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The Cozy Spot

38 posts categorized "Desire"

July 16, 2007

Life's Little Sexual Introspections

I thought I was a step ahead, two actually, but he was far more advanced than me and this realization dawned later, and it came to mind as I really forced my ass down this weekend to continue with one large project, and two erotic short stories. I think the erotic stories kicked it off, because I had to travel to The Place in order to create the sexual ambience.

One of his first affirmations, once we shifted our communiqué away from the PC, astounded me. I wasn’t sure if it was a joke, or an arrogant aside. It jolted me because no one I’d come across made such an admission.

“I’m not the type of person who dates on the Internet,” but he just happened to do it, stumbled across the new wave and thought he’d give it a whirl. Is there a specific type, I wonder? Sometimes I think there is, particularly when a person is a serial online dater. I can appreciate people with children using this medium, but I’ve had difficulty understanding why a single unit or a person with no kids or big arsed responsibilities (such as children) uses the Internet to date and the thought is due to the single person always having more time to date (compared to one who has to juggle a job, children and domestic responsibilities, who also has to make arrangements prior to leaving the house). So no, I’m no sympathy mama when single units (male or female) whine about the difficulty of it all. I just think they’re plain lazy, insecure and expect everything to be delivered to them like an Amazon package. I often feel like telling the person who goes on and on about the difficult of actually meeting a potential lover, partner and so on, ‘it’s not like you have to arrange a sitter in advance, thereby nullify spontaneity, so shut your cake hole.’

Continue reading "Life's Little Sexual Introspections" »

May 28, 2007

Buses, iPODs & Plastic Knives

I see someone attractive, a person who hits the right key within, and I immediately think of R rated things. It’s evolutionary, well that’s the reason I’m hanging onto, and when things turn to shit or don’t shift anywhere (even the Twilight Zone will do, God!) I feel like slashing my wrists with a plastic knife, you know, to add more frustration and agony to the mix that played in my head.

It’s not as though I was outright rejected, but nothing happened; I’m living in suspended sexual animation, for Christ’s sake.

It came, or dawned as my earplug fell on the floor and broke, thus ending my iPOD transmission round about 1pm, that I ought to focus on other things (like tending to my domesticated feline) than living on…the fucking hope that someone would ask me out (for shit’s sake).

Do I have to put a sign on my head? Then that god-awful book came into my mind (insert perky North American accent courtesy the Oprah Channel), ‘He’s Just Not Into You, Girl!’

The clock struck five, I headed out to buy myself a pair of earplugs, and almost ended up in tears over the fact that a pair of miniscule earplugs that are made in China put me back fifty smackers, and thought ‘ahh well, may as well go home.’

No, nothing happened. I boarded the bus, and sat there like a moron trying to free the earplugs from the packaging; talk about nouveau security plastic. The guy sitting across me began to annoy me, he was in leg spread mode, relaxing his testicles (something that requires him to take up half the seat next to him, lucky I wasn’t seated next to him or I would have jabbed him in a particular region in his chest that would have set off some referred pain: studying anatomy in my past life can be a good thing, you get to know all the pressure points. Come to think of it I should gain employment as a sadist.) and fixated on his cell phone, text messaging some love struck female no doubt, and I finally freed my earplugs, accidently elbowed the person next to me on the rebound (‘sorry’), and stuck the damn things in my ear. They’re like adult pacifiers. You plug them in and you don’t have to listen to anyone discussing ‘such and such is such a bitch/bastard,’ after office talk on their cell phones.

The music flowed. I needed to up the volume to add a little zing to my tympanic membranes, but the thoughts circled around; each music note transformed into a condor, ready to strike me at any moment. Oh my Christ, I thought. It’s embarrassing really, to think that I sat there feeling absolutely miserable…oh all right; sorry for myself. It’s enough to put my paternal side of the family (a bunch of Maniot-Spartans) to shame; they’d throttle me. I felt like throttling myself, really, but I needed at least a few milliseconds of real agony time, just to give me a break from the ‘you don’t sit there sniveling, give me fifty push ups woman,’ routine or mantra that I usually have.

