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The Cozy Spot



44 posts categorized "erotic"

April 29, 2008

Anything

How long before a person transforms into greasy convenient fast food burgers and forgets haute cuisine?
I never thought of comparing people to burgers but I threw my canvas against the wall, watching my easel tremble on the parquet floor. My paintbrushes followed, expressing their angst with wet multicolored smudges along the wall they hit. There was I, splayed out on the bed while my lover at the time, prepared to land his Apollo space shuttle. I could have been a fast food drive-through. He finished in a time frame that would have puzzled Albert Einstein. We didn't manage to swap positions and my eyes stared at the ceiling hoping for something that the Richter scale could measure. My taste buds soured at all this sex business and my own mind reprimanded my inner need to find the perfect male life model. It appeared that all experienced men my age or over had it all in the bag. My dirty Thirties were being laundered right before my eyes and I had little choice but to pull the plug on the whole debacle.
'I'm sorry, I'm busy,' said I to the astronaut on the other side.
'Aw, come on Samantha…' he whined, ‘we’re still on for tomorrow…’
‘No we’re not. I’m not painting you anymore, my inspiration has vanished. I’ll mail you your deposit!’
I shook my head and pressed the end button.
~~
'It's the same, as they are on a mission to reach their ultimate destination - eternal astronauts that are focused on landing on the red throbbing planet.'
I stared at my diary entry and thought of double beef patties on a sesame seed bun. Intimacy gradually resembled a generic plan where journeys ceased to matter. I gathered my toughened hide, sketchpad, and ambled to my nearest burger joint. The ten-minute walk justified the calories I'd ingest and after I collected my pre-fashioned meal, I found an outside table.
'Hi, do you mind if I sit here? The other tables are full.'
My eyes transformed into a separate entity. He, a definite decade younger than me, launched a lust missile into my brain. His glossy black hair, tied back into a short ponytail, begged for release and his bulbous lips reminded me of strawberries.
'It gets like that in here.'
'I've never been here, stopping by after work,' he said, lowering himself onto the plastic seat.
Our conversation took off like Concorde. David and I sat in the café for two hours and before I could slap my cheek to remind myself of our age gap, his hand covered mine. A virile twenty-three compared to my thirty-three, I agreed to a nocturnal seaside supper on the edge of Bondi Beach.
~~
Invisible fingers massaged my mind as we sat on a blanket watching black waves stroll to the shore.
Without any forethought, I rotated my head to stretch my neck and ease the busy locusts in my stomach.
'Here,' said David as his hands gently massaged my shoulders.
'That's good. I don't usually…'
I felt his velvet tongue dance on my neck. Its wet trail linked with my mind and each mental lens magnified the sensation. Every skin receptor tingled with delight and my conscious mind was at a loss. He opted for a slow journey as black, velvety waves met the sandy shore. A ten minute interval elapsed by the time the tip of his tongue found my earlobe. My hunger pangs rampantly demanded attention.
Our lips throbbed after three hours. My knees, liquefied by his ardor, trembled as his tongue danced inside my lips. His mouth served to draw out my essence in gradual steps. Our bodies mingled on the grass and our languid limbs tangled as we feasted. David's staggering arousal sculpted the throbbing monolith between his legs; his deft fingers slowly pried apart the moist petals between my legs.
'Your lips are sweet,' he murmured, fanning my mouth with his hot breath.
Clothed, albeit creased, we focused on the journey.
'I'm so…' He whispered, stroking my hair with his long fingers.
'I know…
I covered his lips with a lingering kiss as I slid over his sturdy body, melting to the tune of his husky moan as he slid into my core. A life drawing in motion, his hips slid against mine.
‘David,’ I whispered, revisiting Michelangelo’s sculpture.
His eyes glimmered, illuminated by a crescent moon.
Each agile hand of his braced my hips and guided my pelvis over his pulsating shaft.
‘Dance for me,’ he moaned.
‘I wanna paint you…’ I whispered, breathless with lust.
‘Anything you want…’ he murmured.

