of the goddess Diana, each squeeze another arrow from her quiver sent into my heart.
Instinctively, the ancient rhythm begins, the rhythm of lovemaking: rocking slightly together, then steadily together, and then our cock and cunt become one: pumping together faster and faster, as my hands grasp your butt, pulling you tight against me, and then playing with your butt like a helium balloon, keeping it bouncing in the air, letting it fall a bit and then striking it back up, generating a rhythm of play and passion, and as you climb near the top, ready to fall, I swing us both back towards the plunging water. plunge inside you, again and again, harder than the falls, with quick, fast strokes, until you rise high, and stop, arching back in ecstasy, as you spasm and shudder, and I keep shaking you up until every little shiver is over, until your are wrung out of pleasure, like a beautiful natural sponge squeezed dry, like bread dough kneaded and stretched and left to rise.
We collapse, sinking back into the water, ready, to drown out the world and every sound but our own beating hearts and the rushing water of Bridal Veil Falls. But then the huntress discovers that the hunt is not over: you reach for my manhood, and find it, still hard. You raise me up and encircle me from behind, grasping my cock, pumping it hard, as your bosoms push into my back, impelling me forward, back into the stream of the falls, its spumes of water falling on my cock as you pump it and pump it, its length straining like a salmon fighting its way up stream, until you make it a fountain, a falls, in its own right.
We linger together, in the water, only our heads showing above the surface so we can focus on our eyes. We trade kisses and then thoughts. We talk about our favorite places on the trail, wondering if there is any special place, a secret spot, the other does not know about, a hidden erogenous zone, like a male nipple that has never been played with before by a woman who knows the favorite trails, the spots, the secrets of a man's body. We each make a suggestion.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Silk Scarves, Part I and II
Part I of this story was written by a woman who invited a man to continue the story. I took up the challenge in Part II.
Part I
You are resting on your back in our bed that has the faint musky scent of our love-making the night before. I am watching you as you doze. The sheet is covering your hips and ass. I smile, admiring your body and remembering.
I reach across your chest…my breasts lightly touching your bare chest. I slide over you reaching into the basket that is beside the bed. There are colorful scarves of silk in the basket and I take two. As I pull the scarves toward me, they trail on your chest and you softly moan at the touch of the silk against your skin.
You start to touch my breasts but I pull back and than whisper in your ear “Don’t move”. You close your eyes and wait for my touch. I take the scarves and start to caress your body. Drawing the silk over your face, lightly touching your chest with the delicate fabric. You take a deep breath, smiling as your body undulates under the touch of the silk. I pull the sheet off your hips and softly glide the silk over your cock and between your legs. Caressing you and than softly kissing your warm cock. Your response is immediate, your cock grows hard as you moan softly.
I take the two scarves, stretching your arms upward and tie your wrists to the headboard of our bed. Not to hurt you but to let you know that you are mine. I whisper “Don’t move”. You moan and close your eyes.
I straddle you…not touching your growing hardness. I take the fragrant oil from the table and after warming it in my hands, I begin to massage your chest. Moving my hands upward as I lean forward, I caress your chest, your arms and up to your hands. Stoking you. Sliding my hands on your body. I lean over more so I can slide in the oil…covering my breasts in the warmth of oil and the heat that is growing inside you.
You want to touch me…you beg me to untie your hands. I slide up your body and whisper once more: “Don’t move”. I lift my body up and I can feel the moisture that has gathered between my legs. The thought of being able to take you excites me. The thought of you being mine is so erotic. I hover over your cock. Still not touching it. Your hips move up…your cock hard and throbbing…searching for my warm, tight opening.
I take your cock in my warm, oily hand and caress it, stroke it…sliding my hand up and down the shaft. My clit feels like it is on fire…I take your cock and place the tip against my clit…rubbing them together, feeling the throbbing. We both gasp in pleasure at the contact…it is electric. I rub your cock between my legs. My juices cover your hardness as I rub you back and forth.
I slowly lower my body on yours. Feeling you as your cock enters my tightness and warmth. Sliding slowly…wanting those first feelings of total bliss to last forever. This is what I want…to have you, to take you. I continue to slide on you…deeper and deeper I take you into my body. And than I stop with you filling me with your hardness.. I want to feel your throbbing and I want you to feel mine. I slide upward…our bodies still slick with oils. Breasts to chest…skin to skin. I kiss you deeply. Our tongues tasting each other. Your cock inside me. My clit throbbing.
I untie your hands…..
Silk Scarves, Part II
My arms free, I grasp you to me with them, curving your spine down for us to kiss.
The silk scarves slip to the wayside
Freed from bondage, my hands feel like sailors released in a port: Liberty becomes license, license becomes licentiousness.
My hands must rove….betwixt, between, below. They must explore and experiment. Kept too long confined on board, they must sack the city, plunder its treasure.
They long to travel from inside the knee to inside your loins, preparing a spot, a little garden spot, to plant the seeds of my kisses.
My hands just delight in their freedom, gliding over and around your back, grasping your ass and pulling you down harder on my cock, grinding pussy to groin.
You gasp at this first sign of feeling my power, my freedom, my desire, and clench my cock tighter in your pussy.
My hands slide up back and forth up the sides of your body, caressing you. I give my fingers freedom to swirl about you, tracing lines all over you, each line a little invisible rope to tie you closer to me.
My hands have sculpted clay. They have kneaded bread. They have fingered the sax, making it wail and bleat.
I touch you softly, but with strength, with each hand. You feel to me as clay on the potter’s wheel, as dough before the baker, as the sax to Coltrane, and I let you know it.
I pull you to me and kiss you, my hands mussing up into your hair. My tongue penetrates into your mouth from below, as I thrust up inside to the hilt.
I am feeling so cockstrong tonight, convinced beyond doubt that my cock can withstand any challenge you can give it without faltering. I feel like an A student, a top athlete, who loves to be tested.
As you take me gently on top, like a surfer far out into the ocean awaiting the perfect wave, just bobbing up and down with the little swells, I feel my cock wagging in my brain, flaunting itself, taunting you back for the torture you gave it when my hands were tied.
My mind whispers to itself: Try, my lover, just try to pleasure me tonight beyond the pale. Make my night: Give me the look that you want to fuck my brains out.
I end our kiss by tugging your hair back. Our eyes fasten onto each other. You see revenge in my eyes. Your cunt quivers. Your body shakes.
Yes, you sense what game is being played now, and you don’t want to give up your advantage. You love taking your turns on top, long turns. I love it too.
You straighten up, arch your back, and steady yourself, hands on my chest. You start fucking me, swiveling your hips, thrusting into me, quickening the pace.
Your hips feel like they are all ball bearings. Your pussy is so moist, so wet, you slide easily up and down my cock. Too easily.
Too much give, not enough take. And you want to take me tonight, trumping my cock with cunt. So you know you need to tighten up your yoni.
Smiling at me, your eyes inches away from mine, your tongue almost touching my lips, you begin your Kegels, squeezing my lingam again and again, brushing the tip of your tongue along my lips at the end of each squeeze.
My desire to parry and thrust into you is almost overwhelming. I want to remind you that your Kegeling is no match for my penetration. But I let you persist.
You’ve squeezed exuberant, exquisite orgasms out of me before this way: Your pussy almost still, your voice silent, letting me focus all my attention on my cock’s pleasure, my own orgasm. When I come this way, I feel you and I are gods alone in the universe, creating the Milky Way.
Tonight, however, Venus is in the ascendant, and Mars is in her thrall (or so you desire...and believe)
You rise up on your haunches, looking intent. I feel the challenge. I smile. You curse. Under your breath, you mouth the words to me, “You fucker. I’m going to fuck you so hard.”
“Try me,” I whisper back, silently.
You take me the way you know I love to be taken when you are on top: slowly….deliberately….purposefully. You rise up high, my cock just dangling inside of you by a thread. And then you short stroke it, bouncing a bit up and down, letting your labial lips French kiss my bulb, you barely moving, each move a message, your pussy its sweet envelope.
I close my eyes and concentrate, focusing on the intensity of the pleasure, feeling your cunt milk exquisite joy from me, each move….each little squeeze…its own act of torture. You are merciless tonight, but I resist.
I open my eyes. My face betrays me, crying out, “Bloody hell,” “Jesus Christ,” “OMG.” But I remain silent, except for another smile, this time more of a grin. I stick my tongue out. You snake yours out, and vibrate its tip, shivering me up. I know so well how you tease, how you conquer. Many a time the tip of your tongue has taken me by darting against the underside of my cock, flaggelating its frenulum.
You sense me weakening, so vulnerable to your vulva in its wickedess, so you lengthen your strokes, rocking back and forth no faster than honey flowing. Time and again you give me your longest, silkiest stroke.
I hold out. Your face turns expectant, then quizzical. You are waiting for me to announce my surrender, the castle taken by your siege. But my cannon remains in my possession, though you have it surrounded.
I look into your eyes, and I see the winds of war shifting. You look ready to negotiate, to sue for peace....or to renounce this world. Your eyes close, and you slip into some unknown space to man, sliding up and down now to your own rhythm, everything forgotten about me, my cock now belonging to you. You are in 5th or 6th heaven, feeling the line that will take you to 7. Tethered to the world only by my cock, you need to administer for yourself the coup de grace.
You slide all the way down on me and steady yourself again, at the still point of the world. You lean your head back, and arch, needing to feel my cock as a ramrod of steel, straining to enter the womb of your heart.
I whisper, “Look at me.” You open your eyes. You are fully now in your beauty. I want you back connected to me, taking a step back to earth to bring me high up to scale the heavens with you.
I reach out to your bosom, cupping each, caressing them, then a finger circling your nipple. It tightens. I take each nipple between thumb and forefinger, and squeeze, then tweak.
You see the look in the eyes, my intent. It’s primal. Behind the eyes is the red glare of an animal. I begin twisting your nipples. A little whip of pain twinges through them. A charge of pleasure shoots down the hot wire that goes from nipple to clit, then another.
