My father is a member of the clergy, and so despite his and my mother's exacting wishes, I developed an idea that sex was something to which guilt must be attached as a condition for its possibility. Sex was something hidden. The fact that my parents tried to be open and to explain it to us (myself and my sibling) and to correct the idea that it was something hidden, inappropriate, made it all the more so the opposite, in that this was a private conversation about which there was something artificial and uncomfortable.
So yes, I blame Christianity for these views. I suppose I am advancing the Victorian, repressive hypothesis. SO be it. The Protestants have no confessions. Or at least not the helpful spoken kind.
That my father betrayed the marital contract and wrote about it in his diary confirmed this idea. That he kept books of erotic photography in his closet, on a shelf, again convinced me that I was right.
In fact, sex increased its allure for me, all the more it was prohibited. Yes, the law produces desire! That my dear cousin was the only girl with whom I'd kissed and touched, and the clear need for discretion that surrounded those encounters, from the age of 5 until high school--again, my desire grew and my conviction became more concrete.
Given these cues, is it surprising that I came to find sex identified with a subterranean, secret violence? Although the ass love of a man may not appeal to me, I loved reading Genet because I too felt those identifications between sex and violence. Not physical violence, admittedly, which, except for fulfilling the request of a girlfriend who wished I would slap her during the act, I can't say I've indulged within. Instead, the violence of deception. Exciting moments sneaking a kiss or a grope.
Such that, the sex sanctioned by law and community, I admit, holds less excitement for me. I enjoy the act, certainly, but the emotional rush leading to it is missing, which I think I might only find in the aforementioned subterranean, non-contractual, or rather anti-contractual, encounters of bodies whose meeting is forbidden.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Who are you, 68.104.71.200?
I am so desperate for interaction I have been following the ISPs of my readers. Or reader. I know you are in Las Vegas. Which is no eastern seaboard.
I have not forgotten my promise and I will post on deception. But the time has been fleeting as of late. Visitors. The beginning of the fall semester. So many wonderful young female bodies. And the people I refuse to attach to them.
But I have also been thinking of my dear wife. Dear indeed. We're having a spat right now. It will last a few hours more, I think. I frequently joke that I was the one who benefitted from our union, whereas she only got me. My conscience forces me to say that. An ex-girlfriend wrote me a card for my wedding and it said the nicest things about me, that for once lifted me out of the grasp of my conscience. I thought that I was something.
And despite my desires, I have achieved no infidelous plans over the past two years. But the deeds themselves are immaterial. Intentions are the field of the conscience. She is an exacting master, wearing fur and leather. I want to be abused and my conscience abuses me.
I dream of being purely commodified for my lovely cock.
I wonder if it's Penny?
I have not forgotten my promise and I will post on deception. But the time has been fleeting as of late. Visitors. The beginning of the fall semester. So many wonderful young female bodies. And the people I refuse to attach to them.
But I have also been thinking of my dear wife. Dear indeed. We're having a spat right now. It will last a few hours more, I think. I frequently joke that I was the one who benefitted from our union, whereas she only got me. My conscience forces me to say that. An ex-girlfriend wrote me a card for my wedding and it said the nicest things about me, that for once lifted me out of the grasp of my conscience. I thought that I was something.
And despite my desires, I have achieved no infidelous plans over the past two years. But the deeds themselves are immaterial. Intentions are the field of the conscience. She is an exacting master, wearing fur and leather. I want to be abused and my conscience abuses me.
I dream of being purely commodified for my lovely cock.
I wonder if it's Penny?
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Penny
My first internet crush. Actually, not at all. In graduate school, for a short period before all of the voices became purely electronic, there was a woman who would meet me there and we would diddle each other with words. I sat in front of that old computer with its dialup connection and would write nasty little things in the dialogue box. She reciprocated. We exchanged emails, later, interspersed between meeting each other online, where we would simulate the encounters of bodies, purely imaginary. Then, phone calls.
