Good day sexy Sunday…

September 18, 2016

juarez-machado

Diary 17th / 18th September

Just a fistful of fast, challenging, hot-wired mind-bites!

Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves.
(T S Elliot, The Hollow Men)

I love being inside her. Slow, deep thrusts are best. Then buried to the hilt and grinding, roughly. Her hands become fists in the sheets, and as she tips over the edge, she bites the pillowcase, while making snorting noises through her nose. I love that momentary loss of control she experiences; that savage cum-face she shows.

#

Sunday is a day designed for sex…

#

We used to masturbate to Radiohead
or slide in some Nine Inch Nails and hook
our thumbs around the jutting hip bones
of some skinny messy boy.
The world was ours enough at least to piss
and puke and fuck on.
(Mindy Nettifee, When the Economy Was Booming)

#

When I took your virginity,
I did it carelessly, like a dog
left alone in a butcher shop.
I taught you the way adults love
(quick, dry, no eye contact.)
A year later, in the back of your car,
you showed me what you had learned,
what kind of man I had trained you to be.
(Sierra DeMulder, Come. Sit. Heel. Stay)

#

And yet one arrives somehow,
finds himself loosening the hooks of
her dress
in a strange bedroom –
feels the autumn
dropping its silk and linen leaves
about her ankles.
(William Carlos Williams, Arrival)

#

Making love is like the sound of rain drops on crisp fallen leaves in the Autumn. It is condensation on bedroom windows and a beautiful kind of agony – like claw marks on your soul. It is the sound of animals fighting to the death, of racing heartbeats and the unleashing of the most primal part of your being.

It is a taste of heaven.

And of hell…

#
HOW TO WIN AN ARGUMENT
1. Have a vagina
2. That’s it
3. You win
4. Congratulations

A woman

evahbody wanna do da horizontal bop”

What would i say in them?
that i keep making typos at work becuz i can’t stop
thinkin about you

that i’m coming down with a cold becuz
i’ve spent too much time sleepin in the buff
after we’ve made love

that i’m broke out in a rash because all this sudden
attention from you racks my nerves

what do i say/

i don’t write many of em
that word has been terribly abused
i don’t want to contribute

plus i’ve been in love so many times with terrible results
i’m beginning to question my judgement

what kind of monster are you!

“beware—anything cums between open legs”
a friend once said

i’m on society’s bottom
all things shift down here sooner or later

i know the expertise with which Amerikkka destroys my
kind
black male & female alike, to seek a mate
outside my people-culture, one of the alternatives to
abstention & loneliness
lesbianism
the church
asexualily
intimacy with pets opium
suicide

or staying wed to my
present monster

and you. all over me. so fast so total
have you lost your mind? do you know what price will be
extrakkkted from you for taking on a black woman
& her three children???

plus you’re unemployed

and i don’t want the world in my biz-in-ness
lessin’ i allow it in

i don’t want to beyourpoem stuff
cuz you’s a poet too

love between us seems impossible
but here it is

for now

the black princess has a love jones
for a jewish frog with arts
and don’t care

even if

worse come worse

he’s some kind of monster in disguise
may eat her up as a midnight snack
or
she contracts warts, becomes covered with them &
all her kisses
can’t transform him into a prince
even if it fails and months from now
she’s penning pain messages & making juju
to ward off this possession

of me by you

Wanda Coleman

embrace

Diary 21st April

Marie Claire said it was finished. And just like that, it was. As if it were as simple as finishing a novel, or taking the last sip of wine. Or the last slice of cream sponge cake. No last embrace; no last kiss. Nothing like that. Often, it strikes me, with these things, they start only to end during the best part? And abruptly, too: as if there’d never been anything to begin with – anything of substance, that is. So then it’s suddenly over, and we’ll never know what would have come next…absolutely nothing of “our” tomorrows together; which makes our future plans seem totally foolish now. Child-like. It was all illusion, and yet the best kind of illusion…Those perfect, dream-like Sunday mornings, when holding each other was the only thing that mattered to us both. But all in vain. We were fooling ourselves. Our tomorrows were destined to be apart…

#

It is easy to confuse sacrifice for cowardice. I often confuse love with madness. But then love is often little more than a sharp longing and endless waits…and those waits are enough to drive anyone insane.