As you descend, you join me on my ground; you become like me: an animal in heat. The heat flames through your loins, almost a wildfire. You need to quench the heat. Back up on your haunches , your start fucking me as if you had the cock, pegging into me, impaling yourself.
As the crescendo builds, your whole self lifts into a higher octave, moaning, panting. I curl my body up to you and kiss you passionately, then pull your head back, sweeping your hair aside, and I take you at the base of the neck and enter your ear with whispers, hot words, “I love fucking you.”
I fall back on the bed, grabbing you down with me, pulling you against my chest. My hands fasten on your hips, buckling them to me, steadying your ass that just wants to writhe all over me. I thrust up and in, with all deliberate speed, again and again.
You begin whimpering. My nails scratch down your back. You whimper louder. I love it. I scratch down your back one more time with all my nails, then one more time with just the edge of one nail on my middle finger, all along the spine, this time letting my finger go lower, down the crease of your ass, threatening another penetration.
You squiggle around on me, beseeching me to thrust. I spank your ass once and tell you not to move. As you look down at me, I wet my middle finger in my mouth, then give it to you to suck on. I bring it back down your spine, down the crease of your ass, and I pull your cheeks apart. I threaten again to enter, but I don’t. Instead I play your back now with my fingers and nails like a harpist plucking strings and doing glissandos. Strung tight at first, as if stretched between poles, your body softens with each stroke, each glissando.
My cock is flush with excitement, humming and buzzing, but still a minute or two or three away from the top of its climb. I need to catch up to you.
I start stroking into you more firmly, and I whisper to you “I love you.” You echo back the same words. We continue our call-and-response, each stroke of “I love you” at the end of a thrust echoed back by you. Our movements are symphonic, but then we go flamenco guitar. You whirl yourself into me, spiraling around my cock, as you let yourself go wild. No words are spoken now. Just fucking.
My cock feels like a stallion in the backstretch of a race it knows it will win.
As we round into the homestretch, I spank you from behind, five six times, each one harder, needing that ass of yours to move faster, fuck me harder
Nearing the finish line, I mold you into my favorite position. Your body straddling mine, upraised some, my hands on the hollow of your hips, now holding you still. I start pumping into you from deep down below, tapping my cock into the molten fire in the center of the earth, holding your ass up into the air, braced by my hands, as I try to send you to the moon with each thrust.
But you break out of my grasp. You start rocketing back and forth over me, trying to give me a nipple to suck and bite as they graze over head. I catch a nipple in my mouth, the one over your heart, and torment it with my tongue, flicking hard, and you press your breast into me even more.
It’s all instinctual now, our atavistic dance. I feel your ecstasy coming on, your spirit leaving your body, taking off, soaring, your womanhood running with the wolves, your mind nowhere to be found.
No thoughts now, just sensation, overwhelming sensation, wave upon wave of synaethesia, blotting out everything but bliss, yourself taken by a pacific swell as you feel me cresting with you, riding in the curl of the same perfect wave, my hands no longer battening down your ass, but shaking you back and forth, using your pussy to explode me.
Then we just lock hands together, binding them up again, fingers interlocked, the two of us tighter together than scarves, or ropes, could bond us. But our cunt and my cock are free and wild, gyrating crazily together.
The quivering begins, rippling through your body, giving way to trembling, shaking, the crying out of bodies, as my spasms join yours, sending shards and spurts of liquid heat coursing through us.
Minutes later, breathing restored, minds back beginning to function a little, you find one of the silk scaves in the bed. You pick it up and wave it at me. A flag of surrender. I accept it.
Part I
You are resting on your back in our bed that has the faint musky scent of our love-making the night before. I am watching you as you doze. The sheet is covering your hips and ass. I smile, admiring your body and remembering.
I reach across your chest…my breasts lightly touching your bare chest. I slide over you reaching into the basket that is beside the bed. There are colorful scarves of silk in the basket and I take two. As I pull the scarves toward me, they trail on your chest and you softly moan at the touch of the silk against your skin.
You start to touch my breasts but I pull back and than whisper in your ear “Don’t move”. You close your eyes and wait for my touch. I take the scarves and start to caress your body. Drawing the silk over your face, lightly touching your chest with the delicate fabric. You take a deep breath, smiling as your body undulates under the touch of the silk. I pull the sheet off your hips and softly glide the silk over your cock and between your legs. Caressing you and than softly kissing your warm cock. Your response is immediate, your cock grows hard as you moan softly.
I take the two scarves, stretching your arms upward and tie your wrists to the headboard of our bed. Not to hurt you but to let you know that you are mine. I whisper “Don’t move”. You moan and close your eyes.
I straddle you…not touching your growing hardness. I take the fragrant oil from the table and after warming it in my hands, I begin to massage your chest. Moving my hands upward as I lean forward, I caress your chest, your arms and up to your hands. Stoking you. Sliding my hands on your body. I lean over more so I can slide in the oil…covering my breasts in the warmth of oil and the heat that is growing inside you.
You want to touch me…you beg me to untie your hands. I slide up your body and whisper once more: “Don’t move”. I lift my body up and I can feel the moisture that has gathered between my legs. The thought of being able to take you excites me. The thought of you being mine is so erotic. I hover over your cock. Still not touching it. Your hips move up…your cock hard and throbbing…searching for my warm, tight opening.
I take your cock in my warm, oily hand and caress it, stroke it…sliding my hand up and down the shaft. My clit feels like it is on fire…I take your cock and place the tip against my clit…rubbing them together, feeling the throbbing. We both gasp in pleasure at the contact…it is electric. I rub your cock between my legs. My juices cover your hardness as I rub you back and forth.
I slowly lower my body on yours. Feeling you as your cock enters my tightness and warmth. Sliding slowly…wanting those first feelings of total bliss to last forever. This is what I want…to have you, to take you. I continue to slide on you…deeper and deeper I take you into my body. And than I stop with you filling me with your hardness.. I want to feel your throbbing and I want you to feel mine. I slide upward…our bodies still slick with oils. Breasts to chest…skin to skin. I kiss you deeply. Our tongues tasting each other. Your cock inside me. My clit throbbing.
I untie your hands…..
Silk Scarves, Part II
My arms free, I grasp you to me with them, curving your spine down for us to kiss.
The silk scarves slip to the wayside
Freed from bondage, my hands feel like sailors released in a port: Liberty becomes license, license becomes licentiousness.
My hands must rove….betwixt, between, below. They must explore and experiment. Kept too long confined on board, they must sack the city, plunder its treasure.
They long to travel from inside the knee to inside your loins, preparing a spot, a little garden spot, to plant the seeds of my kisses.
My hands just delight in their freedom, gliding over and around your back, grasping your ass and pulling you down harder on my cock, grinding pussy to groin.
You gasp at this first sign of feeling my power, my freedom, my desire, and clench my cock tighter in your pussy.
My hands slide up back and forth up the sides of your body, caressing you. I give my fingers freedom to swirl about you, tracing lines all over you, each line a little invisible rope to tie you closer to me.
My hands have sculpted clay. They have kneaded bread. They have fingered the sax, making it wail and bleat.
I touch you softly, but with strength, with each hand. You feel to me as clay on the potter’s wheel, as dough before the baker, as the sax to Coltrane, and I let you know it.
I pull you to me and kiss you, my hands mussing up into your hair. My tongue penetrates into your mouth from below, as I thrust up inside to the hilt.
I am feeling so cockstrong tonight, convinced beyond doubt that my cock can withstand any challenge you can give it without faltering. I feel like an A student, a top athlete, who loves to be tested.
As you take me gently on top, like a surfer far out into the ocean awaiting the perfect wave, just bobbing up and down with the little swells, I feel my cock wagging in my brain, flaunting itself, taunting you back for the torture you gave it when my hands were tied.
My mind whispers to itself: Try, my lover, just try to pleasure me tonight beyond the pale. Make my night: Give me the look that you want to fuck my brains out.
I end our kiss by tugging your hair back. Our eyes fasten onto each other. You see revenge in my eyes. Your cunt quivers. Your body shakes.
Yes, you sense what game is being played now, and you don’t want to give up your advantage. You love taking your turns on top, long turns. I love it too.
You straighten up, arch your back, and steady yourself, hands on my chest. You start fucking me, swiveling your hips, thrusting into me, quickening the pace.
Your hips feel like they are all ball bearings. Your pussy is so moist, so wet, you slide easily up and down my cock. Too easily.
Too much give, not enough take. And you want to take me tonight, trumping my cock with cunt. So you know you need to tighten up your yoni.
Smiling at me, your eyes inches away from mine, your tongue almost touching my lips, you begin your Kegels, squeezing my lingam again and again, brushing the tip of your tongue along my lips at the end of each squeeze.
My desire to parry and thrust into you is almost overwhelming. I want to remind you that your Kegeling is no match for my penetration. But I let you persist.
You’ve squeezed exuberant, exquisite orgasms out of me before this way: Your pussy almost still, your voice silent, letting me focus all my attention on my cock’s pleasure, my own orgasm. When I come this way, I feel you and I are gods alone in the universe, creating the Milky Way.
Tonight, however, Venus is in the ascendant, and Mars is in her thrall (or so you desire...and believe)
You rise up on your haunches, looking intent. I feel the challenge. I smile. You curse. Under your breath, you mouth the words to me, “You fucker. I’m going to fuck you so hard.”
“Try me,” I whisper back, silently.
You take me the way you know I love to be taken when you are on top: slowly….deliberately….purposefully. You rise up high, my cock just dangling inside of you by a thread. And then you short stroke it, bouncing a bit up and down, letting your labial lips French kiss my bulb, you barely moving, each move a message, your pussy its sweet envelope.
I close my eyes and concentrate, focusing on the intensity of the pleasure, feeling your cunt milk exquisite joy from me, each move….each little squeeze…its own act of torture. You are merciless tonight, but I resist.
I open my eyes. My face betrays me, crying out, “Bloody hell,” “Jesus Christ,” “OMG.” But I remain silent, except for another smile, this time more of a grin. I stick my tongue out. You snake yours out, and vibrate its tip, shivering me up. I know so well how you tease, how you conquer. Many a time the tip of your tongue has taken me by darting against the underside of my cock, flaggelating its frenulum.