March 31, 2008

Lights,Camera,Suction

The below story is written from a male perspective, and was first published at Tit-elation.com more than a year ago. I decided to change the title of it now, only because the original title was far too long. It was written a while back. I settled for "Lights,Camera,Suction," because it involves a main character that is within the film industry. All the erotic elements are below the 'read more' link.

~~

Lights,Camera,Suction

Thea and I go back; so far back that I remember pulling her braids in kindergarten. I recall her calling me a naughty little boy. She couldn’t find the blue crayon to finish off her pretty sketch and I decided I’d hide it in my pants. Our childhood relationship grew thornier as we progressed through to elementary school. Her hair, elegantly braided by her doting mother, held me transfixed.

‘You suck!’ she hollered, throwing a HB pencil directly toward my head.

‘Watch it!’ I replied, giggling at her reaction. I remember the pleasure I felt when Miss Struthers, our class teacher, organized the seating arrangements. I had Thea next to me for the better part of the year. The same ritual applied where, at some point during the day, I’d wave my fingers under my nose and loudly proclaim that Thea let off a deadly silent fart.

‘Miss!’ she wailed.

The other ugly reality was that I was the one who let off the ghastly methane fuel jets out of my ass.

‘Yes Thea?’

‘Jim’s being…’

‘What is it Thea?’

The entire class focused on Thea. All twenty-five pairs of eyes regarded her with uncertainty and some of the other girls frowned with disdain. I was the most popular boy, after all.

Continue reading "Lights,Camera,Suction" »

March 30, 2008

Naked Lunch

This is a story I wrote a little while back. It's an erotic girl-girl story.

Naked Lunch

‘You haven’t shown up lately,’ the husky voice, a product of winter and perhaps a few too many cigarettes, lunged at me. I felt a hundred pairs of eyes flick toward me within the small lecture hall. The few seconds that it took, for me to look at Dr Jansen, felt like hours. Her green eyes blazed like perfectly cut gems. I opened my mouth to speak, and a minute squeak erupted from my larynx.
‘I’ve been…’ my face prickled.
I covered for someone at work…
My bus was late…
I had a doctor’s appointment…

Each rehearsed lie fluttered inside my head at the frequency of an agitated pigeon repeatedly slamming against a windowpane.
I slept in after cramming for examination she was about to hand out. She gathered the small pile of papers and stepped forward. Her black culottes loosely draped her curved thighs, and danced to her every step.
‘Take one and pass the rest along,’ she instructed. My fingers gripped the papers while my mind tried to resurrect all the organic compounds I tried to memorize. Each molecule, bond and element, fragmented when her eyes briefly met mine. The three hours that followed saw me with my head down, scribbling answers to questions that barely had meaning. Dr Jansen uncannily structured the examination, leaving little room for us to check our answers. My heart galloped within my chest as the minutes bore down.

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November 09, 2007

Incantation - fiction

Incantation is longer short story. It's a mix: crime, sci-fi, erotica, and other things. I hope that readers enjoy it, as I enjoyed writing it.

Incantation

And he showed me all the secrets of the ends of heaven and all the storehouses of all the stars and the lights, from where they come out before the holy ones.” The Book of Enoch 71,3-4

Prologue:

Rosemary was one of the fortunate few who entered the sector that her society had affectionately baptized the Humanity Zone. She remembered her first day, being scanned from head to toe, entering the zone for her first job as a consultant (they may have eradicated deformities, and other psychological disturbances, but crime is something they’ve never managed to eradicate) or, profiler. She rushed home the next day to tell her group or The Final Frontier, as they preferred to call themselves; they’d never reproduce.

“A nuclear family?” Katie, the youngest of their group, shook her head, “a complete unit?”

“Some of them have a small army of children,” she said, feeling their eyes peel her away piece by piece; she hadn’t seen a child for years. The new arrivals were settled a few districts away, and each district was guarded around the clock.

“How many?”

“As many as four,” Rosemary nodded.

“Four?” piped Raul.

“Oh yeah, four…I saw a family with four, all walking to some leisure center.”

