Cues

(This post was born out of a conversation with a Tinder match where the only requirement was to use the words provided to spin a story. My five words? recliner; darkness; strangers; nails; biting.)

I must say, movie halls are so full of potential. The darkness lends itself to all manner of misdeeds, from the mild and mundane to the heart-stoppingly outrageous. Sitting there, in the midst of a sea of strangers all of whom are conveniently distracted by moving images on a screen, it's all too easy to create your own parallel storyline that's often a lot...juicier...than anything Hollywood could dish up. And the thrill of being so close to discovery - any moment, your neighbour could sit up in his recliner to sip at his overpriced soft drink and notice that you're using yours for more conventional (and delicious) purposes - just adds to the excitement. Hands move with just a touch more urgency, nails digging in harder; mouths and lips and teeth find their mark with alacrity, biting down more sharply just because it's so much hotter to feel a moan being stifled lest discovery be risked. And half the time, you don't really care - let them see, let them be shocked, let them radiate jealousy and disapproval, because it only adds to the thrill (and who knows, it may just spur them on to give in to their own desires).

The best thing about a movie hall, though, is the moment when the lights come back on, and you stare at each other with barely leashed hunger, your clothes in disarray, and share an unspoken promise to finish what was started.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Words, Circa 2006

Suppress
the urge
to lick
to sniff
to smell
to feel
hold back
and watch
and then
Suppress
the urge
to free
myself
to be
myself
with you.

I Want You

Is it wrong
that I've been thinking about you
all day long
and that
between curses and muttered imprecations
I've mouthed words
to myself
that I'd rather be whispering to you
slow words
words that burn
words that would make you stew
under pressure
till I came along
and with a flick of the wrist
gave you release.

All of My love

To murmur, softly dropping I don't knows onto the pillow,
To be silenced by a kiss, gentle but firm,
To be held and touched and distracted from yourself,
To surrender and let another decide for once,
Cede control and care and worry -
Just float along, let another direct the winds,
Decide to make them a gale, or a storm, or a gentle breeze


To submit.


To trust.

Sketch: (Unfinished)

She was lying on the bed, watching him, her dark eyes quietly contemplative. He sat in the chair across from her, drink in hand, the near-darkness of the room setting his teeth on edge. He could see a shadowy smile flit across her face for an instant before she stretched lazily, her muscles flexing beneath her skin. He watched her movements, languid and smooth, savouring the tension that floated in the air like the ghost of cigarette smoke. He was close enough to feel the heat radiating off her body, far enough to have to stretch for his hand to reach it.

Her eyes closed as she lay back onto the bed, ignoring him, her breathing soon becoming shallow as she slipped out of consciousness. He watched her still, swirling the last few fast-melting ice-cubes around in his glass while deciding what to do. Finally, he put the glass down, stood up in one graceful movement, and took the two steps to the bed in silence. He paused by the bed, looking down on her, at her slightly mussed hair as it lay across her face, at the relaxed pose of her arms by her sides, at the length and curve of her hip as it jutted out at an angle, at the plane of her calf muscle, at the tautness of the skin of her feet. One hand bent to take hold of a lock of her hair – unusually thick tonight – and he rubbed it between his fingers, taking in its texture. He knelt by her side, lowered his head, and inhaled deeply to have his first taste of her scent – a heady mix of the perfume she wore, the moist undertones of sweat as it beaded on her forehead, the clean, fresh smell of her hair, and the natural smoky aroma of her body.

She stirred just then, eyes opening to meet his, limpid pools of darkness meeting his feral stare. In an instant, she was wide awake, aware all at once of his fingers tangled in her hair, the trace of whiskey on his breath, the intensity of his gaze, the tension in his body as he leaned over her, the raggedness of his breathing.

His first kiss was hungry, his second, almost demure. Somewhere between the two, he slid onto the bed to prop himself above her, still gazing deep into her eyes. She responded with unexpected passion, meeting his actions with equal, opposing ones of her own. They traded kisses, caresses, and urgent whispers as if mirroring each other, as mind-readers would. Sometimes hurried, sometimes slow, their entanglement soon led to clothes being discarded, letting flesh meet flesh.

