Tuesday, December 29, 2009
I am nearing my 50th birthday so I thought I’d write down a few principals I’ve learned that help me get through life. I’m not doing this to help you in any way. I don’t give a shit about you and that’s the first principal:
I Don’t Give a Shit About You.
But I mean that in the nicest way possible. I don’t really care what you do or who you do it with, as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. I don’t care if you’re gay, straight or something in between. I don’t care if you eat meat, vegetables or newspaper. I don’t care what language you speak. I don’t care what magic you believe in. I don’t really care about you at all, and do you know why? Because it’s none of my business, that’s why, and….
It’s None of Your Business
If I’m going to have enough consideration for you to not give a shit about you, then the least you could do is return the favor. What I do is really none of your business. Who I screw, what I eat, how I speak, what magic I don’t believe in are all none of your business. I’ll go about my daily life and I won’t do anything to you and you can leave me the fuck alone.
Leave Me the Fuck Alone
Why would you bother me? I’m a beady eyed stranger with a shifty glance. Why would you pick me? Go talk to that guy over there. He seems nice, for a jerkoff. So go talk to him and leave me the fuck alone. Do I look like someone who gives a shit about you? And as you can see, we’ve come full circle.
Everything Comes Full Circle
I see my life, with its legion of varied components of love death pain pleasure longing laughter desire etc, as a thrilling and sometimes terrifying ride. It’s like the go-carts at the boardwalk, I can steer through the course, I can alter my path and I know I should, but no matter where I turn the wheel I inevitably drive past the same turns again and again. I know I cannot simply get off: to leave the ride means giving up, giving in, not getting my money’s worth, missing the jolts and thrills. I know some who have let go early, willfully releasing the safety bar and getting flung off into the abyss. But I will stubbornly hold on tight, cramped hands numb from the effort, eyes and brain blurred by the speed, until I can ride no more and I am unwillingly wrenched from my seat. But it’s my own ride, my individual experience. I try to embrace it: I have no more tickets and this is the only ride I can enjoy. So I’ll steer as best as I can, drive to the parts of the ride I enjoy, try to enjoy the scary parts for the thrill and try to have confidence that I will again ride to joy and pleasure, cruise with love and desire and whirl through death and pain.
Tom Kennedy is a writer and a sarcastic malcontent, pretending he’s an unemployed office worker. He lives in Northeast New Jersey with his son, his snakes and his undefined sense of dread.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Surely the dancer was granting her permission?
Surely it was time?
She’d spent the day preparing herself. Contemplating the dream.
She knelt on the rug, gazing with rapt attention at the small statue. Her juices surged and gushed, dribbling between her thighs. She parted her thighs, wriggling her fingers beneath her panties, dipping her fingers between her labia lips. She scooped up the sticky fluid and brought it to her mouth. She lapped at her fingers, like a cat, relishing the savoury taste.
Her lips moved in wordless obeisance. Her clitoris throbbed, a small beating heart. She murmured a prayer, pleading for the statue’s acquiescence, fearing a small voice in her head, would tell her.
Or worse still, would whisper.
Perhaps she had known it would always come to this. That one day the primal need would be irresistible and she would consume the little dancer.
Soft, flickering candles, lit the tranquil expression on the little dancer’s face. She’d placed a posy of primroses at her feet. Oblations for the goddess. She could stare at the little dancer for hours, drinking in her lines of harmony. She was perfection. One long, slender foot placed firmly forward, the other, balancing her body. Ballet position four. Her arms behind her, her small hands linked, her head and neck thrust forward. The dancer was alert and tense, but relaxed too. She looked as if she could hold the pose for hours, or raise herself into a graceful pirouette at any moment. Monsieur Degas had sculpted her tenderly, with loving care. His clever fingers, carving the first dancer, from a lump of ugly wax. Later, after his death, the bronze casts were made.
She stood, and took off her clothes. She didn’t rush. She had all night. What she was about to do was both sacred and profane.