Yesterday I tried to interest her in me, making myself an object, using words to seduce, I hoped. I posted my email in a message and then she posted it to her comments. Ah, nothing. Then I felt embarrased, such a transparent attempt. Perhaps Marianne is surprised, disappointed. And other commenters rolling their eyes. Then I remembered, I am "Bryce," and what do I have to do with shame?
So now I trumpet my silly crush. Which emerges out of the visual matrix. Words begin, dear reader, and words are vital. But images allow words to grow and blossom, like the excitations of an aroused sex. Like the excitations of my aroused sex, which yearns for the contact of skin and membrane, saliva and lips, soft sensation of teeth surrounding, a tongue stroking. It will suffer my own fingers, if it must. Whereas it desires to trace the contours of Penny's body, the crevice growing between her legs. (Metaphors are so boyish and silly, methinks).
In short, I want to fuck Penny. I just returned home from honeymoon with my wife who I love dearly, and I want to fuck Penny.
Next post: deception and sex.
Yesterday I tried to interest her in me, making myself an object, using words to seduce, I hoped. I posted my email in a message and then she posted it to her comments. Ah, nothing. Then I felt embarrased, such a transparent attempt. Perhaps Marianne is surprised, disappointed. And other commenters rolling their eyes. Then I remembered, I am "Bryce," and what do I have to do with shame?
So now I trumpet my silly crush. Which emerges out of the visual matrix. Words begin, dear reader, and words are vital. But images allow words to grow and blossom, like the excitations of an aroused sex. Like the excitations of my aroused sex, which yearns for the contact of skin and membrane, saliva and lips, soft sensation of teeth surrounding, a tongue stroking. It will suffer my own fingers, if it must. Whereas it desires to trace the contours of Penny's body, the crevice growing between her legs. (Metaphors are so boyish and silly, methinks).
In short, I want to fuck Penny. I just returned home from honeymoon with my wife who I love dearly, and I want to fuck Penny.
Next post: deception and sex.
Monday, July 20, 2009
In dem Biergarten
Her nipples are raw, because her lovely child uses them each day to nourish herself. But her body is closer to how she remembered it. Her abdomen resembles its familiar shape. Sometimes she leaks. Like now. She is wet. But it is a different kind. Or is it always this way?
She has known him for years, her husband's friend from graduate school. He is a strange fellow. Not as cute now as when she first met him. He says funny, disspiriting things. "She looks like that guy from 'The Shield'." An actor who is pale-complected, practically bald, with a wide face. And her daughter does look like this, in truth, if this daughter could be abstracted from being her daughter being. If she were just a small baby whose hair has not yet grown in, who still has deep blue eyes and fair peau.
Dreaming, this morning, in those few hours she got back as her husband took care of their daughter, her fingers slowly crawled between her legs. Her bedroom at her parents' house, where she'd grown up. This strange fellow laying on her bed as she comes in, wrapped in a towel from a cold summer shower. They'd been fucking all night long.
He sat up, with his head resting on the wall just above the headboard. His right hand stroking his cock. It was reddish and purple, she supposed tired from touching the deepest part of her. Erect.
He came across her face first, hours before, in the dark. She licked the cum from around her mouth. Wiped it off her forehead, cheeks, into her hair. She wanted to smell it and feel it on her. His lips kissed her sex, her flower, her ... cookie? His head between her legs, chin pressed against her pubic hair as she felt his tongue push inside her. Later he would push her face down into the pillow, kneeling behind her, she was on her knees. The head of his cock rubbing hard against her cervix.
"Take off the towel and come here." She let it drop to the ground. But she stood there, apart from the bed. She held her breasts in her hands, cupping her hands over them, twisting her nipples slightly. She had large breasts and she knew what that did to him. He watched and kept stroking. He had filled her ass too with cum, hours before.
"Cunt." She says "okay," smirking. Why does this talk excite her, she wonders. She'd put up with it from noone else. On the subway this word means nothing as it passes along with others into the continuum of noise. She bends over, running her fingers down her legs. Keeps them straight and slowly turns around like that, yet spreading her legs so that her pelvis, her crotch is open to him. She is blooming. They must be red, she thinks, although they are not really sore. Her pussy wants more. She wants more.