You sense me weakening, so vulnerable to your vulva in its wickedess, so you lengthen your strokes, rocking back and forth no faster than honey flowing. Time and again you give me your longest, silkiest stroke.
I hold out. Your face turns expectant, then quizzical. You are waiting for me to announce my surrender, the castle taken by your siege. But my cannon remains in my possession, though you have it surrounded.
I look into your eyes, and I see the winds of war shifting. You look ready to negotiate, to sue for peace....or to renounce this world. Your eyes close, and you slip into some unknown space to man, sliding up and down now to your own rhythm, everything forgotten about me, my cock now belonging to you. You are in 5th or 6th heaven, feeling the line that will take you to 7. Tethered to the world only by my cock, you need to administer for yourself the coup de grace.
You slide all the way down on me and steady yourself again, at the still point of the world. You lean your head back, and arch, needing to feel my cock as a ramrod of steel, straining to enter the womb of your heart.
I whisper, “Look at me.” You open your eyes. You are fully now in your beauty. I want you back connected to me, taking a step back to earth to bring me high up to scale the heavens with you.
I reach out to your bosom, cupping each, caressing them, then a finger circling your nipple. It tightens. I take each nipple between thumb and forefinger, and squeeze, then tweak.
You see the look in the eyes, my intent. It’s primal. Behind the eyes is the red glare of an animal. I begin twisting your nipples. A little whip of pain twinges through them. A charge of pleasure shoots down the hot wire that goes from nipple to clit, then another.
As you descend, you join me on my ground; you become like me: an animal in heat. The heat flames through your loins, almost a wildfire. You need to quench the heat. Back up on your haunches , your start fucking me as if you had the cock, pegging into me, impaling yourself.
As the crescendo builds, your whole self lifts into a higher octave, moaning, panting. I curl my body up to you and kiss you passionately, then pull your head back, sweeping your hair aside, and I take you at the base of the neck and enter your ear with whispers, hot words, “I love fucking you.”
I fall back on the bed, grabbing you down with me, pulling you against my chest. My hands fasten on your hips, buckling them to me, steadying your ass that just wants to writhe all over me. I thrust up and in, with all deliberate speed, again and again.
You begin whimpering. My nails scratch down your back. You whimper louder. I love it. I scratch down your back one more time with all my nails, then one more time with just the edge of one nail on my middle finger, all along the spine, this time letting my finger go lower, down the crease of your ass, threatening another penetration.
You squiggle around on me, beseeching me to thrust. I spank your ass once and tell you not to move. As you look down at me, I wet my middle finger in my mouth, then give it to you to suck on. I bring it back down your spine, down the crease of your ass, and I pull your cheeks apart. I threaten again to enter, but I don’t. Instead I play your back now with my fingers and nails like a harpist plucking strings and doing glissandos. Strung tight at first, as if stretched between poles, your body softens with each stroke, each glissando.
My cock is flush with excitement, humming and buzzing, but still a minute or two or three away from the top of its climb. I need to catch up to you.
I start stroking into you more firmly, and I whisper to you “I love you.” You echo back the same words. We continue our call-and-response, each stroke of “I love you” at the end of a thrust echoed back by you. Our movements are symphonic, but then we go flamenco guitar. You whirl yourself into me, spiraling around my cock, as you let yourself go wild. No words are spoken now. Just fucking.
My cock feels like a stallion in the backstretch of a race it knows it will win.
As we round into the homestretch, I spank you from behind, five six times, each one harder, needing that ass of yours to move faster, fuck me harder
Nearing the finish line, I mold you into my favorite position. Your body straddling mine, upraised some, my hands on the hollow of your hips, now holding you still. I start pumping into you from deep down below, tapping my cock into the molten fire in the center of the earth, holding your ass up into the air, braced by my hands, as I try to send you to the moon with each thrust.
But you break out of my grasp. You start rocketing back and forth over me, trying to give me a nipple to suck and bite as they graze over head. I catch a nipple in my mouth, the one over your heart, and torment it with my tongue, flicking hard, and you press your breast into me even more.
It’s all instinctual now, our atavistic dance. I feel your ecstasy coming on, your spirit leaving your body, taking off, soaring, your womanhood running with the wolves, your mind nowhere to be found.
No thoughts now, just sensation, overwhelming sensation, wave upon wave of synaethesia, blotting out everything but bliss, yourself taken by a pacific swell as you feel me cresting with you, riding in the curl of the same perfect wave, my hands no longer battening down your ass, but shaking you back and forth, using your pussy to explode me.
Then we just lock hands together, binding them up again, fingers interlocked, the two of us tighter together than scarves, or ropes, could bond us. But our cunt and my cock are free and wild, gyrating crazily together.
The quivering begins, rippling through your body, giving way to trembling, shaking, the crying out of bodies, as my spasms join yours, sending shards and spurts of liquid heat coursing through us.
Minutes later, breathing restored, minds back beginning to function a little, you find one of the silk scaves in the bed. You pick it up and wave it at me. A flag of surrender. I accept it.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Talk Dirty to Me? No. Talk Cleansing, Refreshing Bliss to Me!
I'm sure Freud and his colleagues can give us all sorts of reasons for the association of sex with dirt. When someone says, "Talk dirty to me," we know what is meant, and too often we don't think twice about it. I like thinking twice about words, or three or four or five times about words and our choice of words and metaphors.
For me, sex is anything but dirty. It’s beautiful and sublime, refreshing and regenerating, magical and mystical--a source of joy and bliss. So instead of talking dirty, I say: Let us wash and bathe and shower ourselves with freshets of erotic words....with crystal streams of heightened erotic consciousness....with white water flows and rushes of sensual writing.....with swelling tides and cresting waves of poems that toss us about and turn us upside down…or stories that take us to the verge….and over...in a plunging waterfalls of ecstatic, erotic expression. (There's a good reason why Niagara Falls became a honeymoon spot.)
For me, sex is anything but dirty. It’s beautiful and sublime, refreshing and regenerating, magical and mystical--a source of joy and bliss. So instead of talking dirty, I say: Let us wash and bathe and shower ourselves with freshets of erotic words....with crystal streams of heightened erotic consciousness....with white water flows and rushes of sensual writing.....with swelling tides and cresting waves of poems that toss us about and turn us upside down…or stories that take us to the verge….and over...in a plunging waterfalls of ecstatic, erotic expression. (There's a good reason why Niagara Falls became a honeymoon spot.)
Sunday, May 31, 2009
What is Sensuality?
.....an aliveness, an openness, a curiosity to life and love and eros...a generosity of spirit, a caring touch, the arousal of all the senses, an embrace of art and beauty...an attunement to the rhythms of life, its music, its poetry...a capacity to sense the soul through the body, the spirit through the flesh, and desire in a look, a caress, a kiss....it's listening with sensitivity to words, the body, our moods....it's reading each other's mind and needs and desires through the simplest, slightest expressions....it's being in a flow....attuned to nature...and responsive to each other mentally, emotionally, physically....it's being graceful and gracious...it's a heightened receptivity of the senses....it's a parting of lips to the kisses of the world
The Labial Kiss of the Upper Lips
From Diane Ackerman's essay on "Kissing" in A Natural History of Love:
"According to the anthropologists, the lips remind us of the labia, because they flush red and swell when aroused, which is the conscious or subconscious reason women have always made them look even redder with lipstick."
"Kissing, we share on breath, open the sealed fortress of our body to our lover. We shelter under a warm net of kisses....Setting out on a caravan of the other's body, we map the new terrain with our fingertips and lips, pausing at the oasis of a nipple, the hillock of a thigh, the backbone meandering riverbed. It is a kind of pilgrimage of touch, which leads to the temple of our desire...."
"So, anthropologically at least, a kiss on the mouth, especially with all the plunging of tongues and the exchanging of saliva, is another form of intercourse. No surprise that it makes the mind and body surge with gorgeous sensations."
Given the similitude between a woman's upper and lower lips, it's fun to play with this likeness in a kiss (or a sequence of kisses).
Here's my suggestion for a type of sensual kissing: a labial kiss of the upper lips.
Let the man pretend that the upper lips are the labial lips, and let him kiss these lips slowly, very slowly, as if his tongue and kisses are making the lower lips of a woman petal-open and honeyed-up.
The tongue, in this labial kiss, can be very teasing, just touching and tantalizing one lip at a time, sliding with grace and a bit of poignant pressure, back and forth along the upper lips, before descending to do the same for the lower lip....and before sliding the tongue deeper into the mouth.
It can be most fun if the woman pretends to be a bit coy, as if defending the castle or inner sanctum of her most womanly self, with something of a moat: the lips can be very wet and moist, but the drawbridge remains up, resisting entry...for a time.
The labial kissing can be very mind-blowing or mind altering: The upper lips are horizontal, not vertical, but if the analogy is felt by both partners, heads can be adjusted by 90 degrees, so the upper lips can be approached vertically as well, in closer simulacrum to cunnilingus.
The erotic imagination can be so powerful: The labial lip kiss can become even more exciting and playful if the man imagines that in the corner of the lips, right where top and bottom lips merge together, there is located an imaginary clitoris that can be taken and teased by the tip of the tongue.
I daresay that 15-20 minutes of beautiful kissing in this labial style...with a man taking time to part open the upper lips and then to tango slowly and beautifully inside with the woman's tongue once entrance has been secured will shorten the time necessary to part open the lower lips of a woman.
Indeed, when the upper lips have been taken beautifully, the lower ones will be begging as much for the touch that opens them up as a garden flower desires the morning rays of sun.
The above description is for the man on top position and the woman the bottom, but it can be very hot--and instructive--for a switch to occur: Let the woman take the man's lips and kiss his lips in a way that reveals how she loves to be taken by the tongue down below.
Yes, women, if you've ever wanted to gently instruct a man how to pleasure you down below, just take his upper lips by finger and tongue the same way you love to be taken down below, doing unto his upper lips what you love done unto your lower lips.
