A Little

Could you fuck me now?

Just a little.

Oh, a little - 

Just the tip, just the tip

...oh, yeah, like that.

Let the rest of me clench

In sweet anticipation

But keep fucking me like that,

just a little at a time.

Can we fuck, please? Yeah, 

go on, just a smidgen.

A bit more,

a little further;

Just as much as you like.

Don't listen when I say

                  Harder,

faster, oh

                  more!

I don't know what I want

I’m just wound up tight.

  

Give it to me in bits

Just the hint

Just a little

And then a little more

A little is sublime.

The shape of things to come

You've had limited exposure to my proclivities. You haven't had me giggle, grab you by the front of your shirt, and push you up against a wall to take a kiss that's been on my mind, mindless of who's around or what they might think. You haven't had me lead you into a room by the hand, then turn around, put my hands on your shoulders, and lean in to whisper "I want you to fuck me" in your ear with delicious intent. You haven't had me blush furiously as I mouth salacious things at you as you drive, surprised at my own daring. You haven't heard my breath catch as you quietly say something particularly filthy to me in public, in a place where all I can do is look at you with smouldering eyes and look forward to all your words have promised. You haven't had me take your hand and place it on my thigh, an invitation to do as you will. You haven't had me moan into your mouth as we kiss, as your hands explore my body and make me lose track of my thoughts, of everything, reducing me to a trembling bundle of raw lust.

You've got a lot to look forward to.

Possibilities

I want you

I want you so bad

I want you

I want you so bad, it's driving me mad

It's driving me mad

I want you to smile when you see me. To take in the sight of me, bare legs disappearing into ankle-high boots, thighs disappearing under a dress that hugs my curves, my hair spilling down my shoulders, my eyes sparkling to see you.

I want you to hold on just a little bit longer when we hug.

I want you to turn the lights down low, pour me a drink, and put on some good music. Nothing romantic – more...sexy, with rumbling beats and slick bass lines that make me want to undulate against someone. To smile when I raise my eyebrow at your choice of music, our wordless glances conveying the possibilities better than talking ever could.

I want you to watch me as we speak, to let your eyes roam over my body and drink it all in. I want to realise halfway through a sentence that you’re not looking at my face – that you’re focusing instead on my legs, following them up to where they melt into shadows under my dress. I want you to lean forward for a better look as my dress rides up when I settle back into my chair and cross my legs. I want to watch you realise that I’m watching you watching me, this delightful little game of cat-and-mouse making a smile dance at the corners of my lips.

And when I rise to set down my glass and stretch to work my stiff muscles, I want you to come up behind me and let your hand rest casually at my waist right as I’m at the height of my languorous reach for the ceiling. I want you to let your hand drift slowly down and inward to slide along my hip bone as I lean back into you in response, my hand rising to brush yours as I let my head rest lightly against your shoulder. I want to feel your warm breath in my ear, trailing down my neck as you bend to caress the hollow above my collarbone with your lips. I want you to elicit a low, slow sigh from me with that touch. I want you to turn me slowly, firmly so that you can pull me into a kiss that’s been a long time coming – a kiss that promises, in all its fierceness and heat, that there is much, much more to come. I want that kiss to make me moan, involuntarily, into your mouth. I want it to make me give in to you.

Sketch: Bruises

Bruises. I like them. I like what they mean, and I like how they make me feel. I like the tenderness that they leave behind, the slight ache jolting memories of the acts that created them to the forefront of my mind. Bruises made by hungry mouths, by strong hands, by being forced up against a wall.

I bruise easily.

A bruise, dark and angry, reminds me of the person who gave it to me. It's a reminder I can carry around with me, that I can stare at hungrily in the mirror, that serves as a mark of ownership which simply can't be matched. It's a private, personal badge of intensity and hunger that only the two of us know about - except when it isn't: when it's on display to the world in acknowledgment of the power that that person holds over me. A bruise reminds me of how little control I have.

I was once given a necklace of bruises, working all around my neck, sweeping under my collarbone, straying onto my breasts, snaking down my back; a scattering of purple-red on lightly toasted skin. I was never prouder to wear them than in the moment when I heard the shocked gasps of my roommates as I undressed that night.

As bruises take away power, so do they confer it.

That mark on my hip, my thigh, my arm where I was gripped so hard it hurt - not by intent but by instinct - that mark makes me smile because it tells me that I have the power to make another lose control enough that all they can do is grab recklessly at me. It is an exquisite embodiment of the throes of passion.

Mark me. Suck on my neck and take it just a little too far - hard enough for it to burn a bit, hard enough to make stars dance behind my eyes, hard enough to leave a mark. Throw me down onto the bed, cut short my scramble to escape, hold me down and then slowly, deliberately mark my inner thighs with your mouth, so that I can remember only you when I touch myself. Mark me with the flat of your hand, set my ass aflame with your blows. Then bite it. Break the skin just a little, just enough to justify the sobriquet, 'love bite'.

Find the softest, most tender flesh on my body, and leave it bruised.

I treasure these souvenirs, these reminders of our time together.

Sketch: Mouth Play

There is something about feeding a partner that ticks all the boxes for me. And I don't mean feeding them by hand.

Have you ever had someone take a bite out of something luscious, then beckon you over, only to kiss you with that still-juicy taste on their lips, then feed you morsels from their mouth, passing them back and forth until all that's left is your entangled tongues amidst the taste of heaven?

Have you ever watched chocolate melt on warm skin, and then leaned in to smear it a little with your mouth before licking it up? Have you tried it from their lips? Watching chocolate melt on lips held oh-so-still is tantalizing. Tasting it from those lips is an exercise in eroticism.

Have you ever been thirsty - so thirsty - and asked for a drink of water? Imagine being kissed by warm lips, then gulping down cold, refreshing water as it floods your mouth, the relief of thirst quenched mingling with the delicious feel of a cold-wet tongue grazing your gums.

It's a gorgeous, tender power play that can make you forget your meal, your thirst, your need and focus solely on that one gloriously stimulated point where your bodies meet.

And if you do it just right, it can be the most exquisite form of surrender, where you breathe in and out through your partner's mouth, their lips clamped over yours, your heart beginning to pound as you let them decide how much air to give you, all leading up to that rush, that moment of clarity when they finally let you breathe on your own, when the feeling of letting go utterly overwhelms you.

An open letter to future lovers

When I say "I want you," it is not simply some carnal desire that I'm expressing. It is the need to lose myself in you, to let the sensation of your skin, your touch, your scent, your breath, your hands, your lips overwhelm me until it is like so much surf crashing against the shoreline of my being. The need to have my ears filled with nothing but white noise, a static buzz that roars and roars until I fall into it, lost, my eyes closed, dropping further and further into the feelings that you give me.

And all this is simply desire for you - it is what happens in my mind when we build it up, slow, tentative, getting tangled up in each other, unhurriedly uncovering each other with nothing particular in mind. For me, the journey is gorgeous, with many many possibilities, opportunities just waiting to be taken. I almost never make it to a destination, so I have stopped planning for it or expecting to get anywhere.

Perhaps you will at some point understand how elusive and transitory orgasm is for me. I can't even get myself off without needing an image in my head of something so lascivious, so filthy that it drives me over the edge. My mind is a maze full of leather and chains, soft words and hard smacks, humiliation and praise, delicate touch and pain, exposure and privacy, tenderness and sternness all coalescing into this whirlpool which I struggle to hide from the world, for I doubt that ordinary society could ever understand or accept the things that float my boat.

The point is: if you care to come, I'd love to let you in, show you around, let you play curator to the museum of oddities in my mind. It's almost all in the mind (it always is - much more than most people like to admit). The more you explore my mind, the better you'll know me. And the better you know me, the further you'll be able to push me. And I want you to push me. I want you to want to push me.

How do you like it?

How do you like hair? Do you like it short? Long? Tied up? Worn down, cascading over my shoulders, so you can tangle your fingers in it when you reach for the back of my neck? In a loose, tuggable braid? Left to fall wildly over your face as we kiss, as I straddle you?

How do you like clothes? Do you think they’re a hindrance – or another part of the mystery? Do you like them layered, so that you can unwrap me, one piece at a time? Or do you prefer something that you can pull off me in one smooth move? Do you like figure-hugging dresses? Skirts you can slip your hand under? Shirts you can casually unbutton while we’re out, making me blush and bite my lip at the rush it gives me? Skinny jeans that cling to my curves, leaving nothing to the imagination? Billowing garments that reveal nothing except the outline of my collarbone? Do you like hints of cleavage, of the curve of my ass, of the strip of skin at my lower back as my top rides up, of the underside of my thigh as I cross my legs? Do you like to undress me yourself, or does it heighten your pleasure to watch me strip for you?

Do you like it when I wear heels? Do you think about how the added height makes us meld together perfectly, how you don’t have to bend to kiss me, and I don’t have to reach to grind against you? How you could just take me up against the wall without any manoeuvring, all because I’m wearing shoes that bring us eye to eye, lip to lip, crotch to crotch?

How do you like nails? Painted, to match my lips, toes flashing colour as I arch below you? Long, so I can drag them down your back as we fuck? Trimmed short, so you can watch me play with myself?

Do you like to watch?

I should...

I can still taste the vodka on my breath as I type this. I've spent the last half hour aimlessly driving around town instead of going home because there’s something soothing about speeding down a dark road in a closed metal box while music plays loud enough to drown everything else out, leaving you alone with your thoughts. And there’s something even better about being absorbed in those thoughts as a song winds down, with nothing but the whine of the engine in the background telling you that you’re hurtling through the night.

My thoughts were simple, and focused. On you.

One of these days, I really must put everything aside and act on those thoughts.

As you turn to leave after hugging me goodbye, I should grab your hand and say, “stay”.

As you walk away at the end of the night, I should call out, “come back”.

And instead of saying goodbye and filling the space with silly closing lines, about how nice it was or how I’ll see you soon, I really should just drop the pretence, lose the façade, look you in the eye and say something real. Something that makes you stop thinking for a second, something that makes it real for you too.

And in that moment, while we’re both looking at each other, acknowledging that there’s something here, something between us, I should just fuck all the doubts and the what-ifs and the buts and do what I've wanted to for so long: lean in and kiss you.

Want, Circa 2007

(I)

Want him. So bad.

Want to kiss him, full on the lips, as hard as I can. Delve deep into his mouth with my tongue, explore it to the fullest. Breathe as he breathes, take his being into myself.

Want to press against him, wrap myself around him, be locked in his arms with no chance or hope of escape. Feel our clothes getting in the way, slip my hands under his shirt and let them play over his skin. Feel the heat emanating from our bodies. Feel the pressing need to be close, to be one, to come together. Feel the powerful ache of desire for him.

Want him to feel me, hold me, crush me in his grip. Want him to claim me, make me his in every way, leave his distinctive mark on me. Want him to make me incapable of moving, incapable of being anywhere but there.


(II)

The slightest touch sending jolts through me. Waiting, ticking like a bomb, ready to explode. Just need that little bit more.

Thought excites.
Touch excites.
Need excites.
Presence excites.
Looks excite.
Everything excites.

To the point of desperation. To the point of my nearly losing my mind, losing control, and doing what I want so badly to do...

Crash into him. At every level.

From the mouths of babes

(All right - not babes, exactly. But I was clearly quite certain about these things at age 18. This is from a recently discovered stash of old notes from college.)

We are all sexual perverts. We all want to feel the violence of sex, the animalism that takes over the human mind during the act, and the inhuman pleasure that we derive from it.
The demeaning treatment that so arouses us.
The force that makes us surrender ourselves.
The raw feeling of pain and pleasure being brought together in one big, wet, sticky mess.

We all want it.