She has known him for years, her husband's friend from graduate school. He is a strange fellow. Not as cute now as when she first met him. He says funny, disspiriting things. "She looks like that guy from 'The Shield'." An actor who is pale-complected, practically bald, with a wide face. And her daughter does look like this, in truth, if this daughter could be abstracted from being her daughter being. If she were just a small baby whose hair has not yet grown in, who still has deep blue eyes and fair peau.
Dreaming, this morning, in those few hours she got back as her husband took care of their daughter, her fingers slowly crawled between her legs. Her bedroom at her parents' house, where she'd grown up. This strange fellow laying on her bed as she comes in, wrapped in a towel from a cold summer shower. They'd been fucking all night long.
He sat up, with his head resting on the wall just above the headboard. His right hand stroking his cock. It was reddish and purple, she supposed tired from touching the deepest part of her. Erect.
He came across her face first, hours before, in the dark. She licked the cum from around her mouth. Wiped it off her forehead, cheeks, into her hair. She wanted to smell it and feel it on her. His lips kissed her sex, her flower, her ... cookie? His head between her legs, chin pressed against her pubic hair as she felt his tongue push inside her. Later he would push her face down into the pillow, kneeling behind her, she was on her knees. The head of his cock rubbing hard against her cervix.
"Take off the towel and come here." She let it drop to the ground. But she stood there, apart from the bed. She held her breasts in her hands, cupping her hands over them, twisting her nipples slightly. She had large breasts and she knew what that did to him. He watched and kept stroking. He had filled her ass too with cum, hours before.
"Cunt." She says "okay," smirking. Why does this talk excite her, she wonders. She'd put up with it from noone else. On the subway this word means nothing as it passes along with others into the continuum of noise. She bends over, running her fingers down her legs. Keeps them straight and slowly turns around like that, yet spreading her legs so that her pelvis, her crotch is open to him. She is blooming. They must be red, she thinks, although they are not really sore. Her pussy wants more. She wants more.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Sick Boy
The sick boy sits and waits for tomorrow.
His penis is soft and needs watering.
Girlfriend's tongue licks it up and down
like a lollipop, with the result
that the penis feels the rush of blood,
stiffens, and his pelvis pushes it
deeper into her oral cavity.
She thinks, "depravity."
"I never imagined when I was younger,
that my joy would be found at moments
in the descent upon this boy's dick."
This strange smelling, responsive, object.
In the most object-like sense. It has no eyes,
despite the word-smithing of some.
It imagines an H.R. Giger image. Something
violent, penetrating.
Does it taste nice? she asks.
The taste of her flower has changed since he's known it.
At first salty, a bit sour.
But now the air of it intoxicates him;
it is not a mere convergence of descriptors.
"Jodi, I love you," he says.
And he means it, despite the fact that at his age
he cannot tell one passion from another.
If courage is experience, then he is a coward.
She needs his love because she's grown up without a father.
And men are like women, they are interchangeable.
Boys are even like girls.
Is she courageous? Yes, if courage implies blind trust.
But what has she to lose? No one has touched her
gently, taking her from lesser to greater stages
of sensitivity. So she 'enjoys' ... the manhandling.
Boyhandling. Having seen pornos where pleasure
coincides with physical exertion.
Two decades later, after five years of marriage
and two children, one of her students
will hold her down on her desk
while she begs him to stop.
She will go home, her rectum bleeding,
her heart haunted. Quiet, uncertain. Angry.
His penis is soft and needs watering.
Girlfriend's tongue licks it up and down
like a lollipop, with the result
that the penis feels the rush of blood,
stiffens, and his pelvis pushes it
deeper into her oral cavity.
She thinks, "depravity."
"I never imagined when I was younger,
that my joy would be found at moments
in the descent upon this boy's dick."
This strange smelling, responsive, object.
In the most object-like sense. It has no eyes,
despite the word-smithing of some.
It imagines an H.R. Giger image. Something
violent, penetrating.
