Lydia writes stories in her spare time. It started innocently enough, like “See Dick share his lollipop with Jane.” Soon enough, though, it became more along the lines of “See Jane suck on Dick’s lollipop” and “Watch Dick watching Jane suck on his lollipop.” She is not sure how it happened, but the fact of the matter was Lydia wrote sexy stories before she even properly knew about sex. She just liked the way the words sounded in her head, the way they felt in her mouth, the pictures they formed.

So quite honestly, it isn’t her intention to write like she does, not exactly. It simply cannot be helped. The words, she tastes them on her tongue before she presses enter. The syllables are creamy or sharp, light or heady. They make her feel high, the endorphins traveling through her system, bleeding blood into her nipples. She is fond of the word pussy, for instance. It sounds so sweet, like a pet. She also is fond of the word cunt, of the way it bites. She can feel it- a heaviness in the molars. She wants to feel her tongue swimming against the edges of her teeth as she forms the words. The syllables, they make her salivate Pavlovian in response. Thinking cock, tits, thighs, flesh, her mouth fills. Her throat works, struggling to keep her from drowning in her own hot saliva. She is embarrassed of the way she responds to phonemes and morphemes. In public places they make her squeeze her thighs together, squirming, pressing. Often she is left breathless by the endless combinations: lips on neck, fingers pressing into skin, scent of sex, taste of sweat. Even the click of a tongue is enough is set her pulse racing. . .

When she is not writing Lydia goes on dates. Her dates, they all inevitably end up disappointed. It can’t be helped. She meets them online, and behind the screen she is more clever, more sexy, more interesting than in person. With a keyboard she can be so much more than just a young woman. She can be the dream of flesh, of the smell of skin and the scratch of hair. Fantasy is so much more powerful than reality, she knows.

These people she meets, they believe that because she writes erotica she loves the act of sex. So they picture her doing the acts she depicts: tied up and panting, a corset pinched tight, begging, demanding, screaming, moaning, licking, tasting, fucking. They imagine placing their tongues on her and lapping, of inserting things into her, of having her insert things into them. They want to fill her, to possess. Or they want to be filled by her, to be possessed. What they never seem to consider, that which always comes as such a surprise, is that she doesn’t actually enjoy the reality of sex. It is messy. It is uncomfortable. It is dirty, disappointing, and boring. Sex to Lydia is simply research- fuel for her imagination for when she is alone, a quiet voice in the darkness.

She therefore doesn’t expect much from her dates. Sometimes her date will make a move, starting with a light touch on the forearm that ends with their fingers inside of her. Other times she simply leaves with the memory of another face, another body, another voice to add to her collection. Safe in her mind, these phantoms of fantasy, Lydia can bring them out to play whenever she wishes. That is all she usually wants, but sometimes she needs new material, or can’t help but hope. So, she continues agrees to meet these strangers despite the failures.

The one she is meeting tonight used their words with skill and precision, causing a shiver to run up her spine as she read them. She forces herself not to get worked up about it, though. Lydia has met those with silver tongues before. At first they seem to understand. They use the right phrases, the right rhythm, but it is still the physical they are after.

Flesh on flesh, they forget themselves, their words falter, regressing to grunts and moans and sighs, leaving her unsatisfied.


One response to this post.

  1. *Lights the clichéd cigarette*


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