stories

night one - him. raw, hard delicious. we stayed up all night writing of the details, too precious to let fade into the dim lightbulb of nostalgia. fierce and fabulous. could i have traded it, in a word, no.. it is resounding.

night two - the one i think i want is once again near me, but i - no, not me, my body, keeps its distance. and the madness it causes when he leaves in the middle of the night, comes out in torrents of complaints that mask the fact that i am in fact, divided.

night three - she
...was young. innocent in the face, but housed the devil in her body. every so often he would make an appearance in her eyes, a flicker of light from within brown. that night, worth pinpointing every moment, from the soft request to the fantastically unreal show of climax beneath the calm and rhythmic flow of my hands over her twitching, frantic body.

night four - burlesque with him. solid. quiet. a mountain moving symphonically. shines of an angel in smiling eyes. my garters. i won the contest, by standing on my head. gotta love those stupid human tricks.. yet to tell of earlier, when i put them on, in front of him. but.. disconnect, of why i'll tell later, then finally a fitful sleep, to wake up into fighting then flow finally a reconnect, of smooth butter.. mommy this time, switched up into a spanking, and a much overdue fucking. the details.. hmmmm.

night five - news of tradegy. him again.. that dark solemn tusk of pain, walking heavy through this life... i cried, kept silence, then vigil, in mourning, for him, late into the dead night.

night six - the brazilian girls. culturally erotic mashups. the dancing, the three of us.

night seven. me, here - answering a voice from the past and realizing once again all too clearly that my eroticism will be deliciously maddening for the rest of my life. confounding. there is no good and bad, only pleasure, i told her on night three, as i ran my hands expertly along the curves of her perfectly shaped upper body. the big picture.. why does that turn me on, i want to ask then stop the question in its tracks like poison.. because why doesn't matter, as long as im turned on, see? but who, but when, and then, i wonder if i'll even remember it all..

the kinks. in order: daddy, priest/sacrifice, work day sex, teacher/student, girl and girl, stranger/child, burlesque wild, mommy/little boy, lesbian threesome, if only a flirt, and tonight, the stranger than fiction enema. were i to write about the trainwreck of thoughts that flow through my mind everytime i masturbated, you would be shocked, not to even speak of me, myself. and yet the urge to express it as true to its unique languid existance as possible pushes on the inside of my body like an insistant drum.

write. record. you have to. if only to remember it happened, in the first place.

the question of self

how does one solve the question of self?
whats the question he asks, and i answer, who am i?

he tells me that its a collection of character traits, and other things, like experiences.
i wonder if its a matter of how i relate to the world. or something even more abase, like what they think of me. or how i feel about myself. or the despisable what i do for work.

who am i? i keep asking the question. needing an answer. blue eyes and curly hair. scotch and a scooter. a witch. a bitch. an artist. a smoker. what else? i'm 30. i've survived another day.

i trail there. there's more but, i keep forgetting. it might be instinctive, for i don't know what biological purpose to forget the love, to forget the pain, to forget fact that you're beautiful, to forget the torture of amazing memories, because who knows if any of it was really true, anything in this life... so forget. let it go...

the question of self comes down to the battle between good and evil. like comic books. the choices one makes when faced with choices. and those choices constantly telling of who we are. who am i. the video is running.

who is she? beautiful. messy. wild. voracious. passionate.

like a comic book character, she was beautiful and dangerous. a piercing gaze of blue eyes that hid... what? everything and nothing. magic. and now she's bold, and now she's shy, and now she speaks of how much these eyes give away and now she hides them...

focus.

who am i.
i am quiet.
moral dilemma.
and now he calls.

-----------a talk.--------------

and now here, back here,

i watch myself moving on the screen of this moment to moment life. the curly piercing blue sensuality that is me, i am this force, and to deny it is to deny nature. and i crumbled to see the sadness in my face, i felt sick, facing my hypocrisy. moral dilemma indeed. but look again and see beauty, tragic self tortured beauty. so hold the secrets. maybe that was tonight's lesson. still. be still and listen....

you are nothing that you give away, and more than that when you hold still.

you are black curls and white skin. blue eyes that hold wisdom, compassion and pain. a body that aches from self exhaustion, a heart that carries the burden of feeling. and most obviously, a seductress.

that is what you always wanted to be when you grew up, no?