To Do or Not To Do....or What to Do?

Was just kissed. Don't know what to make of it. Should I go for it, or...not?


That's the basic dilemma.


Alcohol is fuzzing my thought process up.


And he's one of my closest friends.


And this will not turn into a relationship anyhow.


Fuck.

What do I do?

Sketch: Food Play

Hands tied behind back, made to kneel, mouth open.

Cold, sweet mango juice slowly poured into mouth; told to hold it there till required, to keep the mouth open, no swallowing, no gagging. 

Touch plays down body, focuses on the sides, shoulders, neck, ears and arms. Slowly, like a flame being fanned, skin begins to radiate heat as arousal grows. 

Soft kisses brush the underside of jaw, trail down throat; slow licks lazily travel across trembling membranes of skin. 

Tongue slowly snakes into mouth; flicks at juice - just a taste. 

Lips clamp onto lips, and the juice is sucked out in a rush, tongue finding tongue, warmth replacing cold sweetness. Juice is passed back and forth, dripping from the corners of lips, down to the chin, along the jaw. It is licked at, tongue swirling, making patterns across skin, leaving a faint stickiness. 

When all the juice has been tasted, shared, swallowed, cold-warm mouth moves down and engulfs a breast, sucking on the nipple and massaging the flesh. Wet sucking fills the air. Cold-warm mouth moves to other breast, repeats.

Soft gasps. 

Hand reaches up and covers mouth, thumb reaching inside and hooking into warm, wet insides of cheek, grazing gums 'tween teeth and lips. 

Shivers.

Moans around thumb; eyes roll into back of head, eyelids flutter closed with a sigh. 

Surrender. 

Goosebumps travel across flesh in waves, are massaged away by hands, mouth, hair. Touch brushes collarbone lightly, a buzzing starts in the head. Stickiness is sought out by tongue, devoured by mouth, replaced with bruises. 

Sudden heat as molten chocolate is poured over collarbone, breasts, shoulders. Back arches, legs spread wider. The heat burns, trickling, then flowing down between breasts, over navel, tangling with pubic hair, stopping just short of outer lips.

Slow, languid licks spread, then wipe molten brown from collarbone, shoulders, navel. Breasts are toyed with, topped with cool whipped cream, savoured. Time draws into a thin, fine line stretching to infinity. 

Soft sighs.

Without warning, pushed onto back, hands still tied underneath, stickiness all over now. Legs spread wide, lips in and out on display.

Involuntary shiver.

Wait.

Breath.

Silence.

Raw, animalistic gasp of disbelief as molten chocolate is poured onto the lips, the clit, burning its way through throbbing heat and strands of wetness, fine pale lines in a stream of dark brown. Uncontrollable shaking as tongue laps at lips and clit, drinking the chocolate in. Heat meets warmth meets wetness meets lust meets orgasm.

Screams. 

Tears leak from eyelids; shaking stops, breathing regains pace. 

Tongue gently laps at fluids, licking, cleaning. 

Mouth moves up body, dealing with stray droplets of chocolate, juice, sweat. 

Hands reach around to untie wrists. 

Lips move to lips, share a kiss.

Eyes meet.

Shine On

Just some of any number of things that have crossed my mind:

- I think owning anything called "Sleepy Time Body Mist" is ludicrous, particularly if you're a boy, even if your girlfriend has given it to you. Things like this call into question your very manhood. Tsk, tsk.

- I realised, right in the middle of class today, that I really, really want to have sex. I want a good, nice, raw, hard fuck. I just need something hot and hard pumping inside of me. You know that feeling, right? (...right?)

- I need a new cock, a new set of lips, a new body to think and dream about when I'm having these fantasies. I'm sick and tired of not having a replacement for him when I go there in my head. It's about fucking time.

- I've lost a fair bit of weight, and am working on my figure. Need to hook someone worthy now, at least, after all this effort.  