And don't be shy about using a finger as an instructional pointer, parting open and entering and then trusting into his mouth as you love to be taken by finger and cock down below
"According to the anthropologists, the lips remind us of the labia, because they flush red and swell when aroused, which is the conscious or subconscious reason women have always made them look even redder with lipstick."
"Kissing, we share on breath, open the sealed fortress of our body to our lover. We shelter under a warm net of kisses....Setting out on a caravan of the other's body, we map the new terrain with our fingertips and lips, pausing at the oasis of a nipple, the hillock of a thigh, the backbone meandering riverbed. It is a kind of pilgrimage of touch, which leads to the temple of our desire...."
"So, anthropologically at least, a kiss on the mouth, especially with all the plunging of tongues and the exchanging of saliva, is another form of intercourse. No surprise that it makes the mind and body surge with gorgeous sensations."
Given the similitude between a woman's upper and lower lips, it's fun to play with this likeness in a kiss (or a sequence of kisses).
Here's my suggestion for a type of sensual kissing: a labial kiss of the upper lips.
Let the man pretend that the upper lips are the labial lips, and let him kiss these lips slowly, very slowly, as if his tongue and kisses are making the lower lips of a woman petal-open and honeyed-up.
The tongue, in this labial kiss, can be very teasing, just touching and tantalizing one lip at a time, sliding with grace and a bit of poignant pressure, back and forth along the upper lips, before descending to do the same for the lower lip....and before sliding the tongue deeper into the mouth.
It can be most fun if the woman pretends to be a bit coy, as if defending the castle or inner sanctum of her most womanly self, with something of a moat: the lips can be very wet and moist, but the drawbridge remains up, resisting entry...for a time.
The labial kissing can be very mind-blowing or mind altering: The upper lips are horizontal, not vertical, but if the analogy is felt by both partners, heads can be adjusted by 90 degrees, so the upper lips can be approached vertically as well, in closer simulacrum to cunnilingus.
The erotic imagination can be so powerful: The labial lip kiss can become even more exciting and playful if the man imagines that in the corner of the lips, right where top and bottom lips merge together, there is located an imaginary clitoris that can be taken and teased by the tip of the tongue.
I daresay that 15-20 minutes of beautiful kissing in this labial style...with a man taking time to part open the upper lips and then to tango slowly and beautifully inside with the woman's tongue once entrance has been secured will shorten the time necessary to part open the lower lips of a woman.
Indeed, when the upper lips have been taken beautifully, the lower ones will be begging as much for the touch that opens them up as a garden flower desires the morning rays of sun.
The above description is for the man on top position and the woman the bottom, but it can be very hot--and instructive--for a switch to occur: Let the woman take the man's lips and kiss his lips in a way that reveals how she loves to be taken by the tongue down below.
Yes, women, if you've ever wanted to gently instruct a man how to pleasure you down below, just take his upper lips by finger and tongue the same way you love to be taken down below, doing unto his upper lips what you love done unto your lower lips.
And don't be shy about using a finger as an instructional pointer, parting open and entering and then trusting into his mouth as you love to be taken by finger and cock down below
Paean to Logos & Eros
(An update on Langston Hughes' "Advice" in ten words or less for each stanza)
Behold
The reciprocity
between
verbal and
sexual
intercourse...
and partake
Be crushed by
logos
and
eros
and kiss back
Be wanton
with words
cocks
cunts
Write/Fuck/Love
w/inspiration
Get mused with
Sappho
bosoms
Petrarch
pussy
Donne
dicks
Neruda
Fuck with
lubricant
imagination
vibrators
music
champagne
fantasies
fingers
abandon
Love with
openness
listening
confessions
acceptance
forgiveness
caritas
cooking
abandon
Enjoy
metaphor
cities
libraries
love
sex
poetry
gardens
peace
oceans
blogspot
Behold
The reciprocity
between
verbal and
sexual
intercourse...
and partake
Be crushed by
logos
and
eros
and kiss back
Be wanton
with words
cocks
cunts
Write/Fuck/Love
w/inspiration
Get mused with
Sappho
bosoms
Petrarch
pussy
Donne
dicks
Neruda
Fuck with
lubricant
imagination
vibrators
music
champagne
fantasies
fingers
abandon
Love with
openness
listening
confessions
acceptance
forgiveness
caritas
cooking
abandon
Enjoy
metaphor
cities
libraries
love
sex
poetry
gardens
peace
oceans
blogspot
Gallehault?
On a bookstore prowl, I come across, leather bound, a rare book, the object of many early quests, and a very rare woman, the object (she must be) of many men's quest.
The initial object of my desire: an 18th century edition of the Old French Romance, Lancelot du Lac. The new provocation: A beautiful woman bound in black leather pants with a purple silk blouse, as alluring to me as the jacarandas in Los Angeles when they bloom in late April.
Can you judge a book by its cover? Sometimes. I am thus amused and not startled when I overhear her ask a clerk for Tobsha Learner's Quivers and a collection of contemporary erotica and love poetry.
Can you judge a book by its binding? A better bet than the cover. Just look down the spine. Contemporary publishers often deceive us: they give us a hard back cover but paste the pages to the spine, the same as a paperback book. The leather bound and hand sewn quality of this woman seems to be no delusion.
I run into the Black Leather Woman a second time, waiting at the elevator. We enter and punch up different floors. While ascending, I make her an offhand suggestion. "If you are looking for interesting erotica, especially poetry, don't forget the classics."
She looks at me a bit quizzically, then asks, "What do you have in mind specifically?"
I mention a few authors and titles. She thanks me for the suggestions, and gets off, the doors opening for her floor.
We meet again later in the classics section, a small room off on the fourth floor. We smile in recognition, and she asks me again for my recommendations.
I suggest Aristophanes' Lysistrata, Catullus, Ovid, Theocritus, the King James version of "The Song of Solomon," and, first and foremost, Sappho.
I find her a copy, and she reads: "I confess....I love that which caresses me....My tongue is broken...a thin flame runs under my skin...I drip with sweat...trembling shakes my body...I turn paler than dry grass....If you will come...I shall put out new pillows for you to rest on..."
Her eyes glint, her lips purse, her limbs loosen, she exhales, then remarks, "This is beautiful...it's remarkable... The words pierce me and curl inside. When I was 14, 18 this stuff always seemed so dry. What else is good? Do you have time to talk?"
Yes, I did have time, but Sappho proved no Gallehault. We just read and talked more and more that day.
We left the bookstore, several new books in her hands, and went for an espresso at a French bistro next door, and we kept talking, through the evening (as the espressos gave way to dinner) about literature, language, words, my career as as a professor of literature, her interests in writing, fiction, film, life.
And for months, we kept talking, just talking and conversing: through letters, emails, meetings for lunch, about logos and eros, language and the sensual. She had her lovers, female as well as male. I had my wife and three children. The conversations about all of them except my kids were relatively flat, straight, and short--mostly Hemingway prose, simple nouns and adjectives: fine, the same, ok, some pleasure, frustration, hope, some interest, a possibility, a lie.
The conversations about the literature, however, were bliss, the pleasures of the text: something of a menage a trois of Virginia Woolf, Tom Stoppard, and Octavio Paz talking, debating, pronouncing, condemning, celebrating, taking joy, giving pleasure.
Almost a year after our first meeting, she calls, thrilled, and asks me to meet her at the restauarant again next to our bookstore. She's dressed more formally than usual--a black silk dress with sheer black lace stockings. She orders my favorite dishes for us to share: an avocado and melon salad with a lime and cayenne pepper dressing and Coquilles St. Jacques.
After dinner, she asks for the best champagne and presents me with a gift: a copy of a literary journal containing her first story in print. The title: "The New Paradiso, Canto V." The epigraph is from Sappho: "I confess...I love that which caresses me." We exult, we toast, we kiss, and we toast again and again.
"What's it about?," I ask.
"Oh, it's rather unbelievable. A literature professor in California and an English woman seduce each other through the internet; he introduces her to Sappho, she has a muse of fire, and they light up the screen."
"How does it end," I ask.
"It's more a Hollywood than an Alina Reyes ending. No mystification. When they finally meet, they make words flesh in the classics section of a London bookstore."
Silly story, I think to myself. We almost finish the bottle of champagne, and she leaves me to read the story as she must go off for a date.
I read the story with pleasure, noting my favorite lines, the ones that hit first the spine and rush up it, as if we have a wick inside us that can be lit up at the top into a flame by words: "My cover opened, my pages turned, my spine inspected, leather bound....The erotic must unfold slowly, like petals opening before the morning sun....Men are wonderful at listening to themselves talk; woman at listening to others....I am just so coquettish with you--a nymph dancing in your mind....Having bitten the apple you will remain in paradise."
At the end of the story, she has inscribed a note. "If you want me to thank you the proper way, I'm yours in the classic section. Take me. (I never wear anything underneath a black silk dress)."
The Paradiso is the story of incarnation: The word made flesh. Life must imitate art. Let the word be made flesh. He entered the bookstore. They read no more that night.
Footnote 1. Here is the ending of Dante, The Inferno, Canto V, the story of Paolo and Francesca:
"One day for pastime, we read of Lancelot, how love constrained him; we were alone, suspecting nothing. Several times that reading urged our eyes to meet and took the color from our faces, but one moment alone it was that overcame us. When we read how the longed-for smile was kissed by so great a lover, this one, who never shall be parted from me, kissed my mouth all trembling. A Gallehault was the book and he who wrote; that day we read no farther in it."
Footnote 2. Gallehault was one of the characters in the Old French roman, Lancelot du Lac. During Gallehault's residence at King Arthur's court a warm friendship developed between him and Lancelot, who confided his love for Queen Guinevere. Gallehault arranged for the two to meet. In the course of this interview, Gallehault urged the queen to kiss Lancelot--and so began the adulterous passion between those two. From the part he played on this occasion, the name of Gallehault, like that of Pandarus, became a synonym for 'go-between.'
