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

To put it simply, I have an addiction to flashing my breasts to men in public. It’s extremely exciting knowing that I am being lusted after because of it. Anytime I go somewhere, I flash my breasts at least 3 times. I am writing here because the last time I flashed my breasts in public, an older woman approached me and lectured me about protecting my modesty and went as far to call me a whore. I guess some people don’t see it as morally correct, so here’s my confession.

Source HERE.

Too heavy

February 9, 2020

His sex is almost too heavy to lift. His wife can carry it for a while.

Elfriede Jelinek
Lust

I saw him watching me in the gilded mirrors with the assessing eye of a connoisseur inspecting horseflesh, or even of a housewife in the market, inspecting cuts on the slab. I’d never seen, or else had never acknowledged, that regard of his before…When I saw him look at me with lust, I dropped my eyes but, in glancing away from him, I caught sight of myself in the mirror… I saw how much that cruel necklace became me. And, for the first time in my innocent and confined life, I sensed in myself a potentiality for corruption that took my breath away.

Angela Carter
The Bloody Chamber

Needing pain

January 15, 2020

I need a pain to pierce
To strike me cruelly down
To rip me into myself.

Else Lasker-Schüler

Chaos
tran. Eavan Boland

Welcome Home

January 15, 2020

Every mouth you’ve ever kissed
was just practice
all the bodies you’ve ever undressed
and ploughed in to
were preparing you for me.
i don’t mind tasting them in the
memory of your mouth
they were a long hall way
a door half open
a single suit case still on the conveyor belt
was it a long journey?
Did it take you long to find me?
You’re here now,
welcome home.

Warsan Shire

own me in lust

December 26, 2019

I could feel his whole body trying to claim me, want me, own me in lust, and it made me feel so valuable and wanted. As I was bent over the table, I felt like I was the world to him, and he could think of nothing else,  could feel nothing else:  he was consumed with my body, dedicated to exploring my female sexual power and energy, and his desperate hitting of me with the belt felt like he would rather die, than be without the chance to connect with me in sex.

Fiona Thrust
Naked and Sexual

Spread your legs wide –

December 14, 2019

Yes, wider.

I want you to wait for me sitting with spread legs. I want to imagine you that way on my journey home. It excites me; I like it. I want to inhale the musky scent of your sex immediately I enter the room.

I want to see you there spread wide for me.

I want your legs spread so wide because I want you to be completely open. I want you to obscenely expose your wonderful complexity to me.

I want those spread legs not just for my pleasure, on a whim. No, I want them to be a door to your world. A symbol of your submission. A surrender of all modesty and inhibition. An admission of your need for penetration.

And once inside, I’ll look for you, find you, discover you. Understand you.

Unravel that thread between your spread sex, your heart and your brain.

I want to feel that thread enclosing me, I want to wrap myself in your beauty, I want that thread to tighten on my flesh, my soul, my cock. I want to see it, feel it, swallow it. I want everything you are: good, evil, happiness, sadness, illusion, disappointment, love, hate, depth, saltwater, roughness, sweetness.

I want to unravel you. With patience, slowness and perseverance. I want to make it simple for both of us. I want to fuck you ‘till you scream for me.

December

December 7, 2019

When my body had forgotten its purpose,
when it just hung off my brainstem like whipped mule.
When my hands only wrote. When my mouth only ate.
When my ass sat, my eyes read, when my reflexes
were answers to questions we all already knew.
Remember how it was then that you slid your hand
into me, a fork in the electric toaster of my body. Jesus,
where did all these sparks come from? Where was all
this heat? Remember what this mouth did last night?
And still, this morning I answer the phone like normal,
still I drink an hour’s worth of strong coffee. And now
I file. And now I send an email. And remember how
my lungs filled with all that everything? Remember
how my heart was an animal you released from its cage?
Remember how we unhinged? Remember all the names
our bodies called each other? Remember how afterwards,
the steam rose from us, like a pair of smiling ghosts?

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

Dream House As Erotica

In the late spring, you surprise yourself by asking her to cover your mouth as you come. She does, pressing a firm palm against your crescendoing howl, and it’s as if the sound is being pushed back into your body so that it might suffuse your every molecule. When you are ebbing, and try to inhale but can’t, she lets go, and you can feel the lingering tingle of unlanguage.

After this, you ask her to talk to you in a low, raspy stream while she fucks you, and she does: switching effortlessly between English and French, muttering about her cock and how it’s filling you up, pushing her hand over your face and grabbing the architecture of your jaw to turn it this way and that. She shaves her cunt smooth, and it glows like the inside of a conch shell. She loves wearing a harness; you suck her off that way and she comes like it’s real, bucking and lifting off the mattress.

You don’t know what is more of a miracle: her body, or her love of your body. She haunts your erotic imagination. You are both perpetually wet. You fuck, it seems, everywhere: beds and tables and floors; over the phone. When you are physically next to each other, she loves to marvel over your differences: how her skin is pale as skim milk and yours, olive; how her nipples are pink and yours are brown. “Everything is darker on you,” she says. You would let her swallow you whole, if she could.

Carmen Maria Machado
In the Dream House