Tempted

March 29, 2020

Tempted by the fruit of another
Tempted but the truth is discovered
What’s been going on
Now that you have gone
There’s no other
Tempted by the fruit of another
Tempted but the truth is discovered…

Christopher Difford / Glenn Tilbrook

Tempted

taken so roughly

March 29, 2020

Lying on the bed, half-asleep, half naked, he knows it’s time for them to part – but after such a night together, he groans, eyes closed, and calls in a husky low voice, as if still sore from being taken so roughly, so often: “I still want to suck you…”

Coronavirus Sunday

March 29, 2020

Bored on your own?

Well, quarantine and vaseline, boys and girls. Seclude and get nude, before opening that toy cupboard door.

WOW!

Bon appetit!, Chitlings.

rubber ball gag

March 29, 2020

No two ways about it. The taste and feel of a rubber ball gag in your mouth is strange the first time it happens. But you get used to it. Mostly It’s about the vulnerability it provides when you’re wearing it. Your speech is being taken away. It’s the humiliation of having drool pool round your chin before dripping on the floor. Wearing a ball gag can be fun, part of a fun scene that brings both you and your partner pleasure. Some people can’t do gags, and that’s OK; others love the helplessness and the trust that it implies. But remember, boys & girls, always play safely.

I’m here to talk about sex and writing about sex, especially writing sex in science fiction that expands beyond real-world boundaries and assumptions about sex. To evoke a recent Hugo winner, I’ll call it a three-body problem, where the three elements are sex, science fiction, and writing itself, and the solution requires understanding of each. I see many essays about sexuality or sexual identity in genre fiction — I’ve written quite a few myself — that I feel don’t adequately include the act of writing itself in the equation. Because once I began to address writing directly in the relationship between sexuality and science fiction, I laid bare the entire fallacy of the literary establishment, which condemns laser beams and lasciviousness equally.

Cecilia Tan
Out of This World Sex Writing

He’s almost weightless. When he enters me it hurts and my pain belongs to the subterranean world, primitive as the clay. His body is slacker than I expected, a small paunch begins at his waist and settles in a downward parabola to his groin. His pubic hair is red. His erect penis is a surprise although I had imagined what they would feel like, read about them, seen them represented on toilet walls and magazines. I didn’t see it before he entered me, but afterwards it is small and sticky and amusing. I want to touch it but I don’t dare. I don’t know the etiquette. He is twenty or more years older than me. This is sex.

William Wall
Grace’s Day

“I like to be free to move around during sex, but tie me down during oral any day. That’s super sexy.” — Mallory, 26

Holly Riordan
Women Reveal How They Really Feel About Bondage

If I were tickled by the rub of love,
A rooking girl who stole me for her side,
Broke through her straws, breaking my bandaged string,
If the red tickle as the cattle calve
Still set to scratch a laughter from my lung,
I would not fear the apple nor the flood
Nor the bad blood of spring.

Shall it be male or female? say the cells,
And drop the plum like fire from the flesh.
If I were tickled by the hatching hair,
The winging bone that sprouted in the heels,
The itch of man upon the baby’s thigh,
I would not fear the gallows nor the axe
Nor the crossed sticks of war.

Shall it be male or female? say the fingers
That chalk the walls with green girls and their men.
I would not fear the muscling-in of love
If I were tickled by the urchin hungers
Rehearsing heat upon a raw-edged nerve.
I would not fear the devil in the loin
Nor the outspoken grave.

If I were tickled by the lovers’ rub
That wipes away not crow’s-foot nor the lock
Of sick old manhood on the fallen jaws,
Time and the crabs and the sweethearting crib
Would leave me cold as butter for the flies
The sea of scums could drown me as it broke
Dead on the sweethearts’ toes.

This world is half the devil’s and my own,
Daft with the drug that’s smoking in a girl
And curling round the bud that forks her eye.
An old man’s shank one-marrowed with my bone,
And all the herrings smelling in the sea,
I sit and watch the worm beneath my nail
Wearing the quick away.

And that’s the rub, the only rub that tickles.
The knobbly ape that swings along his sex
From damp love-darkness and the nurse’s twist
Can never raise the midnight of a chuckle,
Nor when he finds a beauty in the breast
Of lover, mother, lovers, or his six
Feet in the rubbing dust.

And what’s the rub? Death’s feather on the nerve?
Your mouth, my love, the thistle in the kiss?
My Jack of Christ born thorny on the tree?
The words of death are dryer than his stiff,
My wordy wounds are printed with your hair.
I would be tickled by the rub that is:
Man be my metaphor.

Dylan Thomas

serves up my heart

March 22, 2020

She walks into my life legs first, a long drink of water in the desert of my thirties. Her shoes are red; her eyes are green. She’s an Italian flag in occupied territory, and I fall for her like Paris. She mixes my metaphors like a martini and serves up my heart tartare. They all do. Every time. They have to. It’s that kind of story.

Catherynne M. Valente
The Bread We Eat in Dreams