The initial object of my desire: an 18th century edition of the Old French Romance, Lancelot du Lac. The new provocation: A beautiful woman bound in black leather pants with a purple silk blouse, as alluring to me as the jacarandas in Los Angeles when they bloom in late April.
Can you judge a book by its cover? Sometimes. I am thus amused and not startled when I overhear her ask a clerk for Tobsha Learner's Quivers and a collection of contemporary erotica and love poetry.
Can you judge a book by its binding? A better bet than the cover. Just look down the spine. Contemporary publishers often deceive us: they give us a hard back cover but paste the pages to the spine, the same as a paperback book. The leather bound and hand sewn quality of this woman seems to be no delusion.
I run into the Black Leather Woman a second time, waiting at the elevator. We enter and punch up different floors. While ascending, I make her an offhand suggestion. "If you are looking for interesting erotica, especially poetry, don't forget the classics."
She looks at me a bit quizzically, then asks, "What do you have in mind specifically?"
I mention a few authors and titles. She thanks me for the suggestions, and gets off, the doors opening for her floor.
We meet again later in the classics section, a small room off on the fourth floor. We smile in recognition, and she asks me again for my recommendations.
I suggest Aristophanes' Lysistrata, Catullus, Ovid, Theocritus, the King James version of "The Song of Solomon," and, first and foremost, Sappho.
I find her a copy, and she reads: "I confess....I love that which caresses me....My tongue is broken...a thin flame runs under my skin...I drip with sweat...trembling shakes my body...I turn paler than dry grass....If you will come...I shall put out new pillows for you to rest on..."
Her eyes glint, her lips purse, her limbs loosen, she exhales, then remarks, "This is beautiful...it's remarkable... The words pierce me and curl inside. When I was 14, 18 this stuff always seemed so dry. What else is good? Do you have time to talk?"
Yes, I did have time, but Sappho proved no Gallehault. We just read and talked more and more that day.
We left the bookstore, several new books in her hands, and went for an espresso at a French bistro next door, and we kept talking, through the evening (as the espressos gave way to dinner) about literature, language, words, my career as as a professor of literature, her interests in writing, fiction, film, life.
And for months, we kept talking, just talking and conversing: through letters, emails, meetings for lunch, about logos and eros, language and the sensual. She had her lovers, female as well as male. I had my wife and three children. The conversations about all of them except my kids were relatively flat, straight, and short--mostly Hemingway prose, simple nouns and adjectives: fine, the same, ok, some pleasure, frustration, hope, some interest, a possibility, a lie.
The conversations about the literature, however, were bliss, the pleasures of the text: something of a menage a trois of Virginia Woolf, Tom Stoppard, and Octavio Paz talking, debating, pronouncing, condemning, celebrating, taking joy, giving pleasure.
Almost a year after our first meeting, she calls, thrilled, and asks me to meet her at the restauarant again next to our bookstore. She's dressed more formally than usual--a black silk dress with sheer black lace stockings. She orders my favorite dishes for us to share: an avocado and melon salad with a lime and cayenne pepper dressing and Coquilles St. Jacques.
After dinner, she asks for the best champagne and presents me with a gift: a copy of a literary journal containing her first story in print. The title: "The New Paradiso, Canto V." The epigraph is from Sappho: "I confess...I love that which caresses me." We exult, we toast, we kiss, and we toast again and again.
"What's it about?," I ask.
"Oh, it's rather unbelievable. A literature professor in California and an English woman seduce each other through the internet; he introduces her to Sappho, she has a muse of fire, and they light up the screen."
"How does it end," I ask.
"It's more a Hollywood than an Alina Reyes ending. No mystification. When they finally meet, they make words flesh in the classics section of a London bookstore."
Silly story, I think to myself. We almost finish the bottle of champagne, and she leaves me to read the story as she must go off for a date.
I read the story with pleasure, noting my favorite lines, the ones that hit first the spine and rush up it, as if we have a wick inside us that can be lit up at the top into a flame by words: "My cover opened, my pages turned, my spine inspected, leather bound....The erotic must unfold slowly, like petals opening before the morning sun....Men are wonderful at listening to themselves talk; woman at listening to others....I am just so coquettish with you--a nymph dancing in your mind....Having bitten the apple you will remain in paradise."
At the end of the story, she has inscribed a note. "If you want me to thank you the proper way, I'm yours in the classic section. Take me. (I never wear anything underneath a black silk dress)."
The Paradiso is the story of incarnation: The word made flesh. Life must imitate art. Let the word be made flesh. He entered the bookstore. They read no more that night.
Footnote 1. Here is the ending of Dante, The Inferno, Canto V, the story of Paolo and Francesca:
"One day for pastime, we read of Lancelot, how love constrained him; we were alone, suspecting nothing. Several times that reading urged our eyes to meet and took the color from our faces, but one moment alone it was that overcame us. When we read how the longed-for smile was kissed by so great a lover, this one, who never shall be parted from me, kissed my mouth all trembling. A Gallehault was the book and he who wrote; that day we read no farther in it."
Footnote 2. Gallehault was one of the characters in the Old French roman, Lancelot du Lac. During Gallehault's residence at King Arthur's court a warm friendship developed between him and Lancelot, who confided his love for Queen Guinevere. Gallehault arranged for the two to meet. In the course of this interview, Gallehault urged the queen to kiss Lancelot--and so began the adulterous passion between those two. From the part he played on this occasion, the name of Gallehault, like that of Pandarus, became a synonym for 'go-between.'
Grammatical Erotica: Tips for Sexing Up Prose
I come not to correct grammar, but to offer four basic points of advice for invigorating prose--a quadruple dose of verbal Viagra.
Here, now, for those who slept through Composition 101, let me offer some advice on writing that will never show up in a high school classroom.
Note: Each of the following four points will be developed in a subsequent post.
I. To write sexy, potent, thong-dropping prose, deploy strong verbs.
II. Become master of all the forms of punctuation.
III. To allure in prose, create original metaphors, as metaphor is to literal language what eroticism is to sex.
IV. Our writing style should vary according to mood, context, and subject just as our style of lovemaking should vary.
Here, now, for those who slept through Composition 101, let me offer some advice on writing that will never show up in a high school classroom.
Note: Each of the following four points will be developed in a subsequent post.
I. To write sexy, potent, thong-dropping prose, deploy strong verbs.
II. Become master of all the forms of punctuation.
III. To allure in prose, create original metaphors, as metaphor is to literal language what eroticism is to sex.
IV. Our writing style should vary according to mood, context, and subject just as our style of lovemaking should vary.
Grammatical Erotica, Part 1
To write sexy, potent, thong-dropping prose, deploy strong verbs.
At a moment of passion, the writer of limp prose declares, "Sexual pleasure is the most wonderful thing in life." It's true, but the phrasing is pathetic: The writer turns to the weakest of verbs, "is," to make this declaration. The writer has to pump up his prose at this point.
"To be" verbs just deflate a sentence. It would be ok to use "is" in a sentence to make a more tepid point. For instance, "Like masturbation, reading The New York Review of Books is a wonderful pleasure." But to use "is" in a sentence where you are describing the wonderful pleasures of sex conveys all the enthusiasm for sex that as a couple married for twenty years in an amiable relationship might summon up as they are about to make love on Saturday night from 11:20--11:35 pm.
The only way I would allow a writer to get by using "is" in such a sentence about sex is if the writer declared, "Sex is fucking great. Nothing beats it. Not even reading The New York Review of Books naked in a bath by candlelight."
A writer needs to insert some added emphasis--some vibration, if you will--into a sentence if he is going to use "is": For example, "I feel that sexual pleasure, heightened by eroticism or love, is the most wonderful thing in life."
Or the writer could be at once more romantic and more eloquent and more humorous if he or she wrote, "I feel that sexual pleasure surpasses all other wonders of life; yet too often we let opportunity for this joy pass us by, constrained as we are by a host of social conventions."
Here's another phrase that needs some verbal Viagra: "My desire is to have sex with you tonight." Instead, try "I want to make you sweat," or, more concise, "I want to fuck you," or, be more suggestive, "I want to make love to you all night long."
The best choice of words depends, very much, on the audience and the occasion, so that there are certainly times when "My desire is to make love to you" is the appropriate phrase, but other times, when the straight, bold, emphatic "Take me" (or "Fuck me") works best, and, yes, at times, you can and should be wordy, so that to get the point across repetition or verbosity is not a bad idea, as in, "Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me....yes, Yes. YES."
At a moment of passion, the writer of limp prose declares, "Sexual pleasure is the most wonderful thing in life." It's true, but the phrasing is pathetic: The writer turns to the weakest of verbs, "is," to make this declaration. The writer has to pump up his prose at this point.
"To be" verbs just deflate a sentence. It would be ok to use "is" in a sentence to make a more tepid point. For instance, "Like masturbation, reading The New York Review of Books is a wonderful pleasure." But to use "is" in a sentence where you are describing the wonderful pleasures of sex conveys all the enthusiasm for sex that as a couple married for twenty years in an amiable relationship might summon up as they are about to make love on Saturday night from 11:20--11:35 pm.
The only way I would allow a writer to get by using "is" in such a sentence about sex is if the writer declared, "Sex is fucking great. Nothing beats it. Not even reading The New York Review of Books naked in a bath by candlelight."
A writer needs to insert some added emphasis--some vibration, if you will--into a sentence if he is going to use "is": For example, "I feel that sexual pleasure, heightened by eroticism or love, is the most wonderful thing in life."
Or the writer could be at once more romantic and more eloquent and more humorous if he or she wrote, "I feel that sexual pleasure surpasses all other wonders of life; yet too often we let opportunity for this joy pass us by, constrained as we are by a host of social conventions."
Here's another phrase that needs some verbal Viagra: "My desire is to have sex with you tonight." Instead, try "I want to make you sweat," or, more concise, "I want to fuck you," or, be more suggestive, "I want to make love to you all night long."
The best choice of words depends, very much, on the audience and the occasion, so that there are certainly times when "My desire is to make love to you" is the appropriate phrase, but other times, when the straight, bold, emphatic "Take me" (or "Fuck me") works best, and, yes, at times, you can and should be wordy, so that to get the point across repetition or verbosity is not a bad idea, as in, "Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me....yes, Yes. YES."
