not the salvation

April 2, 2019

The orgasm focuses. I lust to write. The coming of the orgasm is not the salvation but, more, the birth of my ego. I cannot write until I find my ego. The only kind of writer I could be is the kind who exposes himself.. . .To write is to spend oneself, to gamble oneself. But up to now I have not even liked the sound of my own name. To write, I must love my name. The writer is in love with himself. . .and makes his books out of that meeting and that violence.

Susan Sontag
Journal entry 19th November 1959

amnesia

December 18, 2018

Dear Gabrielle

How often at night have we achieved the blessed amnesia of orgasm?

dildo

October 7, 2018

A dildo will never let you down. It’ll never leave you on the edge of that great precipice of pleasure, then roll over and go to sleep. It won’t snore. It’ll never tell you lies about who it was with last night. It’ll always be hard, just for you – a dedicated lover. And it’ll do its duty when required, for as long as required. Most importantly, it’ll never break your heart.

cosmic orgasm

April 29, 2018

an orgasm

When the library of yourselves was torn from the shelves and scattered, and the DNA was split so that there were only two strands left with very little data and very little memory, sexuality was left intact in the physical body. It was left as a form of reproduction, of course-as a form for the species to stay in touch with its own essence and bring itself into life. Very deep inside the mechanism of sexuality is a frequency that can be attained that has been sought after and misunderstood by many people. It is called orgasm.

The orgasm has been distorted from its original purpose. Your body has forgotten the cosmic orgasm of which it is capable because society has taught you for thousands and thousands of years that sexuality is bad. You have been taught this in order for you to be controlled and to keep you from seeking the freedom available through sexuality. Sexuality connects you with a frequency of ecstasy, which connects you back to your divine source and to information.

Sexuality has been given a bad name upon this planet, and that bad name is stored in your cellular memory. This is not just from this lifetime; it is from thousands of years of misappropriation and misuse. It is necessary for you to clear the negativity surrounding sexuality from this lifetime, as well as to experience and examine how you utilize sexual energy and sexual expression in your multidimensional selves.

The sexual parts of the body are avenues to pleasure that create frequencies that heal and stimulate the body and potentially lead it to its higher spiritual self. Sexuality is so misunderstood on this planet that, when it is exchanged between two persons, very seldom is there an intent to connect spirituality with it. Sexuality invokes a spirituality that is free and that looks at itself as a creator. However, very seldom is sexuality used as a bridge to take you to higher levels of consciousness.

Barbara Marciniak
Bringers of the Dawn

fantasies

January 21, 2018

Pillow man was a soft and happy place
that made me feel something tingly
when I wrapped tiny legs around him,
playing a new game, pressing and rolling,
not really knowing why, but keeping
him secret and dragging him out from
the dark covers if mummy came to check
on me, of course then making out he
was just a pillow under my head
and sleeping, not touching me down there.

Pebble man was not one but many
mouths on shingle beaches in summer,
when I lay down on my stomach
and found that better than sun-bathing
I could kiss you all, shamelessly,
without preferring one above another,
just something to practise on, and afterwards
all you might see was a young girl
throwing away a stone, never thinking
she had learned the art of using.

Book man lived in the dirty passages
of my grandfather’s paperbacks next
to the coupons he raped from newspapers,
he was a real man who looked just like
Richard Gere and knew what to do and say
at the same time, not like the first boy man,
no better than stones, who bit me when
he kissed me and tried after clumsy
tongues to be a pillow and go down there,
making me close my eyes and pretend.

The Passion by ryoung

We were naked and ravenous when she shrieked out, ‘Harder!’ The seconds ticking remorselessly round the clockface towards midnight. A new day, and new year. Thrusting together, our mutual greed now an infinite beast. Both uttering these strange sounds, spontaneous, not chosen.

Midnight!

Fireworks on the television screen, the London eye glimpsed through a blaze of stars.

Abruptly weightless, deep in her interior darkness. Each flaming spurt of my cock caused her to cry out. Curse words. Filth, spilling from her potty mouth. Nailed in place by my fiery root, now relentless – and she so terribly physical with her teeth and claws and that look on her contorted face, as if she were about to give birth or absorb me into her body.

Then melting, gently touching. Light kisses on eyes, lips, hair. And her voice that moments before had shrieked out, ‘Fuck me harder you bastard’, now whispered, ‘Happy new year, darling…’

Wild is, of course, her favourite colour…

The bite marks your teeth leave are reminders of our ecstasy…

I will bring your demons to their knees….

A firm grip on her neck makes her feel powerless. Choking intensifies her orgasm…

28th May

Sunday: a day for contemplation; for gentle caresses and kisses. A day for love. Today we may defy the abyss together –

Your tongue plays in my mouth. Then the mad trembling of copulation and our shared frenzy – all before breakfast.

Genital pleasure, you know, is a form of ardent religiosity! So very apt for a Sunday, don’t you think?

Then after lunch, carnival masks and carnality. MH sacrifices his wife to us in order to caress your naked breasts. She is pale and plump and wears an ample pair of French knickers, purple in colour. While MH pumps between your spread legs on the sofa, we use his poor wife on the floor. She cums with a series of gasps and a tiny shudder. Her perfume is strong, cloying, not pleasant at all. I can still smell it now…that and the odour of her sex on my fingers –

#

Sex is imprisoned in a gothic fortress of taboos – and these we must continuously transgress to overcome the terrible isolation that faces each and every one of us in life.

#

Drinks follow the crescendo of our clinically engineered sexual encounter. Then food: quesadillas filled with four cheeses, these followed by homemade vanilla and cinnamon ice cream which I serve with toasted nuts and chocolate sauce.

All slightly surreal, I agree.

We sit eating, the five of us, like characters from an Iris Murdoch novel. Gabriella drinks white wine, a rather good Riesling. I drink brandy. MH sips a cold beer, while Mrs MH swills gin & tonic with intrepid enthusiasm – as if to forget her recent distracted quiescence, and her desultory orgasm on the carpet. Or perhaps it’s the sight of her hubby’s pimpled backside between Dee’s spread thighs she wishes to expunge from memory?

We play dress up. Bundles of fancy dress items carried down from the boxroom. Much laughter. Mrs MH’s swaying tits as she tries on a ball gown. MH wants to fuck Gabriella, but she isn’t interested. Instead she offers to pleasure plump Mrs MH with a strapon, while he watches their labouring bodies. Dee in red silk panties will act as his fricatrice. I will fetch the box of tissues and the KY.

The MHs finally leave us about nine-thirty. We go up to shower and change, and after that I fix fresh drinks. We are all a little drunk. And we end this damp, eager Sunday by eating fresh jam doughnuts.