| (no subject) |
[Apr. 11th, 2005|04:07 pm] |
there are startling moments of inaccuracy
that pass through
in transcendent lulls and swells,
brief, thunderclap-quick.
little instances of that eminent addict wisdom,
(of the sort that only comes along with a sincere and heartfelt habit).
in which clarity takes on a hallucinatory quality, and then suddenly god!
so many philosophical inquires to deal with!
your poor troubled soul!:
-- will the lights burn out fast enough
to allow you a glimpse of the darkness?
-- could you possibly be one of the
spare creatures that, (with luck),
might survive the radical shift impending?
no one else seems to suffer these
alarming and intrusive effects, and me --
i’m doing all i can to keep from
toppling over into some genuine teenaged psychosis.
but, who cares?
eighteen years and suddenly
down smacked here in this strange little spot
with my fingertips all yellow from cigarettes.
a subtle god has entered the room, i tell you --
and I tell you, I did! -- gamble out that divine compromise,
so that you may one day rise up
from your chalk outline.
(and that cat, he lost hard, he did!,
in the final minutes before morning)
i look to the west and i see the patron angel of abandonment,
dragging his wings across a desert
(and he has turned his back to us!, cut us loose, set us free!)
left us lonely pilgrims in a land of doubt, trepidation, and dreams
despite knowing what horrors we were capable of post-emancipation!
and he knew, you betcha
that we would try to
talk those hiiigh midnight heavens down
with our throats full of smoke
weeping hysterically over the men who burned alive
(and what a spectacular vision of violence
and power that was, let me tell you!)
and failing to realize that those men were not unlucky.
but, let’s talk about me.
i feel slightly imprisoned by symmetry.
i’m a mess, really.
i connect only to those who suffer with me
(because it’s cheaper to buy one bag and divvy it up).
it’s not so hard to do.
there’s an entire generation of fallout kids:
boys with gauged eyes, dusting out their veins,
becoming monstrous demigods whose primal functions have been scratched off
one by one
(sleep. eat. fuck.)
and disenchanted motel blondes who habitually practice
babydoll voodooqueen cunt magic,
and poets who have been to the very fringes of the world,
who have met their gods and met their demons,
and forged a shaky language to contain them both
and they’re all --
all just wandering around with their heads shot off
by arguments for consciousness
(and that’s just the babylonian blues, baby!).
i’ve got my drugs, i’ve got my lover
and i can sometimes forget my loneliness,
but what i want, and what i need
will never be the same.
my mind sees only the empty spaces
and is blind to what is there.
(and, the spirit that took my eyes
has also taken yours.) |
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| Picturerama |
[Mar. 10th, 2005|12:50 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  bored | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds | ] |
( Read more... ) |
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| love on death row |
[Mar. 3rd, 2005|01:43 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | lonely | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | bright eyes -- land locked blues | ] |
None of us will die, I think.
We will become particles of light.
We've been together a year, this month.
A year seems like forever, until it passes -- and then, you realize it was a mere moment. Just long enough for a joke, a tear, a kiss.
The life I once inhabited seems so distant. Floating above the sand on the shore, thinking I was dying (and, Daniel, he was dead -- upstairs -- in that little hotel room on Collins Avenue), and I was clutching desperatly to every young fiber and cell. The city to the West was materialising and dematerialising and, for that moment, all the mattered was that I was alive. Here. There. In this terrible hyper-reality of cocaine and angel dust.
Have all my past wounds been cauterized?
Perhaps I did die that night. Me, and not him. Reborn, recast.
This does not change the fact that I feel tremendously alone. That those who might understand my strange mechanics are few and far between, and that they -- themselves -- are often too embattled to offer relief from the isolation. Perhaps there never will be a place for people like us. I read, I write. I have my drugs, I have a lover. They offer what levity they can.
But, things are better, now. And, me, I get a little bit better every day.