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Grammatical Erotica, Part II
Become master of all the forms of punctuation.
1. Comma
The comma is to punctuation what the missionary position is to sex: It's basic, common, necessary, and overused. To write sexy, potent, thong-dropping prose, we should draw upon the full range of punctuation, not limiting ourselves to the comma. Alas, the English language offers far fewer possibilities for punctuation than the Kama Sutra does for sex, but a mastery of at least four more "positions"--the dash, the colon, the semicolon, and the parentheses--can do wonders for variety and rhythm in prose.
2. Semicolon
The semicolon is like changing positions during sex; it offers alteration of direction without loss of continuity—something like a woman switching from cowgirl to reverse cowgirl without getting off the cock. Or since semicolons make a merger of two independent yet compatible sentences, we can think of the semicolon as a polyamorous couple hook-up; two sentences, which could stay apart, get linked together to form a more intriguing, complex sentence thanks to the semicolon.
3. Colon
The colon offers possibility for a more dramatic change than the semicolon. It stops—but just for a moment—the flow of sentence, as it grabs attention for what follows. When we use the colon, the shift is not from one position to another: Instead it’s like moving from vaginal to anal intercourse. You need to be careful, however, not to insert more than one colon in the same sentence: Otherwise it gets too confusing for the reader. But consider this analogy: The masterful insertion of a colon and a semicolon in the same sentence can be a blissful overload; it is the DP—the double punctuation--of grammar-fucking.
4. The Dash
The dash rocks; it may be my favorite mark of punctuation. The employ the dash at an intriguing point in a sentence—damn, it's like inserting fingers inside a pussy during cunnilingus. The dash adds some verve--indeed intensity--to a sentence. You can, like Faulkner, circle around and around with long sentences, sentences that just go on and on, as if you are writing them on a hot, lazy summer day in Mississippi, and you are writing as if to capture the rhythms of oral speech or tale telling in your prose, but the reader feels you don't know how to unfold the point and proceed more sharply, so then you need something quicker and faster--the dash--to speed things up. For enhanced vigor, or to give your prose some verbal Viagra, you can insert at least two dashes or maybe even three or four in a sentence. Right now, my dear, I want to unfold you--tongue you--and wiggle-waggle two...three...four fingers inside of you, honeying you up and making you as petal-open as a flower receiving the first morning ray of sunshine.
5. The Exclamation
Confession: I was tempted to use an exclamation mark at the end of the last sentence. But the exclamation mark--despite its wonderfully phallic shape (!)--is my least favorite form of punctuation. The exclamation mark annoys me as much as underlining. It's like the way Oliver Stone uses music in his movies: he pounds the point into you, bludgeoning your ear, when something less loud, less insistent would be more effective. (Meanwhile, the parentheses intrigues and allures.)
6. The Parentheses
Just as it can be so much fun to insert two or three or maybe even four fingers inside a woman while going down on her, it can similarly intrigue and excite to insert two or three--maybe even four or five--forms of punctuation in the same sentence: the colon, the semicolon, the parentheses, and the dash. (The ellipsis also should never be neglected.)
7. Ellipsis
Now the ellipsis, like beautiful lingerie, can intrigue and allure. It’s at once breathtaking and suggestive. You see it, and it gives you pause, but you know it’s linked to something that will follow, so you must go forward. Or maybe the ellipsis is like when you are fooling around in bed in a hotel and the housekeeper knocks and then she enters...everything just stops, for a bit...or it should stop...but with passionate, uninhibited lovers, it's just a comma of a pause, a suspended moment, as they are cool, natural, unashamed, and, if interrupted, they just wrap each other up in their arms, smile...and then continue. Or, to try another metaphor, an ellipsis is like when you move from kissing and tonguing nipples in foreplay to move ower down...in a series of short, quick kisses..... from bosom to belly button....and then when you are all the way down there.... just lingering kisses and licks…..between and below…and bit inside…then more inside….then…..xoxoxoxo.
8. The Period.
The period is inevitable. It brings a stop to the sentence. But just because a period happens does not mean the end of the paragraph. After a period, we can start a new sentence, resuming, if you will, verbal intercourse.
9. The Question Mark
The question mark—particularly when used in a rhetorical question—can’t it be so damn sexy? Isn’t the question mark something akin to the look? You know what look I’m talking about, don’t you? What can be more exciting to a man then when a woman gives him that look? Are you man enough to take me? Are you up for the luckiest night of your life? Are you ready to rise to the challenge? Can you fuck me in a way I’ll never forget?
10. Of course, when it comes to the language of lovemaking, forget style, grammar, etc...and just moan.
1. Comma
The comma is to punctuation what the missionary position is to sex: It's basic, common, necessary, and overused. To write sexy, potent, thong-dropping prose, we should draw upon the full range of punctuation, not limiting ourselves to the comma. Alas, the English language offers far fewer possibilities for punctuation than the Kama Sutra does for sex, but a mastery of at least four more "positions"--the dash, the colon, the semicolon, and the parentheses--can do wonders for variety and rhythm in prose.
2. Semicolon
The semicolon is like changing positions during sex; it offers alteration of direction without loss of continuity—something like a woman switching from cowgirl to reverse cowgirl without getting off the cock. Or since semicolons make a merger of two independent yet compatible sentences, we can think of the semicolon as a polyamorous couple hook-up; two sentences, which could stay apart, get linked together to form a more intriguing, complex sentence thanks to the semicolon.
3. Colon
The colon offers possibility for a more dramatic change than the semicolon. It stops—but just for a moment—the flow of sentence, as it grabs attention for what follows. When we use the colon, the shift is not from one position to another: Instead it’s like moving from vaginal to anal intercourse. You need to be careful, however, not to insert more than one colon in the same sentence: Otherwise it gets too confusing for the reader. But consider this analogy: The masterful insertion of a colon and a semicolon in the same sentence can be a blissful overload; it is the DP—the double punctuation--of grammar-fucking.
4. The Dash
The dash rocks; it may be my favorite mark of punctuation. The employ the dash at an intriguing point in a sentence—damn, it's like inserting fingers inside a pussy during cunnilingus. The dash adds some verve--indeed intensity--to a sentence. You can, like Faulkner, circle around and around with long sentences, sentences that just go on and on, as if you are writing them on a hot, lazy summer day in Mississippi, and you are writing as if to capture the rhythms of oral speech or tale telling in your prose, but the reader feels you don't know how to unfold the point and proceed more sharply, so then you need something quicker and faster--the dash--to speed things up. For enhanced vigor, or to give your prose some verbal Viagra, you can insert at least two dashes or maybe even three or four in a sentence. Right now, my dear, I want to unfold you--tongue you--and wiggle-waggle two...three...four fingers inside of you, honeying you up and making you as petal-open as a flower receiving the first morning ray of sunshine.
5. The Exclamation
Confession: I was tempted to use an exclamation mark at the end of the last sentence. But the exclamation mark--despite its wonderfully phallic shape (!)--is my least favorite form of punctuation. The exclamation mark annoys me as much as underlining. It's like the way Oliver Stone uses music in his movies: he pounds the point into you, bludgeoning your ear, when something less loud, less insistent would be more effective. (Meanwhile, the parentheses intrigues and allures.)
6. The Parentheses
Just as it can be so much fun to insert two or three or maybe even four fingers inside a woman while going down on her, it can similarly intrigue and excite to insert two or three--maybe even four or five--forms of punctuation in the same sentence: the colon, the semicolon, the parentheses, and the dash. (The ellipsis also should never be neglected.)
7. Ellipsis
Now the ellipsis, like beautiful lingerie, can intrigue and allure. It’s at once breathtaking and suggestive. You see it, and it gives you pause, but you know it’s linked to something that will follow, so you must go forward. Or maybe the ellipsis is like when you are fooling around in bed in a hotel and the housekeeper knocks and then she enters...everything just stops, for a bit...or it should stop...but with passionate, uninhibited lovers, it's just a comma of a pause, a suspended moment, as they are cool, natural, unashamed, and, if interrupted, they just wrap each other up in their arms, smile...and then continue. Or, to try another metaphor, an ellipsis is like when you move from kissing and tonguing nipples in foreplay to move ower down...in a series of short, quick kisses..... from bosom to belly button....and then when you are all the way down there.... just lingering kisses and licks…..between and below…and bit inside…then more inside….then…..xoxoxoxo.
8. The Period.
The period is inevitable. It brings a stop to the sentence. But just because a period happens does not mean the end of the paragraph. After a period, we can start a new sentence, resuming, if you will, verbal intercourse.
9. The Question Mark
The question mark—particularly when used in a rhetorical question—can’t it be so damn sexy? Isn’t the question mark something akin to the look? You know what look I’m talking about, don’t you? What can be more exciting to a man then when a woman gives him that look? Are you man enough to take me? Are you up for the luckiest night of your life? Are you ready to rise to the challenge? Can you fuck me in a way I’ll never forget?
10. Of course, when it comes to the language of lovemaking, forget style, grammar, etc...and just moan.
Grammatical Erotica, Part III
To allure in prose, create original metaphors, as metaphor is to literal language what eroticism is to sex.
Literal language is naked, plain, stripped down, functional. Metaphorical language is nude: it's alluring, sensual, charged, electric--it's lovemaking as ecstatic union.
Metaphorical language is bliss: it's bringing together differences; it's uniting opposites; it's the tongues of lovers twisting and twirling together; it's arranging the shape and sound of words in unusual but smooth and alluring ways, a linguistic 69.
Plain language is routine, missionary. Metaphorical language is language at play.
Metaphor renders words unchaste, promiscuous. They lose their bond to an old relationship. They assume new meanings, new relationships, new associations.
Language has its rules of grammar and syntax. But the best writers become grammar breakers and dictionary defiers: they free words from their traditional meanings. So instead of telling someone "love is great," you write (as I steal from Katrina and the Waves), "Love is like walking on sunshine."