So I arrived home, making the rush for the electric kettle, and coffee jar, planning on hibernating in my room lessening my life by another five nicotine fuelled minutes; It’s not like I’m going to get laid at any point in the near future. What’s a cigarette? (‘oh yeah Ana, you’re on a self pity junket!’ Woo fucking hoo! Soon I'll outdo Gwyneth's Oscar speech)

The chip off the old block (old, being yours truly) decided to tell me about his day after I ignored him for the first ten minutes. If I approach him straight away, he clams up and tells me he doesn’t want to talk about his school day. Like I said, he’s a chip off the old block; I don’t talk to anyone fifteen minutes upon waking, or fifteen minutes into my arrival home from work.

Getting to the point…a point that took me by surprise, particularly because the little devil is turning thirteen this year. He had an after school date with a gal, at the local fish and chippy!

‘We went and ate some hot chips after school,’ he said, as perky as can be. At the rate he’s going, he’ll probably get laid next year and I’ll be braiding the cobwebs between my legs, in between feeding the cat, enduring housework and hammering the keys on my laptop.

I called him ‘date boy,’ on my way back out to the supermarket, asking him if he needed anything for school, and he didn’t waste time reminding me about my mournful state:

‘At least I had a date,’ said the twelve-year-old smartarse, ‘when was the last time you had a date?’ he asked. I should have named him Lucifer. They tell you practically nothing when they're little babies, they don't tell you that they grow up and talk back.

‘Around the time women wore crinoline skirts, and corsets until their ribs collapsed and they passed out?’

But seriously folks, I would have to be fucking insane to a) date b) fuck like a cock-struck rabbit only to end up (at some distant point in time) pregnant to spend a few hours or thereabouts pushing, to pop out another rugrat who will most likely, in this pathetic dating era of ours, say something like:

"When was the last time you had a date, mum?"

OO-kay, now that I've got that off my chest, it's time to make the little raspberry swirl until I feel like I'm gonna pop a blood vessel. Ciao for now.

May 26, 2007


Song inspiration: Freak on a Leash (Live: Korn, featuring Amy Lee)


Oh the talk of consent is nice, quaint almost, in the politically correct realm that is but there’s the darker side, the element that doesn’t require consent, and consent isn’t requested or ceases to exist.

It all unfolds as I watch, perhaps from the first opening seconds when I glimpse the flesh, or package, that displays itself before me. All my primal frequencies adhere to it. Each note dances to a familiar rhythm; the fuck unfolds.

Desire leeches through, and he has no clue that I’ve undressed him ten or more times; I’ve undressed, licked and plotted a path from his ample lips, to his groin. It’s freakish, near animal. Can he feel the intention or the makeshift hands wading through the layers of denim that sheath his legs?

They reach out to curve over his waistband, to yank him forward, all within my mind. It’s a place that he can’t command. He has no control over the mental schemes that take over at a few second’s notice. Logic abandons the plane of the here and now. He stands, oblivious to my tune. Suspended with curiosity, he attempts to detect my penetrating eyes. They swim through his barrier, powering through his subtle net, like a Great White.

Countless images float through my mind like a marquee. Fingers squeeze, and prod him; the tonicity of his erection guides my every move, anointing my lips as I accommodate his warm mass, and allow him to pour himself into me. Each grunt fades out to a kissing whisper; the light brush of his lips along mine raise a torrent within that surfaces, forming an aqueous layer along my upper lip. Each watery rivulet shines as the core temperature rises. I tell him, no I demand, he place his ample hand in that very place, and then I tell him to cup it, before instructing him to weigh the desire. Make that intent.

‘Weigh the intent. Drink from it.’

Lewd, possibly crude…

Every pinch of his flesh, along his thigh or upper back, awakens the swelling tide and it takes over his face until he is plunged into the realization that I want to…

That I seek to…

Fuck and shake him up and down, like a snow globe; unstuck, uncensored and lying prostrate before the gibbous moon, he'll await a warm injection of debauchery, followed by a little mayhem. There are so many buttons I itch to press.

Which is why consent fades into the distance. There is no consent in the realm of the mind. I look at you, and if I want to take you, I’ll take you…

I’m not going to stop and ask for permission to entertain the realm of my inner senses.

