sex

Emotional shotgun: feeling lonely during the holidays edition

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I have dreamed a thousand lives and in each you are there. I’ve kissed you a thousand ways. Made love to you with word and skin. Fucked like beasts. Commanded and caressed. But in each, you will not stay. All I have learned, all the pleasures, the highs and the lows, all my knowledge I bring and still you walk away. I bare my soul and jump with my heart wide open, and still you walk away. And so I wake, because why live in the dreaming if I cannot be with you. I wake and try to find a way to another.

But I cannot get away from us. Why are you still single? Always that question. Always the answer, “That’s complicated.” Hoping they let it go, hoping to allow you to know me better before most of my secrets come spilling out.

I suppose I could lie. That’s the logical thing to do. But I can’t betray your memory. I won’t lie. So they hear a tale of sadness and pain and depression and that’s no way to get a second or third date. Yes, date.

Netflix and chill is bullshit. Even if we get to the point where sex is involved, I’m going to refer to those nights as the nights we fuck. Or better, as scene’s. Give me some emotional connection or give me a paddle in my hand. Preferably both.

A proper date. With dancing, with music, with conversation.

Fuck! You can see how bad I am. I’m all over the place even just writing about looking for a relationship.

Just shortcut it. If you like me, read me, and call me SIR and mean it. We’ll get there. Roll the dice. Make a move. My caution comes from a good place, it’s not lack of assertiveness.

Or ask me to text you, apparently I’ll ramble on and on.

Emotional intimacy

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In a very immediate way, physical intimacy is an outgrowth of emotional intimacy. I know that is backwards of how it usually works. And there was a time when I tried to embrace that. But it never really clicked for me.

It’s a high then a crash to nothing. Fun in the moment, but we(writers/poets) don’t live in the moment. We live in the vastness of our minds. Exploring our lives and emotions. Coming to the surface to give this found secret to the world.

If I am emotionally connected, then there is a moment in my lovers eyes, an echo of that discovery, of that perfect moment of vulnerability and hope that takes me beyond the shores of physical pleasure. To a place of the mind. Taking them with me into my heart.

Maybe that is scary. To think that way. Or be thought of that way. Fear, this kind of fear, has always been an indication that I am doing something right.

Afraid , emotional and vulnerable. Thinks too much, cares too much. Broken and mending. Practiced and fumbling.

I am all of these things. But, if I love you, it will always be so. And though we may be parted, I will always carry you, my love for you, in my heart.

The forbidden

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These little games we say
Bound up
In shadow play

Words caught in mind
Scenes played out
In glances

Scent the air
With raw desire
Hands seconds from each other

Haunt my dreams
Stoke fires higher
Until a glimpse

Spills out
on the page
Wet rush

Sound of leather on skin
The soft crack
A sound stifled
By a bitten lip

Red and ginger
Sitting is the reminder
A void of remember

Just our words on the screen

Even in my dreams 

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I dreamed last night about a woman with dark hair. A bit curly. with dark eyes that smouldered. She had curves and valleys. She was looking for something and found me. I don’t believe that I was what she was looking for. We ended up in my bed. King size, cream colored silk sheets. With a 4 point suspension rig. Kissing her was like kissing a waterfall. Tentative, just the edge then power and passion that nearly wipes you away until you are standing in the middle, fierce joy and need, a fire burning. Our clothes disappeared and we stood with our imperfections baired. We fell on each other like starving wolves. Tongues and nails. Teeth and flesh. The first orgasm was a thing of abandon and need. Something that tore out of us to beat heavy on the warming air. We slowed long enough to hear her desire to fuck me with a strap on. Flash to me face down in the cooling sheet while she pounds into my ass with a fuschia dildo. It was glorious. Pain and pleasure and the thought of the beautiful woman wanting this. Flash to us spent on the bed.

I look quizzically at the suspension rig and she nods eagerly. She likes pain and being out of control, sometimes, then. I lock her in and suspend her. Black leather caressing and spreading her. Exposing her to me. Vulnerable. Safe. I take her. Edge her to orgasm then pull back. Until she’s writhing with need then push her over the edge. Again and again, until she is limp and spent. Her body shuddering in aftershocks. We are sweating and the air smells of sweat and other things. I get a towl. Soft. I clean her and myself off. She is falling asleep. I snuggle down next to her and sleep.

I wake some time later. She is gone. I rush out in a robe and find her walking home. I say, “Stay. You can stay. Have breakfast with me. Have lunch. Stay.”

She says, “I have to go. I’m looking for my daughter. I think I met you at the wrong time. We could have been something.”

I say, “Find her, then come back to me. You are safe here. Always.”

She just looks away.

I say, “There is no right moment, no perfect time. There is only this moment. This time.”

Then I woke up.

On writing poetry and sex

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When I want to write a poem but can’t seem to find the key to start, I begin to feel a yearning for the release of writing. It is almost lust. Very much akin to desire to touch and be desired and to lose ourselves in our bodies. Those moans of pleasure and need, giving over to mindless rut. Until payoff and, for me, emptiness. In sex, when I make the destination instead of the journey the goal, I feel empty, cored out after. When I write, I feel empty after but somehow hopeful and lighter. It’s not poetry but at least it’s something. Writing a piece like this leaves me both satiated and hungry for something more. It’s not what I wanted but it’s what was available. But the poem is what I want. Like having vanilla sex but wanting complexity. Or wanting to hear your voice set in orgasm and never quite getting you there. Disappointing, somewhat enjoyable and also, not enough.

Reflected star

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A candle flickers to life
Rasping the spark
Kind words a scourge
No balm to the furies within
Drinking midnight wine
Alone in my bed
Straps that held me down now hold me up
Consenting nonconsent
Strange the last flares of thought
Slipping into oblivion.

How it should be

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I want pull you up, heedless who watches
standing so close to you
my hot breathe against the pulse of heartsblood
small kisses trailing across the soft curve of neck
hands holding you close to me
body heat nearly unbearable
the scent of desire spilling from us
look deep into your eyes grown large with surprise
growl
you are mine. mine.
take your kiss as my rightful plunder
your tongue against mine
fast and rough
gliding and pressing
the floodgates of passion denied
press you down
sitting
removing your clothes
hands exploring every inch of you
soft kisses and bites on every exposed bit of you
Mine. mine.
holding your eyes
looking up
exposing your secret
your scent
tightening me
throbbing ache filled with tumultuous need to taste the storm of you
my lips against your pussy
mine, mine
taste of you dripping in my tongue
fingers stroking inside of you
kisses trailing up to your shuddering breast
fingers slick and pulsing in and out
thumb circling the soft nub of clit
licking your nipples
eyes holding you
bite down
marking you
mine, mine
bodies pressed so close
I take your mouth, lips pressed in with wild unbridled need
there is nought but you
you are my world
and we have just begun

Wax and wane

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There are days where I do not write of sensuality. Days where nary a tit or skin or lips are mentioned. It is on those days that I am so consumed by the thought of you that I cannot form coherent sentences. Instead, I dream of touching and being touched. Of spanking and tying you to our bed. Of tasting and licking until you writhe and beg me to cum. It is not that on days I write, I want you any less. Merely that on those days I am more in control.

Slow smile

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Face this wild abandon
this hedonistic pledge
this drifting cloud round red
us and dripping sweat
kneel and be mastered as you’ve mastered my heart
playing little games
but it all comes down to us
little pleasure games
bound up in lust
something lurking in the back
this drive
this need
this frozen kiss
lips only ever for you
I’m only ever for you