Her stories exhausted them. She was never allowed to approach any children in the perfect sector, and the children she’d approach would smile initially, then their parents would intercede, pulling them away the moment they saw the mark on her hand; she wasn’t permitted to wear gloves. She tried that once, to be cautioned by a random inspector. Status Concealment.

Her work enabled her to keep her chin up; they may be perfect on the outside, but they’re far from perfect from within. Up to her eyeballs tracking a rapist, and working on a deadline, Rosemary followed each crime scene, interviewing the women, who in normal circumstances would find her repulsive; others created interesting diversions…

“She left the door unlocked?” she walked through the front door, noticing the security grids.

“She stepped out for a moment…”

A moment in time, she thought.

“Where is she?”

“Not here, I’m afraid.”

“The scene?”

“Bedroom.”

“Traditional…”

“Hmm…just do your job.”

He introduced himself as Jake, and had little time for small talk. She noted a wedding band on his finger: a traditionalist. His phone rang. His wife. He spoke in whispers, frowning in places before telling the voice on the other end that he’d be home soon. “It will be all right honey, call your mother if it gets worse. I have some loose ends to tie up.”

A first time father, which was strange considering he was a clone. She didn’t want to explore it further. Law enforcing officers were all cloned to enable behavior modification.

Rosemary gazed at the disheveled bedroom. Half stripped bed, a couple of drops of blood, nothing dramatic to indicate any severe injury; a cut lip perhaps, a small cut nonetheless, and something caught her eye. A glint of metal; she bent down, and fished the object out from under the bed, incredulous at her luck or the victim’s stupidity; all doors were opened willingly and all relied on optical scans. This case was the anomaly. All other victims were taken from behind, on the way home.

“Is her husband in law enforcement?”

“Accountant.”

“Hmm…”

It is possible that the object is his, but if so, there’d be no reason to hide it under the bed. They’d know…. they’d return it to its rightful drawer.

“Where is he?”

“In Singapore. He’s at a conference.”

“I think you need to interrogate her before she puts an innocent man away.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s having an affair.”

“How preposterous.”

“They played a few games, sadomasochistic. She probably has a cut lip or a minor cut around her breasts. Knife play…” she pulled out the shiny handcuffs and tossed them to the coffee table.

“Enough!”

“Shit Sherlock, only a 20th Century rapist would leave enough sperm to paint a house. Did you look at that bed?”

She almost heaved at the sight of the encrusted loads.

Continue reading "Incantation - fiction" »

September 25, 2007

Espada

“I have a living demon in my pocket, care to take a peek?”

The latter conversation turned at this point, and began without a moment’s notice. Bored with the flimsy Vogue brigade, I leaned against the bar, hoping that a sequential train of martini’s would spirit away my disenchantment. I had previously unloaded a torrent of piss in the Ladies, and had the luxury of watching a coiffed Amazon in a tailored Armani suit exit the cubicle; glass of champagne in hand. Style and poise can never be bought. The bitch had the nerve to flush. I played it out in seconds. She wiped her pussy with a scrap of toilet paper, flushed (without a glove, contacting the steel button with her finger) and held the glass. She smiled coldly as she brushed past me, and I thought…

She’ll be stroking someone’s hair (with her icky hand), possibly stroke the corner of a mouth. Yeah, baby. You turn me on baby, and the other, engulfed with a hard on the size of an obelisk, would nod and hope to hell that she sucked his cock. Things I think about… disturbing…

So, he thought I was joking. Perhaps I had one too many. I informed him of his outright piggishMatador09  attitude. Easy assumptions, I thought, remembering my moment in the bathroom and all the assumptions I’d made, but surely she walked out with a glass in her hand straight after flushing, so I bailed myself out and introduced myself. He played the nervous deer rather well. I was briefly disappointed, thinking that the time, nearing midnight, would have offered me a stag for the evening. Instead, I received a novice or eager cock and this unfastened my verve a little. What did I hope to gain, other than terrifying the fucker? He had appeal, that eager beaver anxiety that manifest in his creases, as his off the rack mass-produced suit attested. He was new to the game, spent many moments gazing at the crowd wondering what the fuck he was doing here, before remembering that he went along with the boys. New job, new friends, impressions counted; the usual variety of bullshit one tolerates from time to time.

