Archive for the ‘Nonsense’ Category

These Still Waters

These once still waters quiver.

What wakes this idle river?

Like goosepimples,

the silver surface ripples,

with scintillating shudders,

flutters,

and shining rainbow colors.

Once so calm,

These still waters rested warm.

Like seeping silence,

The sterling surface lay timeless.

The waves were placid,

flaccid,

Its lazy movements vapid.

Once so idle,

This river felt primal.

Like a mirror,

Yet these pale waters laid clearer.

But now the surface is troubled,

Bubbled,

Its once peaceful breadth muddled.

These still waters once ran so deep,

Why is it now that they’re trembling awake?

Like potion in a cauldron,

The argent surface roils wanton.

As the shallows rise,

The breakers hide,

that which strives to attain the skies.

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Nostalgic about Nostalgia, an inner monologue

My brain: “Hey, remember when you used to remember when?”

Me: “Uh, you mean when I was miserable and I couldn’t stop thinking about the time when I was just melancholy?”

My brain: “Yup!”

Me: “Yeah, I remember those feels. It has certainly been a while since I felt those feels. . .”

(Interlude of reminiscence.)

Me: “Wait. Are you fucking kidding me? Do you have me being nostalgic about NOSTALGIA??”

My brain: “Tee hee.”

Me: “Asshole.”

Lydia

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

 

thoughts

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.

Flavor and Memory

There is a flavor I miss – a hint of something at the back of the tongue, a spicy scent muted by congestion. I feel as if it is almost there, resting just above the tastebuds, drifting around the teeth. It is like it’s waiting for the right word, the right phrase to call it into being.
It reeks of nostalgia, this missing flavor. It is reminiscent of frost on November leaves, of burning cloves, of crispness and time. I remember the color of a sky – a blue so thin it could break. That and a breeze, so cool, but old-bone dry. I can feel it, too – grit on the skin, smoke in the eyes.Trying to grasp this flavor leaves me shivering, dizzy. My fingers, they twitch as goosepimples rise.

 

Jersey

The feel of you on my skin is whisper soft. It feels like relief, like satisfaction. I spread myself against you, my flesh pressing fabric. I feel the friction, the heat it produces. My skin tingles as goosebumps rise from the thrill. I curl my toes and arch my spine as I press my face into pillows. Sighs escape my lips as I shiver in a quiet sort of ecstasy. I burrow my way under the covers, wrapping myself up with you, and tangling you around me. Here I can breathe deep and slow, finding solace and rest. My only sorrow being how soon I must extricate my bones from your delicious clutches to make my way back into the world.

My jersey sheets were a great investment.