Getting Off..

They’re black, pointy, and slick in their curves, and boast a set of buckles across each ankle; the fuck-me boots, my most recent purchase, have been added them to my daily planner. I’m ready to roll them out next week, sit in his presence and casually cross my legs, and toe-tap my way into my internal mayhem, or delirium.

The desire to pin a merit badge on my chest, proclaiming my containment, gets stronger by the day. I’m amazed at this self-control. I’ll be asked something like, ‘you’ve fallen haven’t you?’ and it’s more akin to plunging into the pulsing crimson artery of desire; the bubbling river pulses through my head each time I see him.

I swim in lyrics, and dive into my own pool. It surfaces, tainting my regular thought mill; regulated tasks, procedures and order blurs, and the creeper called desire runs amok.

‘ Getting off
I'm getting off
Keep getting off
Keep getting off
I'm getting off
I'm getting off to you
It's not enough
It's not enough
And more can never be enough
I'm getting off
I'm getting off to you

Hold my knees
Lick my treat?

Fuck I'm coming
Fuck I'm coming on you
I'm coming
I'm coming on you’ – Korn, Getting Off

Imagine walking through a peaceful street, or quiet alley. The superficial things look ordinary, and are imbued with calmness. Then, out of the blue, a hand reaches out, rests on your shoulder and forces you to take a step back. Desire.

Its fingers reach out, caressing each square centimeter of my flesh, while howling down my neck to whisper dirty-sweet sentiments. The same fingers dig into the waistband of my pants, until I’m forced back, and pushed forward until my cheek slams against the cold concrete wall, and each finger delves into my softer parts, dictating pathways that soften my resolve to maintain the daily status quo, and detour into the realm of frank, livid and sometime bestial, lust.

‘Licking your own skin, so pretty…

When you finally come, it’s so pretty…’


If you're on the official Korn site, don't miss listening to Freak on a Leash, featuring Amy Lee of Evanescence. It ROCKS.

May 24, 2007

Letting my Fingers do the walking, while the Nose is Running

There once was an Australian television advert for Vicks Vapor Drops that would have me laughing; it featured a loving couple seated on a park bench, and the kiss that unraveled between them. They get close, in that tentative kind of manner, and their lips finally touch, for them to press ahead and turn it into a snogfest and then you see the man collapsing… all because his nose was blocked from a cold or flu. He didn’t use Vicks Vapor Drops!

It’s a funny ad, and it reminds me of my current state. There I am counting down the days, hoping that my little caper will turn a corner and gain a little more heat. There are countless images in my mind; I tend to compare kissing with the film Microcosmos (except my mental version is more X rated, and involves the human sexual response), where every little move is captured, and magnified. Everything from the light tickle of a tongue over the top or bottom lip, to the penetrative lingual dance that parallels intercourse…

The unfortunate thing is that I’ve caught a cold, and I’m hoping it’s not the flu. Everyone at home has been doing the ‘Oh my God, I’m dying (they’re male – joke)’ routine, and I’ve soldiered on. I awoke this morning, feeling the familiar sandpaper within my throat; I swallow and it feels like I’ve ingested a bag of tacks. My eyes tear over randomly, and my nose may as well be a beer tap. Don’t you hate it when your snot changes consistency, and becomes a runny gush of, well…mucous, that sneaks out of your nostrils during moments where you’re out of facial tissues?

So much for the sexy routine (what the?), and I’ve ingested a shit load of paracetamol, followed by endless cups of tea (and I don’t know why, it doesn’t help any). I don’t like tea, and yeah, I'm too much of a diehard vino drinker; I can get my anti-oxidants from a good glass of red (muahaha). Tea is like, I don’t know. It's not the beverage equivalent of a dick, and It’s more making do with a vibrator when a cock is nowhere to be found. Odd analogy, but pardon moi...I'm ailing here; my nose sounds like a shoddy trumpet.

We were left with Earl Grey…and the taste (and aroma) of Earl Grey is enough to decolorize, render me to ash. Sometimes I think people like to utter it, ‘I’ll have some Earl Grey,’ complete with rounded vowels and bullshit. I really don't know what I'm whining about; I can't currently taste coffee, or tea for that matter...probably the ideal time for fellatio and swallowing, right?