#

There are so many properties for sale in and around the village. I don’t know exactly how many, but in Fore Street alone there were seven houses for sale. Yesterday, I noticed five of the FOR SALE boards had been replaced with TO LET signs. Property is just not selling, it seems. And yet the local authority is granting planning permission for a hundred or more new houses locally.

Who, I wonder, is going to buy them?

#

She said to me last night: ‘I’d like to make love with you for days on end without stopping…’

So I said: ‘Let’s start now…’

#

Every living creature dies alone. Death is the one debt we’re all born with. It can be put off, but it can’t be defeated…

#

We don’t love someone because they’re polite, or because they dress well, or because they happened to love M&Ms. Of course we don’t. One falls in love with their scent, their mystery, the peace they give to us…or the torment they cause us. Love is in the voice, the way the eyelids flutter, the fragility revealed when least expected…

#

Never say I love you if you don’t mean it. Never talk about feelings if they don’t exist. Never touch a life if you don’t intend breaking a heart. Never look into someone’s eyes if you do not want to see them fill with tears because of you. The cruelest thing you can do is allow someone to fall in love with you when you don’t intend to do the same –
Mario Quintana
Trans. Peedeel.

Lado Gudiachvili

There was a time I found myself increasingly thinking about a particular passage from the book “Old Wine and New” by Warwick Deeping. The book had been published back in the thirties, and I’d picked up a copy at a local carboot. In it a police woman is attacked in London on Armistice Night, 1918. A crowd of street walkers, sick and tired of police interference in their lives, strip her stark naked in the street for the amusement of all the men and women out celebrating war’s end.

‘Go it girls. Leave nothing on,’ yells a male onlooker, enthusiastically.

‘What’s happening?’ asks his female companion.

‘The totties are scragging one of the women police.’

The female companion’s “scream of laughter” at this and the “exultant expression” on her face stimulated my overheated imagination. Seeing this poor woman, this ‘officer of the law’, her bush and breasts fully exposed, her uniform roughly torn from her, tearfully spread-eagled on the wet cobbles…spread open for the delectation of strangers.

A sight for sore eyes, indeed.

I spoke to AB about this when she mentioned her big birthday wish. She wanted to arrange a little scenario wherein she is used and abused sexually. She is a total masochist, you see.

‘I could be that police woman,’ she said.

Arrangements were quickly made, and a venue organised. Others from our local BDSM group would attend the “event” as participants or audience. A suitable uniform was obtained, with some difficulty, and “period” underwear purchased for AB to wear on “the night”. And come “the night” she really did look the part.

AB was initially “assaulted” by four women. They were enthusiastically supported by six horney males. There was much yelling and cheering as AB’s clothes were literally ripped from her plump body. She, of course, struggled. Memorably, at one point, a solitary breast tugged free of her top, was roughly kneaded by WR, like a nipple crowned lump of dough.

Finally stripped naked, I caught a glimpse of her gaping vagina as she went down on the floor (carpet not cobbles). There was a wild cacophony of voices set in counterpoint to AB’s shrieking. She kicked and bit, waving her legs in the air. I could only watch, fascinated, by the heaving mass of flesh on the floor…

So it came to pass that poor AB was unceremoniously “raped” by this eager crowd. Each male in turn took his place between her yawning thighs. There they thrusted into her with great vigour, but after a minute or so of brisk friction they would groan their gratification in violent, creamy spasms. A condom covered truncheon went into AB while the men rested. Mr AB proved the most violent, most persistent of his wife’s abusers that night. He left a snailtrack of thick cum across her bum. Others seized her trembling body in an almost hallucinatory frenzy…

Again and again she was taken. On her back, then on her belly. Her face and tits were slapped; her cunt fingered. Like a crazed bacchante AB took it all. She became this fleshy extinction beyond time or place…

Later, in the calm following sexual frenzy, she said to me, ‘I can’t wait for my next birthday.’

‘You don’t have to,’ I replied. ‘There’s another scenario I feel haunted by…’

But that one’s for another time.

Nasty, raunchy things

January 17, 2016

assult

If I say I’m going to fuck you, it means I am going to do filthy, nasty, raunchy things with your body for sexual pleasure. If I say I am going to make love to you, it means I’m going to kiss you and look you in the eyes while I do them…

SPECIFIC WAY TO CUM

December 14, 2015

legsandcandles

He finishes and he slides down my body, plopping down on the bed. I curl up next to him and get into position: right hand between my legs, left arm draped over his chest. I have my face turned up toward him and he, in the breathy aftermath of his own orgasm, begins to talk. “So, I’m in a park.”