I may be the voice that sings, but this song is the song of the earth. And, it will go on and on, and many years will pass in the blink of an eye. And, I will look back to remember instants, not days. His breath against my throat. A sunset of unearthly colors that had never before, nor would ever again, exist on earth. The sad note of an acoustic guitar. Springtime, and rain, and fear, and love, and poetry.
It would be easier if we could open up each other. And, why not? We were all created from the same speck of stardust, and burst into the infinite wilderness of the universe. We were torn asunder, unwillingly, and now seperated by vast fields of black matter and infinite space. But, our souls remember what it was like to be complete -- and we try to come together, to merge again.
I tell him how afraid I am. One day, we will be seperated by death, or by life, or a twist of plot.
He laughs at me. It's comforting, in a way. He says, Don't worry. There are other lives than this. |
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| confessions of a nymphet |
[Feb. 17th, 2005|11:22 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | guilty | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | my chemical romance | ] |
I have a confession.
I've toyed with the heart of yet another older gentlemen, simply because I could.
To make matters worse, he is a good friend of my very own personal Hum, my N, my heart.
No actual physical contact took place, which I am grateful for (because deceiving N would tear me apart). And, I'm not certain that I intended for him to fall in love with me, did I?
Ah, to be a nymphet and unable to control your powers of seduction.
I wrote this poor fellow a letter, hoping it might do something to amend my actions.
Oh, I've been such a disgusting girl.
* * *
My letter:
Where do I begin?
Apologizing seems pointless -- it has no power to change anything in a situation such as this one, nor do I feel that am I due for an apology. I hope that you realize that I had no malicious intentions going into this, that I do care about you deeply and worry over you, and that I'm upset things ended this way.
I wish you could understand that, at this point in my life, I need to be driven by my heart. I am very much in love with the man that I am with, but I can understand your arguments for the fallacy of it all (because I have heard them before, trust me) -- and still, if I leave him now, I would be full of regret for the remainder of my life. No relationship is perfect, but this is as close to it as I've ever felt. I know it may not seem like that to you, because you rarely see it's brighter side, nor do you see us in private -- and I rarely divulge that information, simply because it is between N and me. I should never have used you as an outlet for my complaints, that was a mistake. I'm afraid I gave you the wrong impression in doing so.
I can be an insatiable flirt sometimes. It is a flaw, but there is no malice behind it. I did feel an initial infatuation for you, but please understand that the feelings I have for N -- the love, the intimacy, the passion -- I do not have for you, whether or not he is in the picture. I do not know how I can put that without it being hurtful. The truth is, I see no flaws in you -- in fact, I think you're wonderful -- but the sad truth is that sometimes the spark is not present and that is what separates friends from lovers. I know that you're going to feel a sense of rejection no matter how I say it, and I wish I could shield you from that. I can't. And, for that, I am sorry.
I don't know if you can truly love me, because you don't truly know me. You have glimpsed my bad side, here and there, but we have spent too little time together for you to get a sense of who I really am. Men sometimes fall in love with the image of me -- the youth and the age thrown together in one body, the illusion of frailty, the strange spiritualism, the life, the sexuality -- but, within this, my flaws become romanticized until the moment in which they are entirely visible in all their hideousness. I will stumble in and out of addictions, I will resent you for your dependability, I will swing between neediness and ignoring you entirely, I will fuel your jealousy, I will play mind games. And, if you attempt to tame me, I will only lash out. I am not an easy person to maintain a relationship with; I am insecure yet wildly narcissistic, I live in two alternating states, and I never know just what it is I want.
I wish we could look past all this and learn to be friends. Would that ever work? It's doubtful, isn't it? Because feelings can't be suppressed, and eventually yours would darken -- turn into hate. I've tried to lessen that, by not lying to you. But, I know how these things work. I lived them too, remember? And, I forgave, I allowed amends -- I wish you could do the same for me. If you want to try, it would make me very happy, and I'm all for it. If not, I suppose I must understand. I will always want the best for you, and wonder about you, and my memories of you will only be fond.