He smiled, adjusted his tie a little (so as to breathe through the recently cleared air, as I salivated for a cigarette?) and asked me where I was from. What building. Which street and block? I told him that I had no interest talking shop, and asked him about his favorite music. Adolescent, I know, but who can be arsed discussing the day at work after a nightmarish episode with a frazzled client, who couldn’t see black from white, and had difficulty distinguishing night from day?

“I bet you’re an accountant,” I said, jokingly I may add, and he surprised me with a slow nod. I surprised myself. I thought I lost all my perceptual powers. Being a full time skeptic for a year can do that to a person. Not bad, I thought, considering I assessed him based on his looks. Full pink lips, lower lip slightly larger than the upper lip, and no pussy tickler in sight. Can’t stand the tuft of chin hair. What the fuck is it with that? Fear?

“You’re pretty good. How’d you guess?” Boyish, almost virginal, his lips stretched into a broad grin, as though I congratulated him on his first football goal. Go Beckham go, and be sure to lick the apex of my vulva! That’s the lad…

“I’m lucky,” I replied, taking another sip and following the gulp with another lewd thought, such as my hope to get lucky, although I didn’t put it down to luck, more about nous and sass, taking what’s desired and seeing an opportunity for what it is.

“Can I buy you another?”

“Ever the gent.”

How quaint. How routine, and that’s when the drums roared, and my stomach quickened a little. His hands, oh so beautiful and long, right down to his spatulate fingertips; scoop me out, eat me up until I-scream.

He lubricated my thoughts with candid statements; he liked the length of my hair, the way it gathered the light and reflected a kaleidoscope of colors; an amateur poet, the best kind, for all the others are fucking poseurs who dream of being Lord Byron with fancy airs, and bullshit words. One can almost see them counting syllables and vowels.

I complimented him on his naiveté; he had balls, or something I could attribute to guts, standing at the bar talking to me, laughing at my silliness. I needed a cigarette and why? He laughed, while castigating me, selling me the same line, and under normal circumstances, had he been some vintage gent, I would have ripped off a few shreds, told him to forward his disdain to the appropriate government body, and stick his cock up his arse, but this one…

I could entwine my limbs around his waist, ride him to the very depth of hell, and he wouldn’t question it. I like that, adore it. It’s right up there with my other vices…

I leaned in a little, offered him a slice of fragrance, noticed that his nostrils flared slightly. He absorbed silently. Another plus, and I absorbed his fading scent, detecting a note of nervous perspiration and fought the urge to run my tongue along his Adam’s apple. It bobbed, and I bobbed from within, each ligament loosening with the ease of a silk ribbon.

It was rather cliché, standing in a watering hole watching the scenery, but what other way? In front of a flickering screen, using those digits on a keyboard when I could have been using them in the space of real time, tickling the satin down lining his inner thighs? You tell me…

Each drink added more waves, until the natural tide turned and the wavelets formed a huge ripple that towed me into a mythical land. The beverage swirled within my brain like a seductive Jinn, promising the world, under its fiery breath and our words relaxed. We barely uttered dull leaden sentences that were weighted in polite observation, such as the weather. We jested and flirted. I told him I was a demon, ready to inhale his soul and he laughed at that.

“What would you be if you had a choice?” I posed the question, and waited, my finger lightly tapping his hand.

“I’d have to think about it,” he said.

“No time to think. Now. Right now.”

“Right now, straight off?”

“People think too much. Stupid thoughts like fear and bullshit.”

“A matador.”

“I’m beginning to like you,” I lied, I liked him from the very second he opened his mouth; his lips imprisoned my mind. All I could do was consider the various positions my lips could adopt. Push, pull, tug, and suck. My tongue would fuck his, until he struggled for breath and his rigid prick rubbed against the band of his trousers. Raw.

His choice intrigued me…

Motivation surfaced at my fingertips; the hellish urge to dip into my panties raced through my thoughts like a foaming wave just before the break.

“You’re definitely not a vegetarian,” I noted, downing the remainder of my drink.