As he spins a sexy nighttime story, I begin to touch myself. The tales differ slightly in location, but the characters always remain the same. And I’m not one of them.

“I prefer a true story,” I told him when we started to do this on the regular.“Tell me about a sexual encounter from your past.”

“Really?”he asked. “You like that?”

“I do,” I responded.

“You want to hear about me and some other woman?”

“Yes,” I answer. “That’s what I want.”

I’ve been masturbating for as long as I can remember. During my childhood, it was completely nonsexual and simply something I did most nights before I fell asleep. I had a formula to my “feeling good,” which involved lying on my stomach, wrapping my blanket around my hand, and bringing the bundle between my legs. I’d rock back and forth with my blanket-wrapped hand between my legs until a warm, cozy feeling erupted from my gut and spread over my entire body. I’d continue to lie there on my stomach, enjoying the fuzzies; after a moment, I’d roll over, extract my hand, and fall into a deep sleep.

Today, my masturbating method is almost exactly the same as it was when I was five or six. I lie down on my stomach with my hand between my legs (the blanket has long since retired, but once in a while a crumpled bed sheet proves to be an excellent, familiar partner-in-crime) and move my pelvis back and forth across my palm. There is, however, one crucial addition to the formula: I envision a sexy couple as I work myself. The woman has a killer body with gorgeous breasts and the man usually has a salt-and-pepper hairstyle with a firm stomach. Sometimes, it’s their relationship to each other that turns me on. He’s the dean of affairs, she’s a top graduate student and they have sex in his office. She’s a senator, he’s a journalist interviewing her and they get it on in a beautiful hotel room. They’re two ex-lovers reunited in Milan on a business trip. Or, I recall in glorious detail the first love scene between Ralph Fiennes and Julianne Moore in The End of the Affair. My mother owned the movie on VHS and I’d watch the juicy parts in reserved, amazed silence some afternoons before she got home from work. This is all to say that during my masturbation sessions, I rarely imagine myself as a participant. Rather, I much prefer to watch two other humans do it on a desk, in a car, against the wall. Not in a porn, but in my mind with my eyes squeezed shut. Porn’s OK, don’t get me wrong; I do enjoy it once in a while. But truthfully, all I need is my own brain. I love masturbating. It’s quick, it feels amazing, I know just what I like, and I always, always come. And come hard.

When I’m in bed with a man, the process is similar: I masturbate and he provides the images for me. I’ve only been brave enough to try this with my past two partners, both of whom have been a little confused, but game. Prior to sleeping with these two men, my sexual encounters were chock full of “faking it” – and one can blame that on my incessant need to tie up every situation in a pretty little bow. Ending sex with a whispery, “Yeah, hold on, you can stop. I’m just not going to come,” seemed pathetic. “Wow, yes, yes, that’s it, oh my God, oh my God, yes!” conveyed something like This was great, I’m so glad we did this, and I’d be down to do it again! The guys were none the wiser and I felt content with the faking until I realized that, actually, maybe, it might not be so weird to ask a guy to simply tell me a story. It couldn’t be that much different than asking him to talk dirty to me (whatever that means – in my experience, asking a guy to talk dirty is just releasing his usage of the C-word thirty times in one twenty-minute sex session). After inquiring, “Really? You like that?” my current boyfriend has told me about the woman he fucked in a bar bathroom, another he met on an Amtrak, some threesome he had, plus a fictional fantasy about a particularly hot coworker. I’ve climaxed powerfully at every single drawn-out account. Sometimes, he plays with my breasts, which feels great and helps me get there. Other times, he tries to join me down below and I have to find a sneaky, sexy way to move his hand so I can continue the work on my own. I certainly love his fingers inside me when we start to fool around; but when it comes to having an orgasm, I need to do it myself.

To be clear: I’ve never had an orgasm during sex. Not even during oral sex, to which friends have exclaimed, “Seriously?” I’ve tried anal sex, which felt awesome, but still no dice. I’ve read plenty of women’s magazine articles that suggest touching myself to understand how I come, but I totally understand how I come and it has to be by my own hand. It’s a little disappointing; I wish my partner were more integral to the process. But he gets me off by telling me all about his naughty past with other women. And you know what, it’s just what I enjoy. He is integral, in his own way.

