like a dark confession

We fuck like we’re the only ones who do it right. You say my name and it comes out like a dark confession. Our mouths swing open like doors. Our mouths open and we spill into each other, like wine.

Tera K.
Literary Sexts Vol. 2

on top of you on the kitchen table

16 December 1909, 44 Fontenoy Street, Dublin

My sweet darling girl,

At last you write to me! You must have given that naughty little cunt of yours a most ferocious frigging to write me such a disjointed letter. As for me, darling, I am so played out that you would have to lick me for a good hour before I could get a horn stiff enough even to put into you, to say nothing of blocking you. I have done so much and so often that I am afraid to look to see how that thing I had is after all I have done to myself. Darling, please don’t fuck me too much when I go back. Fuck all you can out of me for the first night or so but make me get myself cured. The fucking must all be done by you, darling, as I am so soft and small now that no girl in Europe except yourself would waste her time trying the job. Fuck me, darling, in as many ways as your lust will suggest. Fuck me dressed in your full outdoor costume with your hat and veil on, your face flushed with the cold and wind and rain and your boots muddy, either straddling across my legs when I am sitting in a chair and riding me up and down with the frills of your drawers showing and my cock sticking up stiff in your cunt or riding me over the back of the sofa. Fuck me naked with your hat and stockings on only flat on the floor with a crimson flower in your hole behind, riding me like a man with your thighs between mine and your rump very fat. Fuck me in your dressing gown (I hope you have that nice one) with nothing on under it, opening it suddenly and showing me your belly and thighs and back and pulling me on top of you on the kitchen table. Fuck me into you arseways, lying on your face on the bed, your hair flying loose naked but with a lovely scented pair of pink drawers opened shamelessly behind and half slipping down over your peeping bum. Fuck me if you can squatting in the closet, with your clothes up, grunting like a young sow doing her dung, and a big fat dirty snaking thing coming slowly out of your backside. Fuck me on the stairs in the dark, like a nursery-maid fucking her soldier, unbuttoning his trousers gently and slipping her hand into his fly and fiddling with his shirt and feeling it getting wet and then pulling it gently up and fiddling with his two bursting balls and at last pulling out boldly the mickey she loves to handle and frigging it for him softly, murmuring into his ear dirty words and dirty stories that other girls told her and dirty things she said, and all the time pissing her drawers with pleasure and letting off soft warm quiet little farts behind until her own girlish cockey is as stiff as his and suddenly sticking him up in her and riding him.

Basta! Basta per Dio!

I have come now and the foolery is over. Now for your questions!

We are not open yet. I send you some posters. We hope to open on the 20th or 21st. Count 14 days from that and 3 1/2 days for the voyage and I am in Trieste.

Get ready. Put some warm-brown-linoleum on the kitchen and hang a pair of red common curtains on the windows at night. Get some kind of a cheap common comfortable armchair for your lazy lover. Do this above all, darling, as I shall not quit the kitchen for a whole week after I arrive, reading, lolling, smoking, and watching you get ready the meals and talking, talking, talking, talking to you. O how supremely happy I shall be! God in heaven, I shall be happy there! I figlioli, il fuoco, una bona mangiata, un caffe nero, un Brasil, il Piccolo della Sera, e Nora, Nora mia, Norina, Noretta, Norella, Noruccia ecc ecc…

Eva and Eileen must sleep together. Get some place for Georgie. I wish Nora and I had two beds for night-work. I am keeping and shall keep my promise, love. Time fly on, fly on quickly! I want to go back to my love, my life, my star, my little strange-eyed Ireland!

A hundred thousand kisses, darling!

JIM

James Joyce
Letter to twenty-five-year-old Nora Barnacle
Selected Letters of James Joyce
edited by Richard Ellman

Greeting

Good moaning, boys & girls. It’s Sunday playtime, once again. Remember nothing exists except the here and now – probably.

speaking only programmed moans

This silence is mine; what’s inside won’t come out. I can’t say I’m too dry; make me wetter. My voice might start another story, one in which he does the things I can’t bring myself to ask for. I’ve been taught to be a doll, speaking only programmed moans. O’s and breaths too staggered and simple to mean anything but fuck. If we’re fucking, skin so close it’s glued, can’t he feel his cock pulling at my canal? From my first lover, I learned not to mind. From my second lover, I learned to mind, but not ask. My third lover asks me to ask, but I can’t. Even though he keeps no secrets, even though he digests my words and is nourished, even though he is delighted by the movement of my mouth and the flicking of spit that comes with speaking, my voice is snared between my teeth. My second throat might vibrate the right sounds, but I’ve been plugged, stopped up with cock, that throat choked. He is watching. I look pleasured. I am, sort of.

Angela Patane
The Truth of the Matter

Sex Writing –

The changing room in Macy’s. A rest area bathroom. The hood of a sports car.

If there’s a chance to get caught, I’ve probably fucked there.