So I’m left with kissy-kissy fantasies. I’d feel terribly guilty if I kissed any one in the state I am, to pass my flu germs. Besides this, I’d have to overdose on Sinex to clear out my sinuses so I wouldn’t suffocate, and this may come across as half-insane (or totally insane) but I’ve noted that I have difficulty getting myself off when I have the flu. It’s like the fingers are doing the walking, walk-walk-walk (may as well make it into a freaking fund raising Walk-a-thon down there), and it ends up being a pussy marathon down there; my brain and hands are saying, ‘yesssssssssss…. let’s get a move on, and climax already,’ but my body is saying, ‘I’m sick! Gimme a break, you solo nympho!’

There I am, trying to go for it…and wouldn’t you know it, one of my sinuses will clog up, I'l inhale deeply and my brain will feel like it's an extra from Scanners, as it prepares to explode from the snot build up…

May 22, 2007


The weather took a chilly turn overnight; there’s warmth within the chill. The week slides along, everything appears to be unfolding in slow motion, my mind yawns as it waits, and palpitations sputter forth at random intervals. Each step is calculated, or fixed to the monotony of routine; things seem slow, snail-like, where I’m the tortoise. The hare races round the corner, overtaking each striation of my cardiac muscle. It squeezes out crimson drops, distributing them to the necessary regions, including the soft, pliable territory between my legs.

It’s a killer craving; I wait to glimpse him.

Thoughts charge forth at hundred miles an hour, heading in a variety of directions and each one is dressed, infused with Dionysian undertones….


So I’ll finish off with two lurvy dovey songs in my language. The first - 'The Game of Love' is 80% English (Elena Paparizou), and the remainder Greek, and the second , 'Υποφέρω', (Despoina Vandi) has no English – unfortunately – but it’s always hit the right spot for me over the last few years.

and here's the matching film clip to the above song

May 17, 2007


I sat in the park, with the mind in my lap. The ground rushed up, slapping me around a little, and this alerted me to the day, how dreary it could be. Except for the sun. It watched over us all, all shiny and it’s amazing isn’t it? The sun appears like a new light; it never fails to dazzle, except that my mind preferred to nuzzle against my lap. It was fucking amazing it didn’t slink to the pavement, to rub up against the few odd greenish-gray globules of bird shit.

The portents of doom? The question looped round my head, dropping down to my neck like a fat noose, ready to choke my optimism. The question of my eye falling on the shit had me for a moment; whacky portents have filled the ages, and many dried parchments. Some swear by omens. I didn’t stick around the highway of doom for too long. Fantasies, a fortnight long, rose up like a foamy wave and tumbled through the near arid plains within.

I tend to gravitate toward awkwardness, particularly the moment where the knees jellify around about the second a person’s mouth opens, and their head approaches your face. There’s no time to consider doom, or crap kissing techniques. The mouth opens, and you can’t avoid it. It’s there, and it’s comin’ for you and you have two choices; absolutes.

To yield or not to yield.

There are no half measures with the first kiss. There are no shades of gray, and I adore these moments for that reason alone. Gray is way too drab; almost lifeless or about as lively as a snail race, and for some reason these very shades are often depicted as variations; there is no black or white, only shades of grey. Bullshititis.

The awkwardness may give way to outright dread. Limits provide excitement.

This or that. Two choices.

It isn’t limited to the kiss…

It can be the first stroke; hand holding, shoulder slaps or the demure caress of the upper thigh. A subtle pat of the knee, or the wink of the eye. This is true foreplay, and it seems like an eon to get from this level to the hot zone where bodily fluids are exchanged, where mouths meet and core temperature rises.

One can never be certain most of the time. Things are never cut and dried, but there’s no harm in desiring the tropical stickiness that heralds intimacy and sexual exploration. As much as I try to sever the nascent limb, heralding desire, it snaps back like a rubber band. My mind pulses; each sting regenerates other streams of thought, and each concept twirls round my face, rouging my cheeks.