When she was naked, she stood in front of her long cheval mirror and looked down critically, at her body. How different she was from the dancer. How large her breasts were, compared to the gamine shape of the statue. Her sensitive, aching nipples were hard peaks. She twisted them with her fingers, and moaned as a volt of electricity surged down to her clitoris. She turned, sideways on to the mirror, observing her figure in profile. Her belly was full and rounded, her buttocks wobbled when she moved. She struck up the same pose as the dancer. She was a poor comparison. She turned back to the statue. She licked her dry lips.
The odour of her sex juices filled the room. She was in a high state of arousal, her heart was beating fast. Her womb contracted violently in a spasm, her whole labia was swollen and pulsating. Her clitoris was poking out between her labia lips. She lowered her arm and touched it with her index finger. She let out a low moan, quivering, and her knees almost buckled. It took all of her self control not to ram her fingers into her slippery cunt. It would take a bit of time to get her whole hand in, but why not? She’d fisted herself before.
It seemed a long time ago, that she’d first seen La Petite Danseuse. She remembered the day well. She and Mark had wandered the bustling streets of Paris for hours, before finding themselves on the left bank of the River Seine, and stumbling into the grandeur of the Musee d’Orsay.
It was there that she had seen her. A lonely, yet serene, bronze cast figure. She’d felt as if she were gazing on something holy. She remembered how she’d shaken off Mark’s arm, and walked slowly, blushing and trembling, towards the glass cabinet, as if obeying a sacred command. She knew that the small statue was demanding her presence. She’d felt a profundity, and wanted to babble and fall to her knees, but some semblance of sanity held her and she stood still, quiet and reverential. There was a dull ache in her womb; her nipples were erect and tingling.
She could sense Mark standing behind her. She prayed he wouldn’t touch her and break the spell. She had no idea how long she’d stood there. But at some point she’d realised she was cold. She’d turned to face Mark and looked into his worried face. He’d told her she was pale. He’d taken her icy hands, into the warmth of his and she’d fallen into his arms, glad of his comforting strength. She’d felt frail and Mark had taken her to a street café, where he’d made her drink scalding, bitter, black coffee and insisted that she eat. He’d fed her sticky apricot pastries. The men on the table next to them talked in French, the language sounding exotic and lyrical. The men had smoked Gauloises; the heady fragrance perfuming the air.
They’d gone back to the tiny flat they’d rented for the weekend and she’d tried to explain to Mark what had happened to her, when she’d gazed upon the statue. How she’d felt mesmerized, as if she’d fallen into a mystical trance. As if a holy, numinous spirit had consumed her. But her words were as inadequate as if she were to try to explain a colour no one had ever seen, or a explain the lilt of a sonata to a deaf man.
They’d made love later, shivering in the chilly flat, laughing at the sagging mattress on the creaking bed. She hadn’t come. She never did, but she’d pretended she had, and Mark had seemed happy and fulfilled afterwards. He hadn’t realised. They never realised.
She’d lost touch with Mark after that weekend. His job had been transferred to another country and she supposed it was too much trouble for both of them to keep up the contact. But they’d parted as friends and a package had arrived in the mail for her, some weeks after he’d left. He’d sent her a resin replica of La Petite Danseuse.
“Not quite the real thing,” he’d written, in his graceful handwriting. “But I know you’ll cherish her.”
She stood and lifted the statue from the shelf. She stroked the dancer’s small face, taking in the sweetness and depth. How could the critics have ridiculed her? Saying she looked as if she had a vicious character? That she was a monster of appalling ugliness?
She pressed the dancer’s face to one nipple, then the other. She sighed, the statue was warm against her skin, like a living being.
She’d never orgasmed. She’d read enough about it to know what she was aiming for. She had all the appliances. Even with a powerful vibrator, she would almost get there. The rush that should happen was less than a heartbeat away. And then she’d lose it and be left, gasping for breath, sweating and frustrated. Wanting to try again, but knowing it would be hopeless.
She kissed the top of the dancer’s head, pausing for a moment, before parting her lips and taking her into her mouth. She shuddered, swirling her tongue around her; she took her farther in, but gagged, when she hit the back of her throat. The statue was too rigid. It would be dangerous to try further.
The muscles of her womb contracted powerfully, and she fell to her knees, clutching the statue to her breasts. Her womb ached as if it was bruised. Now was the time. Her heart raced. She knelt, positioning herself in front of the mirror, so she could watch. Her cunt was open wide, like a mouth, a hole, screaming for penetration. She raised herself on her knees and placed the dancer’s head on her clitoris. She let out a cry and pressed down hard. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was white and ghostly pale. High spots of colour lit her cheekbones. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated. Her mouth was full and swollen with desire and with a sigh she slid the dancer’s head into her cunt. The statue squelched inside her wetness, as she rolled the head around pressing hard against the walls of her cunt, slurping her in and out.
She withdrew the statue from her. Sticky strands of juice drooled from the head, connecting the dancer to her cunt. She took the head into her mouth again, tasting her cunt juices, gobbling furiously.
She raised herself on her knees and pushed the statue into her cunt again, slipping her in up to her shoulders. She could feel her cunt stretching to accommodate her. Deeper still and she could feel the dancer’s hands, pressing against the delicate membrane that separated her cunt from her rectum. She wondered if she might pierce herself, make her rectum and cunt into one roomy chamber. She didn’t care.
Her cunt, her body weight and the floor, fixed the dancer like a vice, like a rigid dildo. She raised and lowered herself, watching in the mirror as the figurine appeared, then disappeared inside her cunt.
The build up of the orgasm took her by surprise. Her lips drew back in a snarl. This time, yes, this time, it was going to happen. It was too powerful to lose. Her pelvis pumped and jerked in a series of spasms. She looked like a dog humping. She started to make bestial, snuffling, grunting sounds as her hips jerked backwards and forwards, in and out. A sheen of sweat glistened on her body. She could feel it trickling in her hair and between her breasts. Her cunt opened voraciously to swallow and she sank herself down jamming the statue completely inside her. The tear of pain wasn’t enough to stop her, as the head of the statue bounced, again and again on her cervix. All that she could see of her now in the mirror, was the plinth that the dancer stood on. It was acting as a plug, a stopper, preventing her cunt from swallowing the statue completely.
A primitive roar came from deep inside her, as the warmth and rush of the come exploded, from her cunt and clit to her anus. She shook her head, like an angry beast as the tingling come surged up her spine, over her face, even into the roots of her hair. She no longer had control over her body as the come rushed over her breasts and into her nipples. She snarled again, as the rush tingled down the backs of her thighs, even into her clenched toes. She screamed and felt powerful, triumphant. She continued to grind herself down on the statue. Her breasts bounced and another surge of come started. She screamed again as she touched her clit with her finger and the rush began again. She thought she was going to die of pleasure. No wonder they call it ‘the little death.’
Finally, she tumbled forwards. Exhausted she let the dancer slide from her cunt and she brought her to her mouth, licking up the mess of blood and fuck juice, cleaning her.
Little comes resonated through the night. Her cunt spasmed open and closed. She fell asleep on the floor, curled on the rug like a satisfied cat. When she woke, the statue, sticky and sweet was cradled between her breasts.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The World's Most Phallic Building contest was a contest held in 2003 by Cabinet magazine to find the building which most resembled a human phallus. The contest originated when writer Jonathan Ames drew the ire of Slate readers by claiming, in a diary later published in his book I Love You More Than You Know, that the Williamsburg Bank Building in Brooklyn, New York City, New York, was the world's most phallic. This led Cabinet magazine to initiate a search of its own to find which building was truly the "world's most phallic." Cities and readers subsequently poured in their views and staked their claims to the magazine's editors.
After months of entries and discussion, the Ypsilanti Water Tower was announced as the winner, although the winner of a readers' poll was the Florida State Capitol building in Tallahassee. Another notable nominee was the Torre Agbar (Agbar Tower) in Barcelona.