But if you want to write a story more complex than something found in most three minute pop songs, offer a more complex argument: "Love is not just like walking on sunshine; it can be like walking on broken glass [Annie Lennox]; or it can be a battlefield (Pat Benatar)….or a red, red, rose.
Finally, I must emphasize again: When it comes to the language of lovemaking, the best dirty talk is wordless. Forget style, grammar, etc...and just moan.
Literal language is naked, plain, stripped down, functional. Metaphorical language is nude: it's alluring, sensual, charged, electric--it's lovemaking as ecstatic union.
Metaphorical language is bliss: it's bringing together differences; it's uniting opposites; it's the tongues of lovers twisting and twirling together; it's arranging the shape and sound of words in unusual but smooth and alluring ways, a linguistic 69.
Plain language is routine, missionary. Metaphorical language is language at play.
Metaphor renders words unchaste, promiscuous. They lose their bond to an old relationship. They assume new meanings, new relationships, new associations.
Language has its rules of grammar and syntax. But the best writers become grammar breakers and dictionary defiers: they free words from their traditional meanings. So instead of telling someone "love is great," you write (as I steal from Katrina and the Waves), "Love is like walking on sunshine."
But if you want to write a story more complex than something found in most three minute pop songs, offer a more complex argument: "Love is not just like walking on sunshine; it can be like walking on broken glass [Annie Lennox]; or it can be a battlefield (Pat Benatar)….or a red, red, rose.
Finally, I must emphasize again: When it comes to the language of lovemaking, the best dirty talk is wordless. Forget style, grammar, etc...and just moan.
Grammatical Erotica, Part IV
Our writing style should vary according to mood, context, and subject just as our style of lovemaking should vary.
Just as there are times and places—-and, I hope, willing partners--for hot, quick, fast, spontaneous combustion sex, there are times and places for short, simple prose. OMG, yes: It’s morning. I’m half-sleep. I’m hard. Kiss me awake. Squeeze my balls. Mount me quick, and fuck me fast and furious, Hendrix riffing on the guitar.
But we all know there are also times and places for long, complex sentences and for our love supreme: the extensive, almost never ending lovemaking of slow hands and languorous kisses....of intimate talk and the arousal of all the senses....the lovemaking that begins early in the evening, long before a bedroom is entered, with a man looking a woman in the eye and listening to her carefully through the dinner he’s prepared for her....and ends with her riding him cowgirl into the sunrise of a new morning, taking him as slowly as the dawn coming up.
The sex between these lovers, when the clothes finally come off, takes on the trajectory of a sentence composed by Proust or Faulkner in all of its sinuous rhythms and with all of its twists and turns: His initial kiss, like a startling metaphor in the opening phrase, captures her attention and sets a tone, and his next kisses trace all along the contours of her body, pausing in places, on one nipple and then the other, like a sentence held up for a pause by a comma, and then the woman is softened and pulled apart by the touches down there, her loins opened, her lower lips parted, an open parentheses calling out for an exclamation point inside of it (!).
Now the lovemaking becomes all Hemingway. No flowery prose. Just hard pounding sentences. One after the other. Fast strokes of the pen. Action verbs. Prose stripped naked. Nothing cute. Sentences pounded out on the typewriter like fucking a woman doggie style. Drive each sentence home. Get to the point. Make her quiver. Fuck her with exclamation points!!! You've got her panting now. Short breaths. Shorter words. Do it to me. More. Don't stop. Yes. Yes. Yes. Ohh. Oh! O!!!.
Just as there are times and places—-and, I hope, willing partners--for hot, quick, fast, spontaneous combustion sex, there are times and places for short, simple prose. OMG, yes: It’s morning. I’m half-sleep. I’m hard. Kiss me awake. Squeeze my balls. Mount me quick, and fuck me fast and furious, Hendrix riffing on the guitar.
But we all know there are also times and places for long, complex sentences and for our love supreme: the extensive, almost never ending lovemaking of slow hands and languorous kisses....of intimate talk and the arousal of all the senses....the lovemaking that begins early in the evening, long before a bedroom is entered, with a man looking a woman in the eye and listening to her carefully through the dinner he’s prepared for her....and ends with her riding him cowgirl into the sunrise of a new morning, taking him as slowly as the dawn coming up.
The sex between these lovers, when the clothes finally come off, takes on the trajectory of a sentence composed by Proust or Faulkner in all of its sinuous rhythms and with all of its twists and turns: His initial kiss, like a startling metaphor in the opening phrase, captures her attention and sets a tone, and his next kisses trace all along the contours of her body, pausing in places, on one nipple and then the other, like a sentence held up for a pause by a comma, and then the woman is softened and pulled apart by the touches down there, her loins opened, her lower lips parted, an open parentheses calling out for an exclamation point inside of it (!).
Now the lovemaking becomes all Hemingway. No flowery prose. Just hard pounding sentences. One after the other. Fast strokes of the pen. Action verbs. Prose stripped naked. Nothing cute. Sentences pounded out on the typewriter like fucking a woman doggie style. Drive each sentence home. Get to the point. Make her quiver. Fuck her with exclamation points!!! You've got her panting now. Short breaths. Shorter words. Do it to me. More. Don't stop. Yes. Yes. Yes. Ohh. Oh! O!!!.
Concupiscence: An Orgasmic Dessert
Melt the chocolate in a heavy saucepan over water. Add the egg yolks, espresso, and creme de cacao.
I love the moment when the moistened folds deep inside of you become like heavy cream beaten, soft and thick, concupiscent, your pussy the bowl, my fingers the beater.
As I go down on you, I am reminded of all the desserts I love best, the ones of luscious ambiguity, neither liquid nor solid, but a combination of both: mousse, Key Lime pie, vanilla ice cream, soufflé, a banana split, creme brule, raspberries.
Stir together till smooth.
I dip my finger into your bowl. Your pussy holds me in rapt attention, and I want to suspend time, luxuriating inside of you, Ulysses remaining on Circe's island. I stir gently, no desire to depart.
If the mixture hardens, warm gently and stir till smooth.
As I feel you starting to firm, I start warming you gently, one hand over your heart, caressing your breast, the other smoothing you out, palm over labia, a finger stroking each lip, deliberately, persistently, then up inside, circling in the come hither motion, a spatula stirring inside the bowl.
Then let cool.
I look at your face, and I listen to your breathing, slow at first, then quicker. I pull out my fingers and let you lick them like a father giving his child a spoon of cookie dough behind the mom's back. You are ravenous. You lick fervently. You have taken me beautifully today, waking me with a kiss, feeding the morning hunger of our skin and heart, gorging on me, then straddling me, letting me drink from your cup of morning juices. It's my solace, my joy, to reciprocate.
Beat the egg whites with salt till they hold soft peaks.
I love raspberries. They are my favorite dessert, just eating them straight. I love to watch nipples become taut, berried up, on the peak of a bosom. I tongue and twist and bite-love your nipples. They hold their peaks.
Add the sugar, a tablespoon at a time, beating after each addition. Continue beating 5 more minutes, or until stiff.
I grab you by your heels, spread you apart, and admire. I stroke myself before your eyes, flaunting my hardness, my thickness. I kneel before you, reverently, and enter inside, gradually. I go deep, rise up, go deep again, and repeat, the ancient leitmotiv. Fold the whipped cream into the egg whites and then fold in the chocolate mixture. We rock and undulate together, primally, soulfully, folding ourselves into one.
If you have time to be fancy, serve with a sauce made by blending 1 cup heavy cream, whipped into soft peaks, with 1/2 cup sour cream.
Our dessert is almost complete: My heavy cream whipped until stiff, folded into your ½ cup sour cream. Only one step left.
....add 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
I pull back, almost out, then bury myself deep inside of you, my most manly stroke yet. As we kiss, I still myself, letting you clench me again and again, eventually extracting my cock into ecstasy. The vanilla spills into the bowl.
Pour into a large glass bowl or a soufflé dish with a waxed-paper collar (or covered jar if it's just for late night fixes) and store in the freezer until 15 minutes before serving.
We spoon together into the dessert, feeding it to each other's lips. Later in the night, we remove the bowl from the freezer, giving ourselves a second helping.*
Recipe for Chocolate Wickedness
The most sensuous dessert I have ever tried is something called Chocolate Wickedness, an intense mousse-like concoction where the chocolate is intensified with espresso and creme de cacao.
Here's the recipe for Chocolate Wickedness
1 1/2 pounds semisweet chocolate
4 egg yolks
1/2 cup espresso coffee
1/2 cup creme de cacao
8 egg whites
Pinch of salt
1/4 cup sugar
1 cup heavy cream, whipped
Melt the chocolate in a heavy saucepan over water. Add the egg yolks, espresso, and creme de cacao. Stir together till smooth. (If the mixture hardens, warm gently and stir till smooth. Then let cool.) Beat the egg whites with salt till they hold soft peaks. Add the sugar, a tablespoon at a time, beating after each addition. Continue beating 5 more minutes, or until stiff. Fold the whipped cream into the egg whites and then fold in the chocolate mixture. Pour into a large glass bowl or a soufflé dish with a waxed-paper collar (or covered jar if it's just for late night fixes) and store in the freezer until 15 minutes before serving. (It's great frozen, too.)
If you have time to be fancy, serve with a sauce made by blending 1 cup heavy cream, whipped into soft peaks, with 1/2 cup sour cream and 1 teaspoon vanilla extract.
I love the moment when the moistened folds deep inside of you become like heavy cream beaten, soft and thick, concupiscent, your pussy the bowl, my fingers the beater.
As I go down on you, I am reminded of all the desserts I love best, the ones of luscious ambiguity, neither liquid nor solid, but a combination of both: mousse, Key Lime pie, vanilla ice cream, soufflé, a banana split, creme brule, raspberries.
Stir together till smooth.
I dip my finger into your bowl. Your pussy holds me in rapt attention, and I want to suspend time, luxuriating inside of you, Ulysses remaining on Circe's island. I stir gently, no desire to depart.
If the mixture hardens, warm gently and stir till smooth.