Like sex, writing is both public and private. Like an exhibitionist, a writer gets off in private by exposing her work to the public…Writers are natural pleasure seekers, hedonists. I don’t know of anything more satisfying than laying on the hood of a car, staring into the black night sky, and watching cold breath float slow from my lips like I’m lying at the bottom of the ocean, like the stars are shimmers of sun from the top side of waves. I love the ashy, flat taste of Cabernet a whole bottle in. I love the thoughtless, cliff-wobbling moment before an orgasm better than the orgasm itself. But this is not enough. A writer must push her pleasure into risk, expose herself publicly to strangers with no knowledge of how she might be received, and become something that must be seen. The best kind of writing lives at this intersection…

There are many ways to expose yourself, if willing. I find pleasure in sharing my sexual exploits with friends, just as I do writing about the experiences. “I’m a very physically needy person,” I always start. Then, after some perverse account over coffee, I stir my cup and shrug as if I’ve merely recited the weather forecast. This makes me feel powerful for a moment: because the stories are unforgettable, I feel that I have become unforgettable. Sometimes, I bring my friends’ shocked reactions to the bedroom and share them with my partners, if for nothing else than to extend the pleasure of being seen…

One summer, I dated a married woman whose husband agreed to her seeing other women. He was a nurse who sometimes worked night shifts, which is when I would sleep over. The morning I met him, I woke up on his side of the bed, rolled on top of his wife, and woke her up by going down on her. She was in the middle of a loud orgasm when we heard her husband unlock the front door. She finished as he knocked on the bedroom door, then I wiped my mouth on their sheets and dressed quickly. I left their bedroom and held out my hand for his.

“Nice to meet you,” I wanted to say. “I just fucked your wife.” Instead, I shook his hand and sat next to him at the breakfast bar while his wife made us pancakes.

Emily Smith
Radical Vulnerability: The Writer as Exhibitionist

Women in Search of Balls, Circa 2009

My girlfriend takes a body-rolling class.
The teacher tells her to practice
10 minutes a night while watching TV.
The book tells her the series of pelvic
exercises will make our love-making —
anyone’s love-making —
everyone’s love-making —
more “pleasurable & intense.”
Who doesn’t want that?

I like the idea of more “pleasurable &
intense” love-making, but I don’t like
the word “love-making.” What’s wrong
with “fucking?” I say. Must we be so
pristine? What’s wrong with a little
good old-fashioned fucking?

But the problem, it turns out, is not
one of nomenclature, but one of supplies:

“We need balls,” she says.

“Since when?”

“Spongy pink balls,” she says.

“Why?”

“For my feet — for my body-rolling,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, feeling sheepish. Of course.

We scour the basement, but as it turns out,
we don’t have any balls — there, or anywhere.
We are a household entirely devoid of balls.
We have a combination lock that we don’t
know the combination for. We have an ID
bracelet, a monkey wrench, a set of old Spy
Tech walkie-talkies, & a cat scratching post
with most of the carpet scratched off—

but no balls.

We have —

but no balls.

So I call up the store, & I say to the man
who answers —

“Sir, could you tell me — do you have
spongy pink balls?”

Click, the receiver goes.

So I call up a different store, & more
cautiously, I say to the woman who answers —

“Perhaps you could help me — I’m looking for a set
of balls — ”

She is quick to intercept me —
“Then why don’t you grow a pair?”

“Don’t hang up — I need balls.”

Click.

“I’m looking to buy some spongy
pink balls — ”

Click.

“It’s for body-rolling. My girlfriend
needs balls — ”

Click.

“We’re going to have to try the Internet,”
she says, so I type in what, according to
Ockham’s Razor, should be the simplest
location: http://www.balls.com

It’s a blog site, but nobody mentions balls —
not where to get them, nothing.

The commentary goes like this:

i love to watch people suck their wieners

i like big wieners

i love to suck wieners all the time

i enjoy watching other people do it too

Want to contribute?
Join or sign in

(Site last accessed by author 7/12/09)

“I think we’re going to have to go to the store,”
I say.

“The real store — out there where the people are?”

“Yes,” I say.

“But I’m in my bathrobe, & I’m sleepy, & it’s Sunday.
Who goes to the store on Sunday to buy balls?”

“Someone who needs them for body-rolling,” I say.

“Are we going to a toy store?”

“I think we should.”

“Is a toy store the best place to buy balls?”

“I think it is.”

“On Sunday?”

“On any day,” I say.

“But won’t it seem creepy — that we don’t have kids,
& are trying to buy balls, just the two of us, without kids,
on a Sunday?”

“Good point,” I say. “We’ll have to buy balls on
Tuesday afternoon.”

She agrees & pours more coffee.
“You can do almost anything on a Tuesday afternoon.”

Julie Marie Wade

bite yourself hungry

Like bundles of raw nerve endings under soft flesh. Twisting this way and that. Huddled together in pain or pleasure: leaving signs of the enormity of our connection. You need to bite yourself hungry. Fingers tracking skin, reconfirming desire; life – pure animals fighting for love, for combination in impulsive gestures. Feed off of each other; feed with such greedy desperation. Oh, yes, get it done and do it to me.

Safety first?

Ficken mit Gummi ist wie Fernsehen ohne Strom, as they say in Hamburg

Happy April everything is terrible

someone lives
in apartment four.
I know it because I’ve heard her fucking.
packages with her name appear
and disappear off the porch.
one whole week her snow boots were left
drying by the vents.
she likes to time her fucking,
ensuring it begins twenty to forty minutes
after I have fallen asleep, and lasts
until I have contemplated setting a small fire
both to force an evacuation (and a presumptive end
to the fucking) but also
in retaliation for the reminder
my own bed has never been
such a showy symphony.
I know she lives there
despite never having seen her;
the same way I know
the promise “nothing will change
between us” has been
quietly and unceremoniously broken.
saying we have not become
strangers by the distance
does as much good as saying
apartment four is empty.
(believe me, I know about the word empty
and the many meanings it can bear.)
there is no one to blame for this
but the both of us. I never put
my boots by the vents and now
it’s April and they are dripping wet

Brenna Twohy

feeling him fill her

Her aching sex was filled, her tight nipples throbbing, and she snapped her hips, lifting him as she had lifted the Prince feeling him fill her, pinon her.

Anne Rice
The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty