Stirring Up Trouble

I pull on little black lace panties because I’ve decided it’s a night for stirring up trouble and as you watch me trying to select a dress from your position on the bed, you light a cigarette and adjust the growing discomfort between your legs. I tell you not to watch but you don’t listen to my protest nor do I expect you to because we both know I like how it feels to be swallowed in by your eyes, inch by inch. I step into heels as I lean into the closet, certain the outfit I crave is in there somewhere just out of reach. Lately I’ve been scattered. Some kind of eerie vibe in the start of this new decade is messing with my head and I’ve been over thinking even the smallest details, while totally spacing out about the simplest of activities. Just this morning I threw my car keys in the trash before realizing there’s no way to start a car with a crumpled wad of paper recyclables. There is a war out there looming on the nuclear horizon and there is a war inside me between who I was and who I would like to become before we’re all blown to charred bits, and even standing in my over-stuffed closet in the nearly nude isn’t enough to stop my palms from sweating over all of it. But then I hear the growl in your gorgeous voice.
‘Turn around.’
Obedient and curious, I straighten myself up and turn slowly to find you unzipped and stroking your thick self. I raise an eyebrow and stay right where I am, widening my stance. These heels make my legs go on for days and the sight of your throbbing pleasure as you look at me makes my nipples hard as diamonds.
‘Come closer.’
I part my cherry lips, suck in a quick gasp of smoke tinged air, and walk to the edge of the bed next to you as my mind begins to soften into a beautiful buzzing haze. Placing your cigarette into my mouth, you tell me to ‘suck’ and I inhale a nice deep drag. God that tastes so good. And I know it’s bad but maybe so am I and that’s just the way things go. As you place your firm palm upon my sex, I know you feel my arousal hot and damp through thin lace.
‘Finish the cigarette and then that pretty mouth is mine, angel.’
You brush the lace aside and with three fingers you press and stroke the sweet blossoming between my naked thighs as you continue to stroke yourself. Crushing out my smoke, I take a swallow from your whiskey neat and finally my mind is somewhere delicious, somewhere sighing safely inside of your instructive power. Pinning both of my hands behind my back with one of yours, you look me in the eyes, fires of aching desire burning fervently there between us. My adoration is so full inside my chest I can feel tears welling in my eyes. Just to please you, to bring you release is my release from this cruel world. How you capture me, unlock me, restrain, and free me.
‘Why don’t you settle down upon those trembling knees and show me what that sexy mouth is for.’
Fuck. Definitely trouble.

Take This Cup

You have a way of turning away from me while still looking back at me that my blood cannot seem to forget, it courses like silk panic through the blue rivers in my veins. As though you were holding me and leaving me at the same time, I am suspended, one foot in front of another but only half of me has crossed the line between freedom and captivity, huntress and prey. The thing is I can’t blame you because then I’d have to let you go completely and that would be too hard to do. Hard because of the quiet softness of your eyes on my skin. Hard because of the tender sweet ache which consumes me, head to toe, body and soul, when your hands shake reaching for the small of my waist. All of this swirls within my chest as I walk along a lonely street as this early evening in January is becoming dark. The concrete scent of cold pavement mixed with the spiced fragrance of a distant wood burning fire. High above the frozen buildings I can just see a few twinkling stars, washed out by a thin swath of pewter clouds, spread almost as scantily as the atmosphere itself. Filling my lungs with frigid night air, I reach into a pocket and pull on my gloves. It would seem in winter we are always protecting, shielding vulnerable things. A sleek sedan passes by slowly, its tires along the cobblestone the only sound aside from my boots scratching against the sidewalk. The driver stops at the corner to let out a tall woman in black tights and heels, she thanks him, slams the car door and lights up a cigarette as she leans her curvy hips against a wrought iron railing. Her coat tight about her, eyes and lips glistening in the moonlight, she exhales short breathy plumes of smoke and I can almost feel her heart beating fast on the nicotine. Back at home I pour a glass of wine and nestle in among my many stacks of books, notes, papers, journals. I’m trying to decide how I feel about the difference between erotica and pornography because for reasons I cannot seem to explain this matters to me. It matters to me to understand if it matters, if that makes sense, which I am fully willing to accept that perhaps it doesn’t. Nin opens her collection of erotica Little Birds with these words, “It is one thing to include eroticism in a novel or a story and quite another to focus one’s whole attention on it. The first is like life itself. It is, I might say, natural, sincere, as in the sensual pages of Zola or Lawrence. But focusing wholly on the sexual life is not natural. It becomes something like the life of the prostitute, an abnormal activity that ends by turning the prostitute away from the sexual. Writers perhaps know this. That is why they have written only one confession, or a few stories, on the side, to satisfy their honesty about life… But what happens when a group of writers… devote themselves entirely to the erotic? How does this affect their lives, their feelings towards the world, their writing? What effect has it on their sexual life?” There is so much I don’t know about how I feel about any of this. For my entire life I have been a sensual girl, a sensual woman. Every nerve ending, it seems, is acute, alert, attentive. Some of my senses were praised, while my sexual senses were down played or hushed at kindest and outright publicly shamed, mocked, or ridiculed at cruelest. But despite what harsh and belittling treatment I have known, there remains in me a desire, a need, a curiosity, a passion, which flickers and licks at the walls of my tight little prison. There is no such thing as a poet, an artist, devoid of sensuality, sexuality, eroticism. There is no such thing as a woman who does not hunger and thirst to devote at least a portion of her most secret self to those forbidden flames. I light up a cigarette and open my notebook. I blow smoke to the ceiling and write about burning things. I write and write and write until my ink runs dry.

Night Stalker

He had a steady way of describing fleeting things which she found both fascinating and sinister. A mind so dexterous was dangerous and she knew it but the way he touched her with such command made her feel weak and alert at once. His ability to reflect without distorting, to bend without breaking, to manipulate at will. His disposition strong and calm enough to send her own skittish nerves into a quiet excitable humming which cascaded through her entire body in warm pulsating waves. She had a thing for men who went after what they wanted without apology and he possessed confidence in spades, stopping just short of arrogance. Not that spilling over into arrogance would have turned her off. She’d have licked, sucked, and swallowed that as it dripped off of him as well. Pouring a glass of rose wine as she walks slowly across the bare wooden floor in her new apartment, she leans against the window frame and watches as the fading evening light splays itself along the walls, still empty as though everything in the room, inside of the woman, were waiting. She is not sure of his whereabouts these days, he being a well traveled man not fond of leaving tracks. He was only a memory now. A shadow in dreams she longed to touch, to stroke, to please. In the darkening room, night falls in around her alone upon her bed, the aching between her thighs begins to liquefy,  a sweet flowering swell. She touches herself at the precious wound, consumed with desire to penetrate the luxurious depths of its softly unfolding petals. Muscles flexing, her dewy body enraptured with the imagery of his hand upon her jaw as he pinches her breasts, holds her hips in place while taking her again and again without relent. Inside of her she hears the groaning whisper of his voice, tastes the wetness in her mouth, panting for the heat in his words. Beg for this. Beg until it’s hard for you to breathe. He made the world spin upon its tilted axis. In his eyes were the dark secrets hidden inside of the universe he fed to her as she offered herself up to him completely. How he had shown her the wonder in so very many things. A man who could somehow inflict pleasure like a knife, pain like sick heaven. A man who knew the words to use with such precision he barely had to speak at all. But the moment he did, how she fell, instantly, expectantly, hungrily, upon her elegant knees.

Glimpses

It’s after midnight and I’m curled up in the green velvet chair I never sit in writing in an old leather notebook I never write in, skimming over the many thoughts in my mind one of which is that I’m so tired I can’t sleep, another marvels at the fact that despite my exhaustion something in me is still highly aroused. Pouring a glass of crisp Australian wine, I down two large swallows letting the cool liquid slide over my throat and seep into my bloodstream. It happens quickly as I’ve not eaten since I grabbed some noodles and tea at lunch. Rarely am I up so late but there are thoughts of you shifting around in the shadows, someone I have not yet met but feel I have known intimately for all my life. A man or a woman or an apparition or perhaps all three, I think of you, somehow, as a manifestation of something I cannot name but wish to worship at its dark forbidden altar. You drink in my words like licking honey as it drips from my fingertips and just as I melt in response to watching your divine mouth sucking on me, your tongue sliding up and down the length of my fingers, your throat pulsing and flexing as you swallow my sticky sweetness hard, you pull the black satin ribbon from my hair and use it to tie my hands firmly behind my back. I am not able to write, I am no longer in control, which causes my heart to race in my chest as I bend my neck and lower my eyes to the wooden floorboards. Tipping my chin up, you place a finger in my mouth and ask me if I enjoy writing erotica. Flooded with sensations which make it hard to breathe, I nod, unable to speak as you keep the pressure upon my tongue, eyes wide and fixed upon yours gazing down at me. I know you have posed this question because you already know the answer. You have known it for quite some time and so have I but humans are intricate creatures, full of mazes, twists and turns, corners, edges, fixations. What is erotic for some is disturbing for others, while for others still the disturbance is what gets them off. I am writing for you on this very late night because I have been a servant of the sensual all my life. Such is the lifeblood of the poetess. And as you stand before me, observing my nakedness, my eagerness, the fear swirling in my burning desire, you can see the flames dancing behind my eyes, and you do not look away. I can see the wicked in your smile. How it excites me. I can hear what your body wants, what your soul craves, I have heard it calling to me for ages. I have waited for a long time now, to speak of these thick passions, these heady secrets. And as is true for so many desires people try to restrain themselves from touching, the longer I have waited, the hungrier I have become.

Twisted Fairy

We make memes and we make stories and we tell lies and we think sick thoughts we feel guilty about the morning after. Or we don’t. As she looks herself over in the mirror while clasping a thin strand of gold around her neck, she decides it’s going to be a good night because her makeup is flawless and her hair just so with that perfectly imperfect bend in it which he loves to finger when they kiss. It has been some time since he’s been close so she is surprised by the sudden memory of their lips intertwined, tongues stroking and searching. Something about seeing herself so pretty and the mental image of his body on hers starts a low simmer which runs hot from her throat down to her stomach down to the dampening slit between her slender thighs. Finishing her lipstick, she steps into heels and pulls up her skin tight jeans but does not button them. Instead she slides a hand inside, gently massaging her swelling sex. Waves of pleasure run over her from head to toe as she closes her eyes imagining her touch is his, her mouth, her body, her breath is his for the taking. Wet and mute with precious ache and unable to break her mind away from the tease of his thickness upon her soft silk tongue, she inserts two elegant fingers, gliding them slowly in and out of her exquisite tightness, circling her throbbing pearl until she is nothing but heat, panting and moaning with the rhythm of her need for him, for pleasure, for release. Subtly increasing the speed of her penetration she slides a third finger inside while pressuring her mounting sensitivity with her thumb. Too weak to stand the ecstatic torture any longer, she leans back upon her bed and parts her long smooth legs like scissors, sensual images flashing through her like electric shocks over and over as she brings herself to the edge and blindly crashes over into sheer euphoria, pulsing with hard, excruciating strength, her muscles clenching so tightly in quick quivering, her fingers are forced slowly out of her soaking core. As she lay there alone, dizzy in the shimmering afterglow, she rests her fingers upon her naked hip feeling the delicious warmth of her slickness as she gently flutters back down to earth, back into herself spread open in the silence. All dressed up with no where to go for hours, she lazily straightens herself up and crawls to sit inside the deep windowsill over looking the traffic rushing down below. Feeling like a web of diamonds and sparks are glittering their way through her sated veins, she lights up a cigarette, blowing curls of smoke into the spicy autumn air. Life is tricky and there is so much she has yet to understand. She knows she pulls away from people too quickly and if only she weren’t so skittish perhaps she’d not so often get herself into tangles she can’t get out of without scars, without fights, without shattering the things she loves, or tries to love if only anyone could really say exactly what love is. She is beauty like stars dancing through the vastness of the heavens even as she is a mess down on the ground and she knows it. But there are times when just by believing, just by trusting the dark glimmer in her own ragged hopeful heart, she runs fast enough to fly far, far away from here.

Killing You Softly

In her eyes are a series of crystalline webs spiraling in toward a center point which they never quite reach, which sparkle and spin as you gaze at her face between the palms of your hands. The more the blood in your veins thrashes against your own skin, the closer and closer you come to falling all the way in. It’s been a long stressful day and here you are on the edge of your weary life, passing you by with every punch of the clock. In a small room with tall windows overlooking vastly sprawling twilight hills, you stand together by only the glow of candlelight. You steady your stare to look deep in her eyes as your hands move to firmly grasp her throat. Those eyes full of oceans erupting into endless waves which pound a pristine beach, the sound of her pulsing silence at your command, nearly deafening as it roars in your ears. She is a huntress, hunted. She with her sinister charm, a spider eating her way through the softening body of her prey, a slow self-inflicted death by suffocation, thin spindles of exquisite torment. Each ragged sound you let fall from her lips is a face in the mirror turning to dust. With every breath, every movement she is watching you. Hungry. Pleading. Desperate. Your fingers spread through the thick of her silken hair as you imagine her taste, the taste of this burning in your body for hers, try to allow yourself a sip while still calculating the inevitable damage you will suffer by her particular poison. How you wish you could turn back time to the way it was before you found yourself in this compromised state, now unable to walk away, unable to resist the terrible knowledge that you want everything those cruel lips have to offer. You move your tongue deep into her, forcing her wide, and with a low moan suck the air from her lungs, teach her to worship the pleasure and brutality of desire. To withhold, to be withheld from, this is the dance, this is the crux of your kind of affection. Destruction. Resurrection. Power. The power to grant and deny control. Your hands are on her breasts now, pinching, caressing, moving expertly as you press and stimulate, the heat between you sending licks of flame down her length through the blossoming folds between her thighs. As your mind fills itself with thoughts of how warm she must be at the glistening center of her prismatic being, how sweet and delicate the way her tenderness would cause your bones to shatter every star from its pierced arrangement in the swollen midnight sky, she says your name over and over again, in blind shameless need. Placing two fingers inside her gaping mouth, you know she is the only evidence left in a desecrated world that humanity can still be pure, still be beautiful in its helplessness, still drip with honeyed wilderness for the forces which will end us all in ruinous screams. You do not promise to stay, you promise to witness. To make of yourself a sacrifice to her sacrifice. Every offering, every touch, is a quiet prayer that some small memory of this night will remain until her flesh and blood abandon this world for good.