- It's mating season here in college. It's ridiculous. New couples are popping up all over the place like weeds. I think I like the summer better - it's break-up and fling season (a lot more fun). I have a next-to-nothing chance of finding a suitable boy here in college. Perhaps I'm fated to remain single till I break out of this place ([non-existent] God, I hope not! Need action!). Meh.

Revelations

Things I've discovered in the past couple of days:
- Drinking gives me insomnia. It all fits together now - the nights of drinking, followed by the long periods spent awake, unable to sleep. Don't know why I didn't see this before.
- I don't like my breasts. They appear to be sagging, and I feel that they're old. Not young and perky. I need someone to tell me that they are beautiful. I need a man to tell me, in all sincerity, that I'm beautiful.
- I'm looking for companionship. Simple, uncomplicated companionship. The realisation that I wouldn't mind dating K-Far comes from the understanding of this simple desire.
- Pervy gets a lot of action, but I don't (think I) resent her for it.
- I really wanted to sing and perform a lot this year. I still do. I have to find ways to do that.
- I really want to lose weight now, if only to be perceived as more attractive. One part of it is carrying yourself like you know you're sexy (I can manage that bit just fine), and the other part is being undeniably sexy (I need to work on that).

Microblog: On things I've learnt in the past three weeks.

Since the 22nd of June, I've learnt:
- that vodka tastes good on a plane.
- that absinthe kicks vodka's ass.
- that dirty dancing with women is a helluva lotta fun.
- that Indian movie censorship is a real bitch.
- that wanting to get laid doesn't help you to get laid.
- that pancakes, doughnuts and cupcakes can be gourmet food.
- that gay men can be very, very attractive, and that you can forgive them their homosexuality because they're so good to look at.
- that I'm not as forthcoming as I believe I am. OR, that relativity is universal (i.e., I'm not easy in Oz, even if I might be in India).
- that walking into an adult store can make me go red in the face.
- that buying something in an adult store can make me blush more than I knew I was capable of blushing.
- that Australianised Indian boys can be very, very hot.
- that I feel happy when I see a lesbian couple showing affection and love for each other.
- that a skirt really can double as a dress.
- that I have a fatal weakness for Malteasers.
- that I say 'fuck' a lot when I'm talking to myself when I'm on my own.
- that I have a terrible sense of orientation, but can still read maps very well. :S
- that I can't help but be friendly to those around me when they're being the same.
- that I'm still having wet dreams about him.
- that apart from wet dreams, I don't think of him at all.
- that I really do want to lose weight.
- that I do have a great sense of style.
- that I'm capable of much more than I give myself credit for.

A Shout-out

42, you make me wet. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.
Heck, no-one's ever going to read this, right? :) At least, no-one I know... and even if they do, I doubt they'll figure out who I am.
I'm cyber-stalking you on Facebook, and I know how creepy that is. But seeing pictures of you makes me feel good.
Plus, I just saw the movie 21, which I've been wanting to see for like, forever, and I'm on a movie buzz.
Someday, I'm going to reveal this blog in a fit of shamefaced embarrassment to the guy I'm with, or married to, or whatever. And I hope to god that he finds it funny, or thinks that I sound my age, which is a giddy 21. :P
Fingers crossed.
I'm off on a nice long holiday in two days, fucking hell thank god. Can't stand it at home anymore - the lack of peace and quiet is driving me up the wall. I'm hoping to get away from it all on this sojourn. I love travelling alone, and am really looking forward to it. These are two destinations I've never been to. I plan to soak it all in.
And if I can manage it with those nice-looking boys D/U, I abso-fucking-lutely intend to get lucky.

Snippet

The scent of you is still here, lingering on my fingers -
The most maddeningly delicious whiff of what came before.
It quietly works its way into my mind, a little at a time
Till I'm driven quite insane, and can stand it no more.

I must have you again.
Must feel the blinding heat again,
I need to close my eyes and feel you
Speeding through me with every heartbeat again.