He impressed me; he did…so flamboyantly naïve in his eagerness to impress.

“You know what it means?”

I feigned ignorance.

“I know what they do, but the word seems to be a blur.”

“Killer.”

“Really?” Eyes widening like a vestal virgin plucking a harp for a heavenly concerto, my fingers traced many paths; desire, need, and fury, to name a few. Many wanted to be fucking astronauts, experience weightlessness, anything but blood, gore and possible death.

It began as a thought, and erupted into speech.

“I have a living demon in my pocket, care to take a peek?” His hand fitted in mine, the muscular trappings of his palm bolstered my resolve, and in no time at all he found himself in a tropical climate, one that was isolated by my hips.

“I plan on taking it all off,” I began, unleashing a fresh warm gust against his ear, waiting a second or three in case he ran away screaming like an emo girl. I planned a lot of things, and they tumbled together like a load of mixed colors. The rainbow writhed and contorted, finally stretching out to form a magic carpet that held me aloft. He inhaled, eyeing me with a mixture of emotions. His knuckles circled my crotch, intensifying by the second. I told him that I wanted his cigar, feeling to find the rising bulge. He blinked, and sighed. I licked my lips and waited.

Minutes coagulated. Each step we took, out the door and down the stairs, felt like the path to purgatory. Come on, I thought. He tugged my arm. Telepathic lust. Was that possible?

We raced through Hyde Park. Crisp air stung our cheeks, and my heel sank into the lawn, almost tipping me over. Come on! I imagined him naked, a wild man running through jungle; he stepped back in time, following his urges and I followed his fragrance like a primitive bride before the world created its fancy matrimonial prisons, opening my mouth to inhale every trace.

The darkness obscures many things. The metal teeth of his zip unfurled, melting into the air; energy transfer, who knew what would become of it? Fruit bats hovered high above, their leathery wings slapping against air. Night fell onto his cock; I couldn’t see it, but that meant little. I didn’t have to see it; it was like a hungry predator, a jaguar hiding in the foliage waiting for the ideal moment. I felt it before I touched it. Its weight commanded the foot long distance between us.

I grappled with it, fumbled in the dark and whispered the ‘me oh my, how I want it so very much’. It responded, stiffening in salute. He groaned as I stroked him dry, using my other hand to cradle his taut sack. The stars above had nothing on me. He clumsily raised my skirt, and treated me to a full scoop. It was then that I remembered my appetite or craving, and latched onto those lips. A tickle, nip, bite and suckle, the lugubrious world of yesterday could go to the shithouse for all I cared. His warm shaft cradled my desire, steered my thoughts and I navigated like a manic captain, ignoring the slutty Siren call, for the need to travel into his depth overtook my hand.

“You do enjoy it, don’t you? My hard matador,” my throat strained a little, and my hands engulfed his flesh, massaging his appendage until he ejected a stream of husky gibberish, until his spittle coated my lips. Ahh…Ghaaa… fu…ahhh…and I didn’t falter, even when my bare knees met the damp grass. His cock transformed into many things; icy pops, lipstick. I ran his length along my cheek, “just checking for a pulse.” I liberally applied many coats, circumnavigating my mouth; Dior, Chanel, Revlon, Max Factor; they could all go fuck themselves, and couldn’t compare to this stick of salty-sweet warmth.

He swam at first, just at the tip, and then he came into being.

I told you I had a living demon….

And it hitched a ride into his subconscious, directing his hips. Each elegantly aimed stroke tickled a new nerve. His cock swished and shimmied, and the tangy flavor of his skin migrated to my tongue. Grace, agility and fantastic coordination: a true matador, at least for the lush moment that transpired, for as long as my tetchy pussy lasted…

I needed a spike…the espada

I balanced, hands scraping against bark. His hand steadied my head, covering my mouth. I almost cried out; the bark scratched, as though annoyed by the interference. Two hundred dollars of wooden heel sank into the ground, meeting the point of origin once again. One with the gnarled century old tree, one with the body behind me as it slid with metallic precision into the bubbling warmth.