Cabinet magazine noted that the Ypsilanti Water Tower, called "the brick dick" by locals, "is clearly the world's most phallic." The tower was designed by William R. Coats and constructed as part of an elaborate city waterworks project. Located on the highest point in Ypsilanti, erection began in 1889, climax of the operation was achieved in 1890 (11 years after the commencing the erection), at a cost of $21,435.63. Made of Joliet limestone, the tower is 147 feet tall, has an 85 foot base and holds 250,000 gallons when fully turgid. Hoping to protect themselves from injury, the builders made at least four crosses in the stonework, one over the west door, an elaborate but difficult to find Greek Cross on the east side and two inside the water tower.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
I watched the black nylon-covered foot in the stall next to mine strain into the small high-heeled shoe, squeezing and prodding its fat toes into the unyielding bright red leather. I moved off my toilet seat and crouched to my knees, darting my fingers along the bottom edge of the dividing stall partition. The struggling foot and shoe paused than warily slid closer into my stall. I reached down under the wall and touched the top of the warm foot, stroking the edge of the leather shoe, circling my fingers around the thick ankle, moving my hands up the firm shank and kneading the taut black calf. I crumpled lower on my knees and dropped my face to the leg, opening my mouth and kissing the ankle, my tongue atop and sucking the disarrayed plastered leg hairs trapped in the frumpy coarse nylon.
I removed the dangling shoe off the toes and kissed the dirty stocking, swallowing the thick aroma of unwashed feet. My tongue darted in, lapping the hard filth-encrusted nylon toe and I clasped the heel of the foot, trying to plunge it deeper into my mouth and throat.
I gagged, and the toes sprang out of my mouth. I coughed, letting go of the foot and shoe, as I collapsed against the toilet bowl, my chest heaving, my eyes tearing, my saliva splattering down my chin.
The foot sought out its shoe and I desperately dipped my fingers back into my uriney bowl, splashing my face with putrid water but again quickly caught the foot and shoe before they pulled out of their stall.
I straightened to my knees and adjusted the toes into the shoe, then pulled out my cock and strained to press it down on the foot, my hard dick reaching the sweaty saliva-smeared black hose, my little balls tapping quickly against the pointy red toe of the rigid shoe.
I quickly ejaculated, the white scum streaming up the foot across the shin, dribbling and twisting down to the ankle and inside the edge of the hard red shoe. I let go of my cock and clasped the foot rubbing and massaging my warm sticky scum into the damp nylon hose. I once more pulled off the shoe, caressing my fingers in the tiny pastilles of my scum, then lowered it back to the foot and slid it over the clammy toes. With one forceful tug I succeeded in pushing the fat wet foot and heel into the red leather shoe. I suddenly felt like one of those Old World chaperones who assist the Virgin Bride on her nuptial night and assure that all is correct, orderly, and proper. I tenderly caressed the fat foot-flesh pulsing over the edge of the tight shoe, then reluctantly let go of the foot and sullenly watched it pull back underneath the partition.
I heard a door latch click and a stall door open as I watched as the high-heeled foot wobble uncertainly and step out of the stall, scraping the men’s room tiles and clicking out of the room.
I crouched down and poked my head beneath the partition door. The aroma of dirty feet and fresh woman’s perfume lingered in the cubicle. I collapsed to the floor and pushed myself under the dividing wall into the vacant stall. I took a deep breath through my nose then opened my mouth, sticking out my tongue and licking the cold sticky tiles as I crawled in.
Mykola Dementiuk is the author of the novels Vienna Dolorosa, Holy Communion, Times Queer and others. His novella, "My Father's Semen" in Cruising for Bad Boys came out last June 2009. Also a sexual novella about D Day, "Dee Dee Day," will be out in March, 2010, from eXtasy Books. See his web page for more information: Mykola Dementiuk.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
"House of Fun" is a song by British ska/pop group Madness, credited to Mike Barson and Lee Thompson. It was released as a one-off single on April 30, 1982, and reached #1 in the UK charts, spending 9 weeks in the charts. The song was re-released in 1992, reaching #40. As of 2008[update], it is the band's only number one single in the UK ...
... The lyrics tell the story of a boy on his 16th birthday attempting to buy condoms at a chemist. The UK age of consent is 16, and he makes a point of stating that he's "16 today and up for fun". However, the boy is misunderstood by the chemist as he attempts to purchase the condoms, using slang terms such as "box of balloons with a featherlight touch". The confused chemist behind the counter eventually informs the boy that the establishment is not a joke shop, and directs him towards the "House of Fun".
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The atmosphere, according to the researchers, led to high levels of masturbation, drinking and alcohol-fueled fights
Inis Beag (Gaelic: "Little Island") is a the name of an island studied by the cultural anthropologist John Cowan Messenger where there is an isolated small Gaelic-speaking Irish Catholic community on one of the Aran Islands off the coast of Connemara in Ireland in his study "Sex and Repression in an Irish Folk Community." During the period of Messenger's study between 1958 and 1966, Inis Beag supported a population of around 350, mostly living by subsistence farming and fishing.
Messenger's study of this island community has often been cited by anthropologists and sexologists as an example of extreme sexual repression, with sexual intercourse being treated by both sexes as a necessary evil which must be endured for the sake of reproduction, and phenomena such as menstruation and the menopause being regarded with fear and disgust.
Breast-feeding was avoided. Kissing, caressing and any affection was seen as too sexual and was prohibited. Nudity was extremely private. For a married couple, intercourse was conducted fully clothed except for genitals. Sex was also in the dark and practiced only in missionary position. Any variation of sex was seen as deviant and sinful. Although pre-maritial sex was almost non-existent, the Ines Beag didn't have any formal sex education. Bathing was also 'unknown' and the average age at marriage was 36 for men and 25 for women. A man was considered a 'boy' until the age of 40. Dogs were whipped for licking their genitals.The atmosphere, according to the researchers, led to high levels of masturbation, drinking and alcohol-fueled fights.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Ralph Greco, Jr.
I stood there in the modern art section wondering: "Is it me, or does a lot of this simply looks like shit in a frame?" I didn’t want to say this aloud, the last thing you should do in a high-end ubber popular art museum is bother erudite stuffy upper-East Side New Yorkers, still as I held to my friend's arm (and she mine) we giggled like school kids as I did make my observation aloud. Other then Picassos though, in our combined opinion this gallery was full of really silly looking stuff, but when we sauntered (one saunters in an art museum, just so you know) over to the area displaying the van Goghs and Monets the climate changed for us drastically. This stuff spoke to us whereas that first gallery (with maybe the exception of some Picassos and Amedeo Modigliani's paintings-my friend turned me on to his work) seemed to be full of paintings of random splashed of color and hastily drawn geometric shapes…hadn't any of these dudes heard of a compass?
There's no accounting for taste, especially taste as unrefined as mine, but that museum visit got me thinking about sex (as did the girl on my arm…wink wink) as most things do. Specifically, why do we like the things we do? What makes one person yearn for the attentions of someone their own gender while another would be so repelled by that coupling they'd attempt to support legislature to stop the activity? Why do 3-inch leather pumps 'do it' for some guys and gals while other couples want nothing more then face-to-face missionary sex to the exclusion of all else? Why two stewardesses (is the plural for stewardess, stewardi?) and chocolate sauce really don't work for some guys but…ok, you get the picture. It's more then just morals or what feels good (and certainly those factors play into it) but why do certain things get our juices flowing and seem perfectly natural while others don't register a blip on our libido radar?
Is it all like my shit-in-a-frame opening salvo, just a matter of taste?
The people who likes those paintings that did nothing for me, might have an education that has hipped them to some facet of the works I don't know about (nor would ever guess) but I think really if the thing speaks to you, whether it's a Joan Miro or getting your ass whipped with a spatula (not a metal one persay but definitely one with slits in it so the wielder will avoid wind resistance…sorry I digress) it moves you simply because, it moves you. When you start to dissect why the Van Goghs give you chills over the Cezannes, or why for you, "Who By Numbers" is a better album then "Houses Of The Holy" (I like them both actually, see how erudite I am?) or why you prefer candle wax dripped on your clit but never your nipples, then the pleasure in the thing can dissipate in your search for meaning.