As I feel you starting to firm, I start warming you gently, one hand over your heart, caressing your breast, the other smoothing you out, palm over labia, a finger stroking each lip, deliberately, persistently, then up inside, circling in the come hither motion, a spatula stirring inside the bowl.
Then let cool.
I look at your face, and I listen to your breathing, slow at first, then quicker. I pull out my fingers and let you lick them like a father giving his child a spoon of cookie dough behind the mom's back. You are ravenous. You lick fervently. You have taken me beautifully today, waking me with a kiss, feeding the morning hunger of our skin and heart, gorging on me, then straddling me, letting me drink from your cup of morning juices. It's my solace, my joy, to reciprocate.
Beat the egg whites with salt till they hold soft peaks.
I love raspberries. They are my favorite dessert, just eating them straight. I love to watch nipples become taut, berried up, on the peak of a bosom. I tongue and twist and bite-love your nipples. They hold their peaks.
Add the sugar, a tablespoon at a time, beating after each addition. Continue beating 5 more minutes, or until stiff.
I grab you by your heels, spread you apart, and admire. I stroke myself before your eyes, flaunting my hardness, my thickness. I kneel before you, reverently, and enter inside, gradually. I go deep, rise up, go deep again, and repeat, the ancient leitmotiv. Fold the whipped cream into the egg whites and then fold in the chocolate mixture. We rock and undulate together, primally, soulfully, folding ourselves into one.
If you have time to be fancy, serve with a sauce made by blending 1 cup heavy cream, whipped into soft peaks, with 1/2 cup sour cream.
Our dessert is almost complete: My heavy cream whipped until stiff, folded into your ½ cup sour cream. Only one step left.
....add 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
I pull back, almost out, then bury myself deep inside of you, my most manly stroke yet. As we kiss, I still myself, letting you clench me again and again, eventually extracting my cock into ecstasy. The vanilla spills into the bowl.
Pour into a large glass bowl or a soufflé dish with a waxed-paper collar (or covered jar if it's just for late night fixes) and store in the freezer until 15 minutes before serving.
We spoon together into the dessert, feeding it to each other's lips. Later in the night, we remove the bowl from the freezer, giving ourselves a second helping.*
Recipe for Chocolate Wickedness
The most sensuous dessert I have ever tried is something called Chocolate Wickedness, an intense mousse-like concoction where the chocolate is intensified with espresso and creme de cacao.
Here's the recipe for Chocolate Wickedness
1 1/2 pounds semisweet chocolate
4 egg yolks
1/2 cup espresso coffee
1/2 cup creme de cacao
8 egg whites
Pinch of salt
1/4 cup sugar
1 cup heavy cream, whipped
Melt the chocolate in a heavy saucepan over water. Add the egg yolks, espresso, and creme de cacao. Stir together till smooth. (If the mixture hardens, warm gently and stir till smooth. Then let cool.) Beat the egg whites with salt till they hold soft peaks. Add the sugar, a tablespoon at a time, beating after each addition. Continue beating 5 more minutes, or until stiff. Fold the whipped cream into the egg whites and then fold in the chocolate mixture. Pour into a large glass bowl or a soufflé dish with a waxed-paper collar (or covered jar if it's just for late night fixes) and store in the freezer until 15 minutes before serving. (It's great frozen, too.)
If you have time to be fancy, serve with a sauce made by blending 1 cup heavy cream, whipped into soft peaks, with 1/2 cup sour cream and 1 teaspoon vanilla extract.
The Erotic Spiral
You are walking around the hotel room in nothing but one of my shirts.
I am walking around in nothing but jeans. We embrace and begin a long kiss.
Your hand slides down to my crotch. You feel my surging manhood, and you surge with its jolt to your womanhood.
You break the kiss to purr in my ear. I grasp you by your bottom, pull you into me, and I take your neck with kisses as I whisper into your ear.
I straddle your thigh and grind into you with my hips. I want you to feel all that you have done to me. I want you to feel the force of my desire.
You have spurred me so hard, so beautifully with your words, your sensuality, your strength, your intelligence.
I love all that is fierce and independent and powerful in you...and your wantonness...your unabashed, tomboyish, tomcattish embrace of lustful lovemaking.
You reach down and feel me hard and strong, and I stop you. I pull back from you.
I take you over by the desk. In front of the mirror, I undo the buttons of your shirt, one by one, slowly.
With each undone button, I open the shirt a bit more, just as I want your legs to spread for me when I start kissing you behind your knees, inside your loins.
I love looking at your eyes in the mirror as I take you from behind with kisses and caresses.
When the shirt is undone, I motion you to the bed, and whisper, "I want you to play for me."
You lie on the bed and play with yourself beautifully, sending powerful surges of lust through meI pull off my jeans and I stand before you at the foot of the bed.
I love showing off what you have done to me. I love showing you how to take me.
You urge me on with your own playing, circling yourself, caressing yourself, quickening your pace. I love watching you coyly take yourself, moaning softly.
The erotic spiral begins.
I increase my own tempo, bringing it on, charging myself up.
You echo me in call-and-response, taking yourself more quickly, with more intensity, screwing yourself up tight, adding twist upon twist to the rubber band inside of you that, when released, will set you soaring.
I pump myself up harder and harder, my face scrunching up, all of me taut, stretched out between two poles...my heart and yours.
You know that I am close. You start mouthing words to me, urging me to come, begging me to shoot my juices all over you.
I come right to the edge of the bed, eyeing where I want to cum on you.
But I hesitate. You look so beautiful. I let go of myself and begin to tongue you.
You lie back giving yourself to me. I kneel down giving myself to you.
We slow down our slide down the spiral.
I tongue you tenderly, almost lazily, gradually licking up and down each labial lip, before honing down inside.
Your pussy feels so ripe, so soft.
I split you open, and I marvel at what I see: Your desire, and your clit budding before me.
It's so intimate. I myself am too shy to look for too long.
I insert one, then two fingers into you, and your pussy dances for me, following my lead, pirouetting on my fingers.
We kiss, and you reach for my cock, wanting it inside of you.
I turn you over, on all fours, and you look back at me, smiling.
I signal you with a hand pressed up inside your loins to spread open a bit more, and you do.
I am smiling because I know this will be a fuck that will mean one thing simply: I love you, and I want to give you pleasure, and I want you to feel the power and joy that you have given me.
My hands caress the length of your torso, sliding up your back, with one hand settling on your shoulder, the other grasping your hair.
I enter you, splitting you open, filling you up, deep, beautifully, gloriously.
I know how much you love the feel of my initial entry, and it thrills me too, my own pleasure doubled, tripled by yours.
The last time we did this, midway in our frenzy, the room phone rang....one ring.
I love it that we made the room a concert hall for the music of lovemaking.
Pity the person who lamented our free benefit concert.
Now we resume the concert.
I am walking around in nothing but jeans. We embrace and begin a long kiss.
Your hand slides down to my crotch. You feel my surging manhood, and you surge with its jolt to your womanhood.
You break the kiss to purr in my ear. I grasp you by your bottom, pull you into me, and I take your neck with kisses as I whisper into your ear.
I straddle your thigh and grind into you with my hips. I want you to feel all that you have done to me. I want you to feel the force of my desire.
You have spurred me so hard, so beautifully with your words, your sensuality, your strength, your intelligence.
I love all that is fierce and independent and powerful in you...and your wantonness...your unabashed, tomboyish, tomcattish embrace of lustful lovemaking.
You reach down and feel me hard and strong, and I stop you. I pull back from you.
I take you over by the desk. In front of the mirror, I undo the buttons of your shirt, one by one, slowly.
With each undone button, I open the shirt a bit more, just as I want your legs to spread for me when I start kissing you behind your knees, inside your loins.
I love looking at your eyes in the mirror as I take you from behind with kisses and caresses.
When the shirt is undone, I motion you to the bed, and whisper, "I want you to play for me."
You lie on the bed and play with yourself beautifully, sending powerful surges of lust through meI pull off my jeans and I stand before you at the foot of the bed.
I love showing off what you have done to me. I love showing you how to take me.
You urge me on with your own playing, circling yourself, caressing yourself, quickening your pace. I love watching you coyly take yourself, moaning softly.
The erotic spiral begins.
I increase my own tempo, bringing it on, charging myself up.
You echo me in call-and-response, taking yourself more quickly, with more intensity, screwing yourself up tight, adding twist upon twist to the rubber band inside of you that, when released, will set you soaring.
I pump myself up harder and harder, my face scrunching up, all of me taut, stretched out between two poles...my heart and yours.
You know that I am close. You start mouthing words to me, urging me to come, begging me to shoot my juices all over you.
I come right to the edge of the bed, eyeing where I want to cum on you.
But I hesitate. You look so beautiful. I let go of myself and begin to tongue you.
You lie back giving yourself to me. I kneel down giving myself to you.
We slow down our slide down the spiral.
I tongue you tenderly, almost lazily, gradually licking up and down each labial lip, before honing down inside.
Your pussy feels so ripe, so soft.
I split you open, and I marvel at what I see: Your desire, and your clit budding before me.
It's so intimate. I myself am too shy to look for too long.
I insert one, then two fingers into you, and your pussy dances for me, following my lead, pirouetting on my fingers.
We kiss, and you reach for my cock, wanting it inside of you.
I turn you over, on all fours, and you look back at me, smiling.
I signal you with a hand pressed up inside your loins to spread open a bit more, and you do.
I am smiling because I know this will be a fuck that will mean one thing simply: I love you, and I want to give you pleasure, and I want you to feel the power and joy that you have given me.
My hands caress the length of your torso, sliding up your back, with one hand settling on your shoulder, the other grasping your hair.
I enter you, splitting you open, filling you up, deep, beautifully, gloriously.
I know how much you love the feel of my initial entry, and it thrills me too, my own pleasure doubled, tripled by yours.
The last time we did this, midway in our frenzy, the room phone rang....one ring.
I love it that we made the room a concert hall for the music of lovemaking.
Pity the person who lamented our free benefit concert.
Now we resume the concert.
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