Please, talk to me? Let me know what you're feeling, even if only to say good-bye.
-- K |
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| effin' valentine's day adorableness |
[Feb. 15th, 2005|11:10 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  fuzzy | ] |
Yey, the Lincoln returns!
The obligatory self-portrait of myself, taken in the rear-view mirror of my car.
And, the obligatory picture of N smoking.
Now, ain't we just darling? |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 4th, 2005|12:38 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | sleepy | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | carmina burana | ] |
He wants to go to New York in the spring. The more he talks about it, the more delirious I become and the more fantastic the idea grows in my mind. All my roads begin in and end in the city. I think about dangling over a balcony in the Chelsea Hotel -- him, appearing behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I think about wandering in and out of the shops on St. Mark's, the little gardens on Avenue B. CBGB, the KGB bar, the Bowery Ballroom -- those sad, old places filled with ghosts and little particles of bad luck.
I was born in Manhattan -- but he knows a city that might as well be alien to me.
I had been an Upper East Side girl who's wanderings had jolted her downtown -- some bohemian aspirant, alone and almost out of her mind. His New York was the New York that I had romanticized from the junkies baying together on the sidewalk, and the girls dancing in Tompkins Square Park -- their muscles sliding beautifully beneath their skin. The New York I had dreamed off, smoking a cigarette in the cold-water flat of my painter-cokehead boyfriend, feeling my life washed away by the Velvet Underground record on the radio.
Perhaps N can recapture it for me -- that feverish idealism, the unshameful glamorization. This city, that I'd never been able to take quite as seriously since seeing it obliterated. Perhaps he can bring me, from the barest fringes of the earth, back to my home.
***
I tell him what the thunderbirds tell me in my dreams:
THE LAND is the only thing that can be worship with impunity, because it's grandeur is entirely indifferent. The land gives, the land receives -- the land heals, and the land destroys without judgment.
The thunderbirds tell me that there are indeed gods, who sometimes wander the earth in physical avatars, and who sometimes do meddle in the lives of humans (and sometimes too much for their own good). These gods were created by the belief of man, and subject to existence based only on recognition -- but, with the right kind of eyes, you can see them everywhere. They tell me that these gods, being man's creation, are flawed in man's image. The thunderbirds rear their heads back and roar: BELIEVE EVERYTHING.
I tell this all to N, and I think he wants to believe me.
I give him blue eyes painted on glass, and he hangs them in his home and at his work. He buys candles imprinted with the images of saints. He keeps all the shimmering stones and feathers that I pull from my garden.
"You are a witch," he tells me. And, then, being him, he must eschew spiritually with science. "I think you have a psionic control over probability."
I don't know what to answer. His silhouette is being consumed by the passing lights of cars, and there are still ghosts to attend to.
To get by in the world, you first assume a pose. Eventually, this pose becomes a posture, and soon -- only you will know what is truly going on behind the carefully placed components of your facade. You will never be totally sure if you are happy. This, you will find, is a good thing. Because if you have nothing to compare it to, you will never be totally sure if you are sad, either. You keep your hair brushed, you keep your nails painted -- and, sure, you may be dying on the inside, but at least you'll look gooooood while doing it.
What has always scared me about N is that he can see right through this. My first thought was his eyes could see beneath my skin. I had read once that the revelation of one's true name to another surrendered all power over to that individual and because of this, I had no secrets and I was afraid. He was clearly a fugitive of time, this man, still reeling from the blow of hallucinogens and angry trysts with monsters who had disguised themselves within the caricatures of men.
His love has rendered me powerless.
***
The more I think about the other K, the less I want to write about her. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 27th, 2005|08:18 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  distressed | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | moonlight mile -- the rolling stones | ] |
He is very quiet, lately.
We spend a lot of time in bed -- lighting cigarettes with our heads dipping towards the window, and counting the hundred-thousand myriad of galaxies through the curtain. He plays 'Moonlight Mile' and touches my hair. Somehow, we can sense the sinister transactions occuring in the world around us. And we concentrate, mostly, on occupying our warm, safe space in the night.
I talk nonsense. I tell him, "God is a child."
Sometimes, he answers. I hang on to his words until they break loose from gravity and dissolve somewhere high above me. Mostly, he just stares. He kisses my top lip, then my bottom. We make love, and then lay together, drifting in and out of conciousness.
I have the strangest dreams.
I dream that we are driving and driving in N's Lincoln. There are long stretches of darkness in which we can forget that we are human. We can feel ourselves vanishing -- vanishing hair and hands and mouths -- reducing into mere pin-points of ego, of awareness. And then suddenly back, back N, back K, enormous and complicated.
Perhaps it is because we are both artists, or both mad, or because drugs have rattled the machinery of both our brains. Gazing ahead, there is only the darkness of the highway. To the right and to the left -- monstrosities in our peripheral vision. Strange animals that coil and snap -- cats with the heads of snakes, wingless birds with rat-tails, and dog-men (men-dogs). Battered, raped women with huge fawn eyes and fur.
Neither of us dares to turn our heads to look out of the side windows, and confront these horrors directly. "Just keep going, just keep going," I mutter. Eventually, everything must end somewhere.
When the car filled with vibrations, a transmission of a painfully sweet chime, an impossible harmony -- N turns to me. "That is the song of the earth," he says.
It can only be sung in the manner in which it was meant to be sung.
Sometimes, I wake up and he's watching me. He says I'm a witch. He says I must know the secret names of the fire and of the rain.
He says he can't sleep without our bodies touching, and I crawl against him and push my head into his shoulder. But, we stay up, talking. We talk about cats (we both love cats), and we talk about robots, and we talk about the beatific halo of a mushroom cloud. I tell him how the physicts of the Manhattan Project had rushed towards the eruption, falling to their knees, ready to offer worship -- these pilgrams in a new land of doubt, trepidation, and dreams. I tell him what Oppenheimer said, because N doesn't know. Now physicts have known sin.
***
I think he is depressed because of the other K.
The other K. The other K.
I don't even like to think about her.
I like to pretend that she never existed. If I try hard enough, I can erase her from my memory. All the crimes that N and I commited against her, suddenly absolved. That we could be forgiven, and that those eight months of sorrow -- vanished, replaced by... replaced by untainted versions of our first kiss, and our first touch, and the first time he told me he loved me.
The other K.
She is the testament to my youth -- my naivety, my impulsiveness.
Sometimes, I wish I could apologize to her.
I'm sorry that I loved him so much. I'm sorry that he loved me back.
I'm sorry that I sleep in the bed the two of you once shared. I'm sorry that my pictures are in the frames that once held your face. I'm sorry that the sheets smell like me, now. I'm sorry I replaced your action figures with Byzantine ikons. I'm sorry that he whispers my name in his sleep.
If it will give you any comfort -- I weaken when I think of you. I shake. I can hardly type.
I'm going to cut this one short, I think.
I shouldn't write when I am guilty and jealous. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 25th, 2005|10:42 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | flirty | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | deadboy and the elephantment | ] |
There was a beauty, that if present in a girl, was very dangerous. A girl, not a woman, and sometimes it could be so hard to tell the difference. N had read Nabokov in prison -- the book had been too flowery for him, too riddled with metaphors, too obsessive -- but he had understood the potency of the nymphet. He understood that a woman could become a woman by fourteen, and that a girl might remain a girl until her twenties -- and that there was something immortal about these child lovers. Something in their round, porcelain faces. Something in their Botticelli hair. Something in their eyes that fell in love with the rainbows forming in split oil, with the leaves falling, and with sad, wounded men. Crowds often parted on the street for these girls without knowing why. And these girls, who could remain little girls for longer than the others -- they were hardly aware of their powers of seduction, let alone could they control them. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 25th, 2005|01:08 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  contemplative | ] |
The following events are true. Only the names have been changed, to protect the guilty.
The truth is, I could not have written a character like him.
I wish I could travel back and relive it all within his skin.
He spent his childhood on an island in Greece. I desperately want to believe that it truly is the way he speaks of it (which is the same manner in which we all speak of the places we spent our very first years -- before we are able to notice the desolation and the sorrow around us). There is something about that island that continues to draw my dreams -- I imagine the air must smell like wisteria and sea salt, and that springtime melts into summer and then back again. And then, to be suddenly lifted from here and dropped into the Lower East Side of New York City in the seventies -- from a winterless world into a world of cold, of neon, of chromium, and city streets.
It would be hard for me to write about his youth because I love him. The text would be riddled with too many justifications, too many explanations for why he did the things he did. That drugs were prevalent in that part of the city, in that decade -- and that his eventual descent into hallucinogens, and pills, and eventually heroin, was purely a fault of his environment. It was New York, and it was punk, and it was the eighties -- and the world was fraying at the edges.
People tend to glamorize this time and place now. The East Village -- the bohemians and the junkies, Andy Warhol, Lou Reed, the Chelsea Hotel, CBGB's, punk rock. The poverty is easily overlooked. People see the art -- but not the chemicals, the hunger, and the fear, that fueled it. And, so here he was, just another East Village junkie, who began resorting to burglary to maintain his $150-a-day smack habit. This would lead to eventual incarceration in the city's infamous Riker's Island.
His life seems like a collage of refracting light and darkness -- a cross-country tumble that spans decades, grifting his way from city to city -- from New York to New Haven, to Phoenix, to Switzerland, to Hawaii. His anecdotes form a strange portrait of America's dispossessed. He is a William Burroughs, a Denis Johnson. A man who has been to the barest edge of the world. Who has met his demons, there, and forged a path back.
He's been clean for ten years, now. He learned how to tattoo in Switzerland and eventually he opened his own tattoo parlor in South Florida. He has his own house, now. He pays his bills on time. His life is something close to normal.
And, what about me? What archetype could I possibly play?
When I was fifteen, my IQ was tested by the state. My result? 168.
The next year, I promptly dropped out of high school.
There was something immensely dangerous about my intelligence -- it was certainly not the catalyst, no. That might be better attributed to bravery or boredom or an innate talent for manipulation. But this, and the flawed combination of traits inside of me created something volatile, explosive. I felt misplaced. I felt as if my soul had been rerouted just prior to conception and that the birth of my psyche into this body had been a terrible mistake. That I had been meant for something else.
I felt too smart, and too old, and too sad. I made an effort to evacuate this body, this life. I had taken my first hit of pot by thirteen. By fifteen, I began skipping school to take mescaline, to take PCP, to freebase methadrine. By sixteen, I had left home -- I was living in a hotel room on Collins Avenue with a cocaine dealer.
Cocaine was a monster thrashing wildly within me. Even know, I can hardly think of a moment as exhilarating as the first time I snorted cocaine (topped, perhaps, only by the first time I injected it). I felt the individual ignition of each molecule floating in my brain. I felt my cells crawl towards the sky.
The biggest problem with cocaine is that the effects are strong and too quick. Everything pulls back in the moment that you feel you're about to reach the immaculate high. This creates a massive opportunity for addiction -- the world, when you're coming down from cocaine, is something shattered, post-apocolyptic. And you are left desperate, unsure of what to do.
Eventually, I did manage to quit. I wish the circumstances under which I did so had been more honorable, but I did quit. I went back to highschool. I got my diploma. I got a little bit better every day.
I began to view America as a phantasmagoria -- a mass hallucination. Very little seemed real to me.
My grandmother, who raised me for a portion of my childhood, is a diagnosed schizophrenic. In her youth, she was a priestess of Santeria in Cuba -- but, she fell ill and the Virgin Mary came to her in a vision and promised her life if she converted to Catholicism -- and so she did.
As a child, in her home, I recall being hyper-religious. I might have suffered hallucinations, but I can't be entirely sure -- the images are too sharp and too detailed to have been dreams. I have memories of featureless bodies, glowing over me in the night. I remember disembodied shadows, and objects lifting into the air on their own.
Eventually, the Catholicism faded as I hit adolescence and was replaced with an askew spirituality. One that I had pieced together from Beat Generation literature and mythology and my own roots in Santeria magic. I saw that thousands of Gods had been brought to his country by hundreds of years of immigration. I saw Oshun selling her body on the streets of the French Quarter, I saw Pan surrounded by wine at the KGB bar on East 4th Street, and Ixtab standing over the wreckage of a suicide in Mexico City. Even in Las Vegas, I felt the Arkan Sonney lingering over me, but they too had started to fizzle, flicker in and out like motel-room television. People had begun to exchange the belief in luck for the belief in probability.
Because I grew up an autodidact, I feel I might have managed to avoid becoming subsumed by the American Dream. I was never quite able to fit in with people my own age. I felt as if I had learned too much, too soon, but still never enough.
I met N when I was seventeen. My mother and I were getting tattooed together and, by chance, it was his shop we went to. The connection was instantaneous but neither of us pursued the relationship in the beginning -- it seemed too unlikely, too abnormal, to have a chance. Still, I made excuses to go see him whenever I could.
You see, at first, everything was so complicated... |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 24th, 2005|11:01 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | exhausted | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | the rolling stones -- shine a light | ] |
All the following events are true. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.
We were sitting on the couch at the shop, watching TV, waiting for something to happen. It was cold last night, something that always takes up by surprise in South Florida; the only other artist there was tattooing a family of Latinos, and they seemed especially preoccupied by their toddler, so we were left in the front to our own devices. N is forty-one, but he looks younger. His malady is only one of the spirit, in which his body does not participate; his eyes are direct and recoiling, his hair jet black. He is shockingly tall in comparison to me -- lean, but in no way emaciated. There is very little bare skin left on either of his arms. His tattoos are a collage of strange, surreal images -- men burning alive, angels erupting from the halo of a mushroom cloud, dark cities with jagged angles.
I hate when he ignores me. I play along, pretend to be interested in the commercial break. I turned eighteen not too long ago -- and people are always telling me that I need to stop dressing like a Catholic schoolgirl. I have plaid skirts and Mary Janes falling out of my closet, a dog-eared copy of Lolita, white lace, and fingerprints in smudged pink lipstick. I'm wearing one of those plaid skirts today, a little sweater that is in no way functional against the chill, and a pair of heart-shaped glasses that are perched on top of my hair. And, I'm irate because I feel irresistible, and he seems to be resisting rather well.
N is always so warm. I rest my hand lightly on his hip and slip only the tips of my fingers into the waistband of his jeans, feigning that the gesture is entirely innocent. He shifts so that his belt becomes looser, but I pretend not to notice -- instead, I nudge my head against his neck. I want him to feel my breath on his throat. My hair is brushing against his face -- I must smell like sugar and cloves and vanilla.
"Mm, what are you doing?" he mutters. His voice changes slightly as his pupils begin to dilate.
I look at him, and give a shy bat of my eyelashes. "What are you talking about?"
I lean in a bit closer so that my breasts are touching his arm, and yet, I act completely disinterested. I'm wondering how long it will take before I break his resolve to stay at the tattoo parlor until closing time. I kiss the corner of his mouth, but keep it from seeming sexual -- it is sweet, brief -- the sort of kiss a daughter would give a father.
His arm snakes around my waist, inadvertently tugging my skirt and the tops of my thighs are exposed for a moment.
This game continues for a few minutes. It is hardly physical -- the teasing revolves around well-placed sighs, a bite of the lip, skin touching skin for nothing more than an instant. He gives a little, throaty laugh. He has a wonderful, deep laugh; I can feel the purr of it in his chest.
"Let's get out of here," he whispers into my hair. I smile; I feel accomplished, content.
***
By the time we get out of the shop and into the car, he can barely keep his hands off of me.
I lean back into the chair, spread my legs slightly. He interprets this as an invitation -- N leans his right arm across the seat and then trails my inner thigh up into my skirt. I don't make a move. I let him push my panties aside and slip his fingers inside of me. Really, I want to taste that last cigarette on his mouth and feel the way my ribs crush inwards between his palms, I want to belong to him entirely. There is such a dangerous, animal power in my youth -- but I never let him see how much I want him, not right away. I push my head back into the seat, shutting my eyes, inhaling sharply.
"Does that feel good, honey?" he asks. I nod.
He takes his hand away to shift gears. I tilt my hips up and my skirt falls around my waist as he drives. He loves to watch me play with myself -- so when he takes his eyes from the road to look at me again, I am stroking my clit beneath my forefinger. There is nothing conspicuous, now, about his erection. But, I seem far more concerned with the passing headlights of the cars than him.
I nudge at his jeans and he gets the message, begins to unbutton his pants. He is fully hard; I slide my chest down into his lap and take his shaft into my mouth, pressing my tongue stud against the sensitive spot just beneath its head. When he moans, I feel the vibrations straight down into his finger tips.
The warm pressure of his hand is between my legs again. He has mastered my anatomy, but there is nothing routine about our foreplay. The thrill of getting caught turns on him immensely; he's had his way with me in open fields, in public parks, in parking lots. This one is new for us.
The fifteen minutes ride to his house has never been too short. He lifts my head and kisses me as we pull into the driveway. That door seems so far away, I think.
N fumbles with the keys -- this is in the principal as cars not starting when they're most direly needed. He is trying to kiss me and undress me and unlock the door at once. It swings inward with my back pressed into it, and we stumble inside together -- him, lifting me at once so that my legs wrap around his waist. The house smells like incense and the sudden warmth is intoxicating. I feel my head spin from this and from suddenly being lifted off my feet.
He tastes like honey and sandalwood,
I am carried to the bedroom and he slows my back unto the bed, lifts my sweater above me, slides my panties off. His head lowers and I feel the slow stroke of his tongue beneath my belly, his teeth nibbling the curve of my hipbones, his fingers inching beneath my waist, forcing my back to arch. The pressure of his tongue against my clit is something surreal; I have had many lovers, but it is only with him that I experience something akin to ecstasy.
I dig my fingers into his neck, moan his name.
We like to prolong our lovemaking as much as possible; our foreplay would last for hours, if we could stand it. It goes on until we are delirious with each other -- this gentle teasing with our hands and with our mouths. We have been together for nearly a year now, but neither our love nor our lust has lost any of its intensity.
As he enters me, I feel our molecules colliding and conjoining. "God, you feel so good," he says.
His thrusts begin slow and deep. As we continue, they get stronger -- frenzied, until he has to will himself not to come, and we pause and change positions. I climb unto him and my hips dance against his -- I feel my own orgasm trickle out from my loins and across my body. As it happens, I collapse against him; our eyelashes touch, he whispers, "I love you."
N drags me towards the edge of the bed and enters me from behind. He holds my waist while he pushes himself inside.
I know the way his body moves, the way he breathes, and shivers when he's close -- I arch my back and press against him, our thighs touching. His teeth clench, his fingers dig into my flesh. I feel a warmth spread across me -- I can feel his orgasm -- it is electric and we are priapic, blissful. For a moment, illuminated together in perfect clarity.
Exhausted, he falls into the bed and pulls me into his chest, breathing heavily. There is a small glisten of sweat on his forehead. "I love you," I tell him.
An then, eventually, we sleep, with our heads dipping together. We share all our dreams. |
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[Jan. 24th, 2005|04:42 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  horny | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | tom waits -- temptation | ] |
This journal is not friends-only as of the moment, but I would love for any and all lurkers to comment, just to let me know who you dirty little voyeurists are. :-P |
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