We stayed as long as we could in front of those paintings that didn’t speak to us, heartened, breathing hard when we came to stand before the ones that did. Neither of us needed to know why we felt such a difference, we were just happy there had been one; where there was a low point there was a high. Like sex, full of the peaks and valleys, dips and swoops, the good, bad, ugly, embarrassing and resounding: "Ah Ah, fuck yteah yeah! Right there, sweet Jesus puppet master!" moments.
If you're lucky you get all that in one encounter…not having to look at too much shit-in-a-frame as you get on getting on.
Ralph Greco, Jr. is an internationally published author of short stories, plays, essays, button slogans, 800# phone sex scripts, children’s songs and SEO copy. Ralph is also an ASCAP licensed songwriter/performer and Internet radio D.J. He lives in the wilds of suburban NJ, where he attempts to keep his ever-expanding ego in check.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
You gather with the guys for an afternoon of football, beer, and debauchery.
"Toss me a beer," one friend says.
"Send over the chips," says another.
"Have some pussy," you offer.
I crawl from my place at your feet to the middle of the room and lie down on my back.
"Touch yourself, my pet," you say. "Spread your legs and touch yourself. Writhe for them. Moan for them. Pull apart your lips so they can see the heat rising from within."
I obey. My middle right finger curls up under my vestigial cock, caressing tenderly. My clit smiles at this rare visit; you tightly control my access to such pleasure. The delicate tissues swell and blush, the tiny button hardens, and moisture gathers and swirls. Little sounds without a name issue from my throat. Per standing order, I give my eyes to yours and you feast on the film of arousal that coats my pupils.
My pelvis rocks into my hand, and the finger slips inside the begging hole.
"Don't cum," you warn me.
"No, my Lord." I gasp, hoping it's not too late.
It's half-time. The men give their full attention to the floor show. I glance around. There's not a floppy in the house. The host stands up and cocks his head towards me. You nod. It’s his house. He should have the first shot.
"Sleen," you say.
I comply. Jeans and briefs are left on the floor by the sofa. The host kneels behind me. He shoves two fingers in my cunt, like a mechanic testing the level of oil. He comments crudely on my readiness for use, then slams his cock into me with a surprising degree of aggression. He holds my hips as he rams into me again and again, almost as if he resents his desire and hates his need. I can feel my expression change. His violence frightens me. There is nothing erotic about it. I dry up.
It's simple rape now. His dick is a rod covered with sandpaper. He curses me, but doesn't stop. I'm crying now, my red eyes telegraphing agony and submission. Your cock is pleading for release.
Suddenly my assailant pulls out. He reaches for his jeans and yanks the belt out through the loops. He stands behind me. I take a deep breath.
I feel my pussy open at the first blow of the belt. It opens and flows. I blush as I scream. After ten leather slashes, he resumes his place behind me. As he re-enters, he reaches around and under and twists my right nipple almost as cruelly as you do. I yelp with pain and surprise and the last reservoir of juices floods the delta as if my nipple were a handy spigot.
Again, he fucks me hard. His balls slap against my perineum. There is something about this man that I do not like, but my pussy has disconnected from my head and my heart. My pelvis pushes back into him; my beatable bottom, welted and sore, collides with his crotch.
The other guys are cheering him on. They're enjoying the scene, but they want a chance, too. "Enough already," one of them grumbles. "Give the rest of us a chance!"
His movements change. His prick moves fast and deep. He's large and long, and I feel him banging into the end of the channel. We're both grunting now. And then I feel it. I feel the semen surging through his exulting cock, and whatever he has been harboring bursts out and paints my pussy walls cream.
I suspect he'd like to walk away nonchalantly, kicking me over to the next taker, but he can't. He falls on me, and we both lie there a minute or two, catching our now synchronized breaths.
He forgoes the desired nap with regrets. Only his cock gets to curl up and sleep. He gets off me, giving my ass a slap as he parts, and throwing a compliment towards you by way of thanks.
"That's a hot little fucktoy you've got there, man."
"Good girl," you say.
oatmeal girl is a submissive, Jewish, bisexual, feminist baby boomer, who regrets she can’t brag to her mother about having overcome a 45-year long writer's block. “My daughter, the pornographer”? Not likely. This story was written for her sadistic master, and is published here with his permission. Poems, stories, and more at submission & metaphor.
We had played other games, this circle and I. Games of sex, pain, pleasure and everything betwixt, between, and off to the side.
Preface: San Francisco in a place called a dungeon to some, basement to others. It was just a typical Saturday night if you travel in the right circles. Yeah, you could call them gays, lesbians, straights, dykes, fags, hets, twisted fuckers -- whatever. They were just friends. And this was just a party.
The game was Kiss and Truth. Before we started, a hat was passed and we all dropped slips of paper into it. “Something very unique or very special about you” was what we were told to write. We did, diligently scrawling them on the black leather furniture and on the nearest convenient black leather friend.
“If you hear me say what you wrote, and then you get kissed -- or kiss, sing out,” the leader of this said, a large, lovely woman in a white dress, chiming finger symbols for our attention.
The lights were put out, except for one on in the corner where she sat with her black leather beret on her head. The room was soft felt: a warm, comfortable, intimate kind of darkness. I’d done so much in that room -- traveled through pain to sex to pleasure to laughter and back again that I knew it like I knew my own fingers. I knew everyone else there just about as well -- maybe as well as my toes.
“I have a twelve year old son named Josh.”
Our mustaches met, bristly forests itching together. Faintly hiding silken lips, heated tongues, flashing whiteness of teeth, I kissed the man named Jack. From across the room a voice (female? male? Could have been both, or one, together. Many in the room were part way between the two) sang out, and giggled. “Here!”
She was short, with breasts heavy and firm. Hair a mad burst of curls. Her feet chimed with tiny bells. Lips thin and hard, with a faint fuzz of hair. Mouth a furnace of heat, like she burned somewhere down deep and her tongue was a flaming anaconda, wrapping and constricting around my own. “Over here!” a light, sparking voice said from close by.
The room was bursting with laugher, with little clicking whirls of giggles and the silent light of smiles. “I had a bad day at work.”
I don’t consider Jay really between he and she so it’s hard to say it Jay was on the way to boy or girl. Jay was Jay, unique and himself: rail thin, face a perfect blend of hard and soft, full and not, Jay’s lips are strong (like both) and so soft (like both). We kissed hot, and long, even after half the room chorused with “Yes” “Right here” “Damned straight”. Laughter. Laughter. Laughter.
“I got a new tattoo.”
A mountain of mad fun. I didn’t know his name, but there was always a smile on his lovely lips. Ever since I’d seen him, smiling like a San Francisco Gay Leather Buddha, I’d wanted to plant one on his gorgeous face. It was a worshipful act, a divine act. Maybe not sex heat in it, but love all the same. He was next to me so I turned and looked him in the eyes -- matching intent with intent. His lips were spiced, a lingering bite of cinnamon and ginger from the cookies laid out upstairs. He didn’t offer me anything more than his velvet lips and I didn’t reach in to take more. This was a devout kiss, a spiritual kiss. My body remained limp meat, my mind soared at the sparks he brought into me. “Here!” someone sang very close, and all stopped for a few beats while she lifted her dress to show the serpent that ran, red and puffy from the recent needles, up her ankle to tickle her crotch with a brilliantly forked tongue.
“I got a new ring.”
When we’d made love at the last party I had almost been consumed by her. Ignited, our kisses had turned our tongues into tongues of flames. Sexual? Damned straight, but Dorothy’s hunger was almost scary, almost scalding. Our kisses seemed to last from foreplay, into sex, and into a still-warm after glow. Never did oral sex with my lover, Dorothy; couldn’t take our lips apart long enough to try.
Black like soot, not the kind of polished black some have. Her was a skin that looked like night rolled into breasts, belly, back and smile. Her lips -- how can I describe her lips enough? I can’t. You have to come all the way out to San Francisco and taste them. Words ... just ... will ... not .. work.
We kissed through the call of “Over here”: the young, slender reed of a man baring his chest to show his new nipple ring. We would have kissed even longer save for Dorothy’s insistence that we play “this game” a little more, first.
“I’m HIV positive.”
I knew Jerry. Knew him well. Friend, pal, something else -- very special. He mirrored me: long and lean, tapered and elegant. While mine was black, though, his was dirty blond. Look at pieces of Jerry and you would think him just another punk -- but I knew him from long nights of bad movies, tears (both of us) and many, many smiles.
Jerry’s lips were slightly scabbed from cruising downtown on his board, of biting them when he was nervous. His tongue was hard and strong, a vibrant touch that shivered me down to my bare toes.
“I am,” Jerry said, and I kissed him long and hard again.
The game lasted for a while more, before dropping away with the few remaining clothes. The toys game out: leather, latex, condoms, Saran Wrap ... the tools of our friendships. We played and kissed many times thereafter.
I could only wish that Jerry could have kissed me much, much longer.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Saturday, December 12, 2009
There’s something strangely alluring about the sight of a strong man in ropes and chains, struggling to be free of his bonds. Well, I think so, anyway. All that muscle, straining. His sweat making the bonds slippery, ever tighter. The struggle is hopeless; he sees defeat staring him in the face and still he is spirited enough to fight on.
You’ve only got to type in the word ’bondage’ into any search engine, to be overwhelmed with images, and stories, of men and women, bound and helpless. Mostly, it’s consensual, at least I hope it is. A little piece of BDSM, being acted out by adults involved in a highly charged erotic game.
But bondage is nothing new. The Internet generation cannot claim to have invented it. Neither can writers of porn and erotica. Bondage is in ancient art and old, old stories.
Laocoon and his sons are bound and helpless by fierce serpents. There’s a statue of Laocoon in his death throes, in the Vatican in Rome. Pliny attributes it to three Rhodian sculptures, Agesander, Athenodoros and Polydorus.
Laocoon’s exotic punishment is for committing a sacrilegious act; that of procreation in a place holy to the god, Poseidon.
Strength and power are contained, controlled and relinquished.
The old stories are even in the Bible. Delilah contrives to discover the secret of Samson’s great strength. This is a man so strong and powerful, he has ripped a lion in two. Eventually, he tells her. His strength is because of his long hair. Delilah tells Samson’s secret to the Philistines, and Samson is shorn of his locks while he sleeps. His strength is gone and Samson is bound and chained. His eyes are put out and Delilah pockets the silver that the Philistines have paid her.Samson is punished through bondage and humiliation, for breaking his oath with God by cutting his hair.
Michelangelo’s REBELLIOUS SLAVE, can be seen in the Louvre, in Paris. The bondage is there for all to see. The slave is being punished. His hands are tied behind his back; he is engaged in an active struggle against his bonds. Michelangelo has left the marble raw and unpolished, emphasising the grittiness of the subject. The expression on the slave’s face is of agonized humanity. A rebel that has to be controlled.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
So, how do you make sure it’s you? Simple! Every purchase of a Logical-Lust or LL-Publications book (ebook or print, short story or novel) between 12th Dec 2009 and 12th Jan 2010 gets you an entry into the draw for a SONY PRS-300 EBOOK READER! The more titles you buy, the more entries you have and the better your chances!
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Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Greenberg, Gary (Author) and Balvis Rubess (Illustrator). The Pop-Up Book of Sex.
Melcher Media for It Books, 2006. Paper engineer: Kees Moebeerk.The Pop-Up Kama Sutra. New York: Stewart, Tabori and Chang, 2003.
Paper engineer: J. Biggs.
Caution should be exercised with these two. You never know - but can probably suspect - what will pop-up in your face when you open a page. A few teens video'd themselves looking through The Pop-Up Book of Sex in a bookstore and posted it on YouTube. Giggles abound, all earned. And abuse ensues - too irresistible!