Does it taste nice? she asks.
The taste of her flower has changed since he's known it.
At first salty, a bit sour.
But now the air of it intoxicates him;
it is not a mere convergence of descriptors.
"Jodi, I love you," he says.
And he means it, despite the fact that at his age
he cannot tell one passion from another.
If courage is experience, then he is a coward.
She needs his love because she's grown up without a father.
And men are like women, they are interchangeable.
Boys are even like girls.
Is she courageous? Yes, if courage implies blind trust.
But what has she to lose? No one has touched her
gently, taking her from lesser to greater stages
of sensitivity. So she 'enjoys' ... the manhandling.
Boyhandling. Having seen pornos where pleasure
coincides with physical exertion.
Two decades later, after five years of marriage
and two children, one of her students
will hold her down on her desk
while she begs him to stop.
She will go home, her rectum bleeding,
her heart haunted. Quiet, uncertain. Angry.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Du siehst mir sehr lecker aus
At the most northern point of the island, in a coffeeshop facing the mainland, I sit and grade and only steps away sits the most lecker looking female that I have seen. Perhaps it is because she speaks auf Deutsch to her friend. Perhaps because of that lovely olive skin. But she fills my heart with want and desire. Just her image, for I know nothing else. How strange the passions are. But I can imagine her scent in general, how it feels to run your fingers across her skin. The smell of her hair. The way she looks at you from the distance of a few inches.
I want to be confronted by her flower.
I want to be confronted by her flower.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
A lovely 19-year-old girl named ...
I detest the way in which some men allow their attentions to be drawn solely to the curves of the late teenage-early twenties female, as if this period in the life of the woman exhausted the temporal promise of her charms. Especially as the charms of the body remain pure only so far as we do not partake of conversation or emotional, non-physiological, exchanged. By this event women turn beautiful and ugly, and this shallow form takes on the the capacity for life. Suffice this proviso to be proof that the following reflections emerge not from any poorly conceived celebration of the young woman in general.
Or so I apologize?
But I do have a student who is perhaps 19 or 20 and lovely. I have wanted to write something about her for the past few days. She is very quiet and continually has the look of surprise. She says little in class and I call on her primarily because it allows me a chance to look at her without having to turn my head towards other students, to keep myself from enjoying her vision for too long.
In fact, at first nothing recommends her appearance like that of other students. Perhaps this is because she is so shy. Yesterday was the first time that she came to my office hours and that only to drop off her essay. She was flustered. I was speaking with another female student and so waved for this girl to wait a moment. The other student left and then Anne, let's call her Anne, entered. She handed me the paper and said practically nothing, amounting to "here it is." She turned to go and quickly left.
Yesterday she wore a skirt and tights underneath. The skirt extended to the middle of her thigh. Her shirt or blouse revealed cleavage that I had been trying to gaze upon the entirety of the class she attends. With female students I try to be very careful not to give them the sense that I view them with any desire ... aforementioned encounters notwithstanding. This is difficult, I think, because interaction between men and women in public spaces is frequently mediated by the sexuality implict within our dress. Women's clothing in particular is most commonly designed to pose the body as an object for contemplation.
Her legs were lovely, I thought, as I watched her walk away from my office. I imagined the scent between her legs of her tights and then her exquisite warmth.
She is actually beautiful, with eyes that attend to the world in an especially open gaze. Her hair possesses tight curls, is light brown, blondish. She reminds me of the girl that I dated early in college: Jodi. Jodi had the fairest skin, as does Anne. Yet Jodi had freckles and strawberry-blond hair. Both Anne and Jodi have (had) this look of confusion and surprise. Perhaps it's a kind of naivete, but I don't think so.
I closed the door to my office and looked at a website about adult secrets, where people post theirs. A female student somewhere posts "I get off on staring at my professor in class and thinking about how I would like to fuck him."
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Time for Meditation on Pussy
Today I again solicited Pet. She stands by her promise, unknown, to Anya, not to sleep with her groom-select. Although I know that were I to soften Pet with liquor, as she has a easy way with, her bedroom door would again open. Or so I think.
And the truth is that I am not even sure I would so enjoy being affirmed in my solicitation. I thought about it this afternoon as I drove back from the Newark airport, where I left my friend. He had been visiting for the past four days and is the only one who knows everything. We've known each other since graduate school when he studied creative writing and I studied literature. He was the non-cerebral type who got drunk a lot and had every luscious pussy solicit him. Including this ballbuster named Gina who eventually turned out to be cheating on him, having never ended her previous relationship with a man who also turned out to be her fiancé. Tough times. He's now married, a professor like me, teaching literature and creative writing, although I've switched fields.
We confess to each other our unfortunate deeds whenever we get together. I have had nothing to confess, as my dear reader would know, despite all the half-baked attempts that I've made. In fact, that is not completely true, I suppose. I mean, if there was a serious persistent unremitting drive that freed itself from responsibility and witness, then couldn't I be successful in finding some entertainment for my cock?
I like to think so. Last night we went to this barbecue joint, myself, my friend, Anya and then another friend from graduate school and his very pregnant wife who I once lusted after. From a distant. She is still quite beautiful. Jewish with olive skin and dark hair. She is a lawyer and in fantasies my cock has penetrated her holy of holies on several occasions.
It has occurred to me that I have a distinct problem with the romantic possessions of my close friends, some desire to conquer each of them. My fellow confessor is married to a startlingly beautiful Russian woman that I know I underestimated. This makes me think of Myra. Oh Myra and the wonderful taut skin across her midriff, her hipbone. That physiological zone has bedeviled me since high school and college, when lovely Jodi splayed herself on my cock. I see Myra's profile on Facebook, a friend of other friends, who the machine tells me I may want to befriend. And that that I do.
But I would rather humble myself between her open legs and lick that clit up and down, watching her squirm. The blond down above her labia, barely visible on her alabaster skin. I would pull her hips into my face and press my tongue inside as far as it could go. Would that I were Gene Simmons and could taste the deepest salty goodness within her.
And the truth is that I am not even sure I would so enjoy being affirmed in my solicitation. I thought about it this afternoon as I drove back from the Newark airport, where I left my friend. He had been visiting for the past four days and is the only one who knows everything. We've known each other since graduate school when he studied creative writing and I studied literature. He was the non-cerebral type who got drunk a lot and had every luscious pussy solicit him. Including this ballbuster named Gina who eventually turned out to be cheating on him, having never ended her previous relationship with a man who also turned out to be her fiancé. Tough times. He's now married, a professor like me, teaching literature and creative writing, although I've switched fields.
We confess to each other our unfortunate deeds whenever we get together. I have had nothing to confess, as my dear reader would know, despite all the half-baked attempts that I've made. In fact, that is not completely true, I suppose. I mean, if there was a serious persistent unremitting drive that freed itself from responsibility and witness, then couldn't I be successful in finding some entertainment for my cock?
I like to think so. Last night we went to this barbecue joint, myself, my friend, Anya and then another friend from graduate school and his very pregnant wife who I once lusted after. From a distant. She is still quite beautiful. Jewish with olive skin and dark hair. She is a lawyer and in fantasies my cock has penetrated her holy of holies on several occasions.
It has occurred to me that I have a distinct problem with the romantic possessions of my close friends, some desire to conquer each of them. My fellow confessor is married to a startlingly beautiful Russian woman that I know I underestimated. This makes me think of Myra. Oh Myra and the wonderful taut skin across her midriff, her hipbone. That physiological zone has bedeviled me since high school and college, when lovely Jodi splayed herself on my cock. I see Myra's profile on Facebook, a friend of other friends, who the machine tells me I may want to befriend. And that that I do.
But I would rather humble myself between her open legs and lick that clit up and down, watching her squirm. The blond down above her labia, barely visible on her alabaster skin. I would pull her hips into my face and press my tongue inside as far as it could go. Would that I were Gene Simmons and could taste the deepest salty goodness within her.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
More and Less
Over the past month, my underwear have continually bore the odor of dried cum. THe moments alone, in the bedroom, watching porn at Maxporn. Lately, a fascination with the pornstar named Eve Lawrence. Why, I do not know. I imagine a meeting between us would be tempting, because of the curves of her wild body and the desire this might momentarily inspire. The effectiveness of porn lies in the imagination. But when people speak, everything changes. The dimension of character emerges that can be very un-sexy. Of course, I'm sure Miss Lawrence is a lovely woman, but I suspect that she could not hold my attention to her.
I have at least two students now that interest me as sexual objects. The one is a fair-skinned blonde beauty. Her hair is actually a light brown, I suppose. She is generally quiet, but she stares at my during my lectures with such open, observant eyes that are generally not afraid to meet mine. Yet I must admit that Iam afraid to meet hers. I worry that my attention to her beauty might be noticeable to other students. Perhaps I overcompensate. The truth is that she is beautiful, and I have caught a few glances at her body--a sliver of her midriff exposed when she stood up and was putting on her coat--but I doubt that there could be more than that. And I would never pursue it. This is an ethical boundary I must maintain.
The other student is delicious in appearance. My mind exclaims: du siehst mir sehr lecker aus! She seems very nice. But again the reflection here is the moment. Otherwise, she is still just a student and ...
Beyond these respects, I am without sex. Over the past six months, I have had so little sex! All sex has been the eyes and the left hand and the right hand and this is it. Since Anya and I have moved in together, sex has dropped off the agenda. She is tired when she comes home and I am tired. I do not feel bad about this. I still love her as I have before, quite sincerely. Perhaps it is our domestic partners.
We are getting married in a few months and I am content with this. Yet I feel I need to tell her that I will cheat on her. But that this will not mean that I do not love her.
New Year's Eve we spent at our friend's house. The Pet, as I like to think of her. Pet and I have slept together numerous times over the past few years. Since I have been with Anya, perhaps twice, three times. When I lived in my other east-coast city, she lived only a few blocks away and our friendship involved going out to eat and drinking together, on the not infrequent occasion, and then making out in front of her apartment. Now Pet lives here.
That Eve, apart from the other guests for a minute, Pet and I made out. When Anya was in the bathroom and everyone else had left, we kissed. And days afterward, I wanted to do more. Pet, having now met and spent time with Anya, has decided that her lust cannot withstand the sense of violation, now that Anya is not to her merely a name, but a person. I suspect this will only last until we get drunk together, alone. When that will be, I do not know.
In the meantime, I will stroke my long, plump hard cock while watching Eve Lawrence, or reading Marianne's blog, or thinking about students I will never fuck.
I have at least two students now that interest me as sexual objects. The one is a fair-skinned blonde beauty. Her hair is actually a light brown, I suppose. She is generally quiet, but she stares at my during my lectures with such open, observant eyes that are generally not afraid to meet mine. Yet I must admit that Iam afraid to meet hers. I worry that my attention to her beauty might be noticeable to other students. Perhaps I overcompensate. The truth is that she is beautiful, and I have caught a few glances at her body--a sliver of her midriff exposed when she stood up and was putting on her coat--but I doubt that there could be more than that. And I would never pursue it. This is an ethical boundary I must maintain.
The other student is delicious in appearance. My mind exclaims: du siehst mir sehr lecker aus! She seems very nice. But again the reflection here is the moment. Otherwise, she is still just a student and ...
Beyond these respects, I am without sex. Over the past six months, I have had so little sex! All sex has been the eyes and the left hand and the right hand and this is it. Since Anya and I have moved in together, sex has dropped off the agenda. She is tired when she comes home and I am tired. I do not feel bad about this. I still love her as I have before, quite sincerely. Perhaps it is our domestic partners.
We are getting married in a few months and I am content with this. Yet I feel I need to tell her that I will cheat on her. But that this will not mean that I do not love her.
New Year's Eve we spent at our friend's house. The Pet, as I like to think of her. Pet and I have slept together numerous times over the past few years. Since I have been with Anya, perhaps twice, three times. When I lived in my other east-coast city, she lived only a few blocks away and our friendship involved going out to eat and drinking together, on the not infrequent occasion, and then making out in front of her apartment. Now Pet lives here.
That Eve, apart from the other guests for a minute, Pet and I made out. When Anya was in the bathroom and everyone else had left, we kissed. And days afterward, I wanted to do more. Pet, having now met and spent time with Anya, has decided that her lust cannot withstand the sense of violation, now that Anya is not to her merely a name, but a person. I suspect this will only last until we get drunk together, alone. When that will be, I do not know.
In the meantime, I will stroke my long, plump hard cock while watching Eve Lawrence, or reading Marianne's blog, or thinking about students I will never fuck.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Dream
I dreamt that Myra returned to me and told me that she wanted to be with me. It was a nightmare, I believe.
This was after a much more intense dream where Anya and I were visiting my mother and step-father. They lived, in Ohio, as if the edge of their property faced a giant body of water. I have been having more dreams recently involving a circular map of the world. But the body of water was raising and it threatened to flood over onto their land. Meanwhile, Anya and I had unwittingly managed to kill two men. I cannot remember what for. But we were trying to hide their bodies. Somehow, my stepfather was a co-conspirer. And it was snowing.
Of course, I haven't seen Myra in months. Perhaps since the summer. And I broke off our infrequent email conversations around then. But sometimes I find myself looking at her Facebook page. And I have recently thought about contacting her. Instead I contacted, pseudononymously, my cousin, who is also named Myra. Substitution, Substitution.
But Myra is no Myra. Myra first kissed me when we were children in a tent on the back of our grandparents' property. That became an affair that lasted until we were in high school. We were "kissing cousins." But we did more than kiss. My hands groped all parts of Myra's body. And she pleasured me as well. But we never had sex. The closest we came was in a closet. We were in our last years of junior high school. I had just discovered this invention quaintly called the skateboard. She stroked me until I came all over her shirt, although I'd begged her to let me "get inside of her." Then, not really knowing about the unique physics of fucking. Ironically, she declined. I say ironically because she then when on, over the next ten years, to have three illegitimate children. In other words, safe sex was not her forté.
I contacted her because I wanted to fuck her. I saw her at Thanksgiving. We are in our 30s. She is still single. But she has a lovely figure for having had three children. You see, I am fucked up.
Perhaps more on the incest prohibition soon.
This was after a much more intense dream where Anya and I were visiting my mother and step-father. They lived, in Ohio, as if the edge of their property faced a giant body of water. I have been having more dreams recently involving a circular map of the world. But the body of water was raising and it threatened to flood over onto their land. Meanwhile, Anya and I had unwittingly managed to kill two men. I cannot remember what for. But we were trying to hide their bodies. Somehow, my stepfather was a co-conspirer. And it was snowing.
Of course, I haven't seen Myra in months. Perhaps since the summer. And I broke off our infrequent email conversations around then. But sometimes I find myself looking at her Facebook page. And I have recently thought about contacting her. Instead I contacted, pseudononymously, my cousin, who is also named Myra. Substitution, Substitution.
But Myra is no Myra. Myra first kissed me when we were children in a tent on the back of our grandparents' property. That became an affair that lasted until we were in high school. We were "kissing cousins." But we did more than kiss. My hands groped all parts of Myra's body. And she pleasured me as well. But we never had sex. The closest we came was in a closet. We were in our last years of junior high school. I had just discovered this invention quaintly called the skateboard. She stroked me until I came all over her shirt, although I'd begged her to let me "get inside of her." Then, not really knowing about the unique physics of fucking. Ironically, she declined. I say ironically because she then when on, over the next ten years, to have three illegitimate children. In other words, safe sex was not her forté.
I contacted her because I wanted to fuck her. I saw her at Thanksgiving. We are in our 30s. She is still single. But she has a lovely figure for having had three children. You see, I am fucked up.
Perhaps more on the incest prohibition soon.
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