“What do you like about that?” he asked me once. “It’s the most…I don’t know…” he trails off. “It’s the most specific way to come. Why do you want to hear about other women? Why not yourself?”

I can’t answer. Is it because I don’t like to watch my own body? Is it because I don’t like to be in my own body? If I thought myself more attractive, would I orgasm without needing to imagine people with tighter abs, tinier waists, and higher tits? Is this another way that I don’t “live in the moment”? Do I have to literally extract myself from the current moment in order to come? Or, is this my body physicalizing my need to do everything myself? Why can’t I come when he’s the one touching me? If I love this man and love having sex with this man, shouldn’t I be able to let go in front of him? Shouldn’t I be able to release myself over to him?

“It’s just what I like,” I say, and drape my arm over his chest. “Now, tell me the one about the girl from that cafe.”

Source: How to Make Me Come

fucking

comingorgoingcomingorgoing2

See her squirm in the half light. Dee’s hand on her plump thigh, thumb and forefinger pinching mercilessly. The pain is persistent but Gabby doesn’t cry out because she knows Dee will pinch harder if she does.

So she stands there thinking about the pain and wondering when it will stop and if it does what Dee will replace it with? What new torment?

Dee pinches harder anyway, the severity of the compression turning the soft skin roseate, almost purple. ‘How do ya like that, bitch?’ she asks. ‘I’m going to do it to your slut slit next…’

Her victim looks at the ceiling, breathing slowly, carefully. Eyes watering up, red rimmed with pain. Her nipples are hard as hell. ‘Whatever pleases my lady,’ she says quietly.

And Dee releases the fold of flesh on Gabby’s thigh and pinches instead between her legs. She has a good chunk of feminine flesh between thumb and forefinger. She starts twisting it.

My penis is growing, throbbing.

Gabby turns her head to one side, teeth clenched against the pain.

Dee pinches, twists, let’s go. Scratches lightly. Then she grips with all her fingers, twisting one of the folds of flesh, Gabby’s meaty labia majus, twisting it viciously back from the mons pubis, leaving the clitoral glans pinkly exposed. With her free hand she reaches for the labia minora, separates them so that I can see the vulval vestibule and the wetness running out of Gabby.

‘Start wanking,’ she tells me. I, of course, obey immediately.

Dee thrusts some fingers inside Gabby. She fingers her roughly. Calls her a dirty bitch because she’s so wet down there. And Gabby’s body tenses in anticipation of the wave of pleasure she knows will come soon.

‘Bring that cock here,’ Dee commands and again I obey. She grips it hard in her fist and rubs it up and down Gabby’s vagina. The lips open either side of the swollen head. Gabby looks away but my cock enters her, the base still tightly gripped by Dee who grinds it in. I feel Gabby stiffen, muscles tense. She comes with this shrill little yelp…and I thrust right up inside her standing there…

Later I simulate a rape on Dee while Gabby watches. No restraints. I just hold her down by the wrists, let her struggle beneath me on the floor as I thrust hard into her. ‘No, please…’ Gasping, pleading. Me sucking at her tits as I rape her, gripping her hips. Like a fucking pneumatic drill between widespread legs. And Gabby all the time egging me on…Dee finally coming on the strength of a particularly cruel, deep thrust.

‘Anyone for a mug of brandy and hot chocolate?’ Gabby asks afterwards.

‘Yes, please, lover.’ Dee’s impish grin as she wedges a wad of Kleenex between her thighs. ‘I think we’ve all earned one of those…’

‘Me too,’ I mumbled, glad of any chance to rest awhile.

onthetable

When you return I am going to give you one literary fuck fest — that means fucking and talking and talking and fucking. Anais, I am going to open your very groins. God forgive me if this letter is ever opened by mistake. I can’t help it. I want you. I love you. You’re food and drink to me, the whole bloody machinery as it were. Lying on top of you is one thing, but getting close to you is another. I feel close to you, one with you, you’re mine, whether it is acknowledged or not.

Henry and June
Anais Nin

Girls open up like flowers…

February 19, 2015

reaching out

Full lips glimmering with
fresh kisses
the darkest eyes lustily
lookin, just lookin

Their furious fucking
Hastily undressing
Trembling women
For their manhood sake

Girls open up like flowers
in the heat of them
exposing their womanhood
in the deepest part of themselves

Then day breaks
and they are gone
So many flowers to taste
No time to waste