Archive for August, 2013


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. There is a vague memory of a Cinderella story with a twist of sadomasochism (which she came across in her mother’s study), but the fact of the matter was that Lydia was precocious. She was writing sexy stories before she even properly knew about sex. She just liked they way they sounded in her head, the way they felt in her mouth, the pictures they formed.

Therefore, 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 and warming the downy softness of her pussy. (She likes the word pussy. 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 form that word, swimming against the edges of her teeth.)

Words 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. She meet her dates online. She has met most of the people she knows online. (She doesn’t go out much.) Her dates, they all inevitably end up disappointed. It can’t be helped. Behind the screen she is more clever, more interested, more interesting than in person. With a keyboard she can be more than just a pretty face with the cheeks that blush crimson at the smallest opportunity. 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, this she knows.

These people she meets, they believe that because she writes erotica she loves the act of sex. 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 posses. Or they want to be filled by her, to be possessed. What they never seem to consider 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 her is simply research- fuel for her imagination for when she is alone, a quiet voice in the darkness.

Therefore, she doesn’t expect much from her dates. Some idle conversation, maybe a bit of flirtation to pass the time. Sometimes her date will make a move, starting with a light touch on the forearm that ends with their fingers inside of her. Or 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, she 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 to meet these strangers.

This one, the one she is meeting tonight, they expressed excitement and impatience, using their words with skill and precision, causing a shiver to run up her spine as she read. She forces herself not to get worked up about it. She has met individuals with silver tongues before. 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 and their words falter, regressing to grunts and moans and sighs, leaving her unsatisfied.

Her face bemused, Lydia enters the restaurant to meet her date. She looks around looking a little lost. (She always seems a little lost, as if reality is suspect.)

Lydia starts as a hand comes to rest on her shoulder, warm and sure. A voice in her ear says “I am here, behind you” and her legs get a little rubbery. The person behind her, they lean closer, the breath from their words tickling her ear to add “I know what you want, what you have always wanted, Lydia.” Her breath catches. She still doesn’t dare lose control of herself. The line is not unfamiliar, but somehow this time it feels exactly correct. It feels like a statement of truth, not of desire.

The voice says, “Lydia, come with me. Take my hand and follow me.” Lydia’s heart thumps in her chest as she is lead by the hand into a car, into a bedroom, on to a bed.

Unclothed with a sheen of sweat on her skin, she trembles, cries out, and climaxes as a voice in the background narrates.


An old complaint

I have no idea what I am doing; I think that is safe to say. Any suggestion to the contrary is purely coincidental. I live my my days bemused, rather confused, and usually un-enthused



Behind the screen I feel safe; no eyes are upon me. I can place a mask, one with a perpetual grin, in front of my words so that people think, oh, what a dear girl. So pretty. So young. With my hands on the keyboard my words don’t get caught behind my teeth, and my eyes don’t need to wander. My thoughts can race and slow, stutter and flow without embarrassment. A persona to wear, one without cheeks that blush and hands that grasp each other for comfort. I can take the time to be clever and thoughtful.  My responses are not timed with an elevated heartbeat, or cut short with a clumsy tongue.  I can seem to be what I’m not.

I forgot to take my pieces of medicinal peace

A nebulous sensation,

Hazy and blue

Running through my capillaries,

A feeling I can’t soothe.

It trembles at the throat,

Slips from eyes,

Leaving me wan and wasted

Watching goosebumps rise.

And here I thought myself free

Of melancholy and nebulous pining.

And here I thought myself free

Of discontent n’ melodramatic sighing.

But my pills I haven’t taken.

It seems that I’ve forgotten.

So the sensation comes to claim me,

All dreary, wan and rotten.

So, I will take what I am given,

Chased w’ deep breaths.

And soon enough this mood will fade,

putting despondency to rest.

And flesh

It’s so easy to forget,

to take for granted

the shape of your lips on my neck.

But the goosebumps rising fresh,

once subsumed by time, laughter & cigarettes,

renew my love, blessed.

Where I was once starving,

I now find myself content.

Buried in your arms,

soaking in our sweat,

I remember how I love you:

heart, body, soul,

and flesh.