It’s difficult to believe that I’ve gone from zero or nil desire - the last two years - to one track mindedness in the space of a few weeks.

Insanity manifests as the sticky coat of desire between my legs. It greets me at the end of the day, and I peel it away, thinking…


Only to awaken the next day, and swim through another torrent by the day’s end. To then arrive home, detect the slippery river, and imbibe the fragrance, is to confront this heady mixture of desire and uncertainty. It arouses, detracts, and while it may fuel one’s energy, it’s also draining toward the end of the night when all the lustful crimson colored demons come out to play.

The cycle renews itself at the dawning of the new day, and I find myself transported into a hellish, lustful purgatory. What's more? I like it.

May 12, 2007


I think phermones hang about like bacteria on cold surfaces. The teensy weensy molecules are up and about at first, whirling in the air, and as we all know what goes up must come down, so I think his pheromones are surrounding my work desk, and oh my…

This afternoon I sat with on leg over the other, punching in data and my mind randomly drifted into the place of want, lust, daydreams and sex. These elements twirl round and round, like an x rated ceiling mobile. I can be in bed at night, staring at the ceiling above, picturing all sorts of things as I’m stuck in my own languor.

It eventually fades, and I continue on with the domestic chores, but my return to the daily grind these last few weeks has seen a small transformation and I’m considering the evolutionary aspects; there has never been anyone remotely arousing in the domain, not until he walked in, and I’ve been preening like a peacock except I don’t prance around with my arse in the air shaking my tail feathers.

Continue reading "Midnight" »

May 05, 2007



"but my priest says
you ain't savin' no souls
my father says
you ain't makin' any money
my doctor says
you just took it to the limit
and here I stand
with this sword in my hand" - Take to the Sky (Tori Amos)

There was little possibility of fate exploding in a menagerie of colour. The afternoon wilted, and he disappeared on my return. The earlier part of the day saw him transplanted to another section, not too distant from where I sat. He initially arrived, stopping less than a metre away from my peripheral vision, and I danced from within as excitement strummed the inner chord of desire to get a little closer. There's danger within conventionality or the daily humdrum of work and chatter, so I fled at the first opportunity. Defeat sprang up, slapping my mind. Hungry to make a temporary exit, and seek eupnea, my legs carried me through doors. The need to tweak some form of serendipity, within a clocked out city, inspired a jet of caffeine. So there he was standing further down the street; I couldn't avoid him.

It's incredible how a moment can invert the cloud of dejection; he stood, back facing me and I followed by compulsion, tapped him on the shoulder.

'Hey, how are you?'

'Where are you going?'


'If you're not doing anything later...come down to ...'

I took a little raincheck. Things like domestic tasks awaited me, that, and I'd finish up late at work.

Potential is an aphrodisiac.

May 01, 2007


The English version below doesn’t make that much sense to me because I’d originally thought it ‘Greek’, and wrote it in Greek…that is, my impoverished Greek.


Είμουνα στο μικρό χωριό, στο μέρος που ονωμάζετε γράφειο και η ματιά του με πύροβόλισε. Ξέρεις τι πάει να πει να μένεις επιτόπου;

Ο επισκεύτης…

Το θαυμάσιο πλάζμα…

Μια αντρική οικόνα που με τρώι ζοντανή. Nα τοv θέλο, να διψάω.

Ο οργανισμός μου τον τραβάει, λες και να ειναι ναρκωτικό. Τα σαρκόδη χείλη του, μια κόκκινη παπαρούνα που λιώνει και πέρνει αλλη μόρφη. Το όπιο που ζητω, που ξεπερνάει τα άστρα και αναστατώνει τη ψύχη μου.

Αντρική οικόνα ένος αντρας, απάνο στα χείλη μου και στο κορμή.


It was within the little village, in the place called an office that his gaze struck me like a bullet. Do you know what it means to be paralyzed?

The visitor…

The wonderful being…

An icon of masculinity, that eats me alive. I want him. I thirst.

I crave him like one craves a narcotic. His full lips are like a red poppy, which melts and changes state. He is the opium that transcends the stars and ruffles my soul.

An icon of a man, on my lips and body.

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