He wriggled into position, unleashing his guttural moans like a febrile Shaman. Fucking me into position, going where many have gone before, but with finesse. Inspecting each corridor and sticky corner, jamming me with his prick until the bark met my cheek, leaving a mark (that would greet me come morning). The maximum tensile force in each strand of hair, as he pulled, illuminated more stars. They danced behind my eyelids, like an exploding rainbow. He prodded, thrust and stuffed…

Until I bit into his palm, drawing the sweetest droplet of blood, detonating his primal sequence until he felt the chain reaction shift the ground beneath him…

Until he parted me further (and I cried), as the bats continued chirping, circling up above.

END

espada = sword

Image: ESPN

August 25, 2007

Slut - Aural Fiction

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For those desiring the text version of the above aural story, click below blue highlighted continuation link.

I thought I'd sort of reveal what kind of emotions drift through my head. Text tends to drown it out, adding a literary uniformity that tends to minimize the actual voice. Who knows, I'm thinking of commencing podcasts, instead of the usual type written passage on most days, now that I've downloaded an ace recorder and no longer need the crappy recorder that comes as part of the XP package.

PS: This is what I actually sound like (eek!)

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July 17, 2007

Gravity

I’m in bed, doing things I shouldn’t be doing in a bed like blow smoke rings toward the ceiling. My masseter and temporomandibular joint work away, producing silver-gray rings. The muscle and joint are also responsible for…blowjobs.

I think of nothing, or minor things, like the way he invokes pleasurable images. I think about the texture of his skin and I take a leap, explore his obsidian-like rod between his legs. The image shifts, he has an erection and he’s planning a blitzkrieg. I’m the target, of course, with a pink painted bulls eye across my pubis.

The target can be round, or painted like a love heart. I can be his biological Valentine card, complete with a jagged pulse. Each undulation alarms, twists me into a tight helix. The muscle is beastly, powering at high speed. 7 Horsepower; a stampeding wildebeest powers through my chest until my flesh tears open and slick innards coat the pastel walls; blood arcs in the air. We’re talking 200/180, for my blood to slide down until my bewitched eyes throb. Gravity is an elegant dancer, affecting everything, including my roving fingers and arm. Smooth, rhythmic and fluid. A dynamic that is taken for granted; what would Galileo think? I’m not playing with balls, I’m playing with myself and like Copernicus, gaze toward the distant star -Penis Centauri. He’s such a fine specimen, and I’m a mere cosmonaut. I float briefly, to come like a supernova, disappearing further into a black hole, like…

Smoke.

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" »

June 30, 2007

Four Leaf Clover

“Fighting for peace is like screwing for virginity, and I thought I’d add…screwing for self-esteem is like mutilating oneself like a cutter…sitting in a secret corner, silent as a mouse, hoping no one will hear, let alone walk in on the bloody act…

It’s something that eludes my comprehension.

Get a punching bag.

Cuss.

Lash out, and tell that motherfucker to get knotted.

You won’t go to hell…

It’s not a given, there’s no definitive proof…All the holy men. Who are they? They are flesh, blood and bone; perishables that will dissolve in the earth, mere nutrients for insects as the world continues to turn, burn, churn and erode..

No one returns to say otherwise, or provide a bona fide proof that profanity will mar our hallowed entry into the realm of halos, angelic wings and pristine surroundings, should that realm exists…spend a lifetime pondering it…where will it get you when you’re inhaling the final breath?

It’ll be too late to rue.

Too late to cry…

Finish.

Caputo.

C’es Fini…

Τέλος.”

Such thoughts or sentiments, matched the dimmed lounge. Each booth featured an array of sophisticated, if not, bourgeois patrons whose hands displayed glittering baubles; men wore pinky rings, while women allowed their creativity to take control. Some dared to display their 18 karat wedding bands and engagement rings, while others settled for abstract designs, spanning their ten digits.

A piano sounded in the background; mellow lullabies drifted through the room, like smoke, slipping through each crack or penetrating each microscopic pore. He sat opposite, one arm resting along the leather backrest to ooze more character than a method actor.

“It’s relaxing, isn’t it?”

Every square centimeter of flesh covering his face knitted together perfectly. I compared him to an oil painting. Each irregular daub formed a complex, lived-in portrait. His noble face could be included in a Roman setting. An orgy? I watched him raise his glass to his lips, noting his aquiline nose; nostrils flaring, the Martell eddied into his pleasure center, and his fingers slackened. He held the glass as though it were a breast, appreciating its weight and texture. Such hands could be considered a foreigner in a glam world. His thick fingers pried open a hothouse of blooms. His thick pinky boasted an unusual motif, and while I considered myself fortunate to avoid the dreaded wedding band, and faint tan line, I could not avoid the irony. Some displayed their initial, or boasted Onyx within a generic bezel setting.

I had to agree; idyllic surrounds enabled inner calm, even if one had to tolerate bourgeois phrases, sentences and discussion topics; each voice blended into the background, as those sorts of conversations usually do. I arrived at a fork in the road; there are no shades of grey here. It can be like an ancient warrior phrase; with your shield or on it, where every other in-between option is embarrassing. A shade of grey; the hue is ever so boring, a rainbow spectrum for the mild, meek and mind numbingly methodical.

He allows the fragrant liquid to lubricate his lips; the lizard king, he licks the corners of his mouth. I expect a set of fangs to materialize; I’m disappointed.

“We could talk all night. Comb through our hobbies, and occupational goals. We can dissect our brains like social neurosurgeons…or we can fuck,” it rolls out of my mouth, like a fine drop of dessert wine.

“You’re outrageous.” Eyes twinkling, his pinky taps against his glass. The gold ring glimmers, animating the four-leaf clover decorating his pinky finger.

“I’d call it luck. Do you consider yourself a lucky person?”

He dithers for a second, while I fine-tune his body, placing it above mine. I magnify to an unimaginable power, until I can glimpse his hair follicles rubbing against mine, warmth builds to a mind piercing frequency that pushes me off the libidinous cliff, for his skin to break underneath my nails. Blood will creep through his pores, initially, and his skin will begin prickle…

By the time I’m done, his back will resemble tic-tac-fucking-toe.

It’ll be too late to rue.

Too late to cry…

June 22, 2007

Endorphin

I’m not so sure if I did it intentionally, but it happened. Fifteen minutes passed before I realized that my voice descended into the temperate valley of enticing pleasure, or thoughts thereof. It can be an automatic response; making the grand exit, in a pornified manner wasn’t on the schedule but it happened.

It’s my bedroom voice, one that is slightly inappropriate in a standardized setting and I couldn’t be arsed stopping myself. Heavy breathing? Moi? It sure happened. I needed to inhale. I’m sure he didn’t have the time to sit there having a chin wag, but I stretched it…

I try to do that at almost every opportunity, because his voice is like honey; naturally refined, and oh so sweet. I’m sure I have a goofy look on my face every time I pick up; I’m hoping no one’s noticed this, then again I doubt that any one has. I face one particular direction, and its not as though any one stops to observe. I bet they’d notice the slight gradation of my pupils, as they dilate and as for my respiration?

I think of every intimate permutation and combination imaginable. I feel like saying that I’m unable to help, because I’m unable to concentrate one hundred percent on the task at hand; his voice lulls every neuron in my head. A lot like chocolate, and I’m a chocoholic.

I’m not sure what my voice is saying, not in an exact manner. I could be in the thick of discussion, and he’ll toss a few questions my way, and they’re conventional questions, bearing no relation to leisurely pursuits, hobbies or the latest film, but my response or my vocal tone loosens its grip.

I’ll respond, using standard sentences that are required of me, but each note dances.

My voice, or tone, is actually saying:

‘I’m thinking of flesh, your flesh. Although you’re talking to me, your oral cavity, from lip to tongue, is painting my thoughts right this instant. I’m entertaining your oral potential, undressing you with my mind, and transplanting you to another location; a hot running shower, bed, and bath (steam inclusive). It could be al fresco; our stripped bodies moving until we’re al dente.’

My mouth may be releasing conventional information, but the uncensored thought above twirls inside my head throughout the duration, caressing every endorphin.

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