Boy do I want to fuck the babysitter. Whose name is D____ and is an actress and dancer. She is this girl that does not on first glance stand out. Until you have a second glance and then you recognize, not by explicit, known features, but through your natural intuition of these things: her tremendous sexuality.
Tonight she bares her shoulder while talking to me. I see her bra strap. When she turns I cannot but allow my eyes to wander across the skin on her shoulders, the curve of her breasts beneath her sweater, the shapes of her legs, her ass. I am holding my son and he is wearing this thing that zips up the front, and the zipper is near my fly, and she asks, as she reaches towards the zipper, if there is a zipper.
My son falls asleep as I cannot stop thinking about her. And now we are here.
Tomorrow I am going to allow my eyes to wander while we are talking. I want her to see me looking at her breasts, at the crotch of her jeans, at her legs. I want her to see me stare at her lips.
My son will be asleep when she arrives and there will be the two of us alone in the apartment, the boy in his bedroom. Should I stroke myself through my pants while she watches? Should I ask her if she needs a backrub? That is kind of funny. But the question is, how do I convince the babysitter to take off her jeans and her panties and allow me to feast on her pussy, until my cock can take no more and must plunge into it. I want to cum deep inside her and for her to beg for me to cum in her and not to pull out.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Ana
I find myself now surprised, perhaps disappointed with myself at the way I have let these fantasies about Ana consume me over the past few days.
All of this began last week when we received an email from her offering a high chair. Since we needed one, we took her up on the offer. I was even disappointed, I admit, that I think the first email was to Anya alone and not me. It seems like something else must have precipitated this ... but I cannot remember what it was.
The fire was lit, however, when Ana responded to my email trying to suggest a time for me to pick up the high chair. In that email she seemed to emphasize the fact that her husband would not be there at one time, and that might be the best. The image of her kiss splashed over me, consumed me.
Unfortunately, I could not take that opportunity because I had agree to go on an ill-fated sailing trip. Ugh, how angering that whole experience was. That, for another time. And I think I was stuck for a few days, wondering how I could express what I thought would be reciprocal interest in Ana, although I could not meet her at that time.
So I sent her an email from this address. Leaving myself hidden by my pseudonym. It was very short and quite stupid. Naturally, she did what anyone would do when receiving a short, mysterious email from no-one in particular. Nothing. There is something funny about this, and in particular the hope that I had that I might receive a response. But the fact is, unless she was desperate, she would not respond. Just as I was not desperate enough to make my own person visible, but chose to maintain within a circle of irresponsibility, from which I could deny authorship.
Now I am thinking about how doing nothing is here considered an action. Ha!
But that for another time. What we are really dealing with are symptoms. I have found myself attracted to Ana since I met her, several years ago. But our encounters were passing, insignificant. That only changed in the past year when our circle of friends came together and Anya and I were able to attend. Yet I had not believed anything significant developed between us. Not, I guess, until that simple, single email from her. Which perhaps inadvertently emphasized her husband's absence, her presence.
I suppose I am desperate, in some regards. I am so angry and unhappy right now. Which makes no sense, since Marcello is so wonderful. But other things are crap, between even myself an Anya. Some of it predictable, since she's gotten a new job and I've remained only underemployed.
All of this began last week when we received an email from her offering a high chair. Since we needed one, we took her up on the offer. I was even disappointed, I admit, that I think the first email was to Anya alone and not me. It seems like something else must have precipitated this ... but I cannot remember what it was.
The fire was lit, however, when Ana responded to my email trying to suggest a time for me to pick up the high chair. In that email she seemed to emphasize the fact that her husband would not be there at one time, and that might be the best. The image of her kiss splashed over me, consumed me.
Unfortunately, I could not take that opportunity because I had agree to go on an ill-fated sailing trip. Ugh, how angering that whole experience was. That, for another time. And I think I was stuck for a few days, wondering how I could express what I thought would be reciprocal interest in Ana, although I could not meet her at that time.
So I sent her an email from this address. Leaving myself hidden by my pseudonym. It was very short and quite stupid. Naturally, she did what anyone would do when receiving a short, mysterious email from no-one in particular. Nothing. There is something funny about this, and in particular the hope that I had that I might receive a response. But the fact is, unless she was desperate, she would not respond. Just as I was not desperate enough to make my own person visible, but chose to maintain within a circle of irresponsibility, from which I could deny authorship.
Now I am thinking about how doing nothing is here considered an action. Ha!
But that for another time. What we are really dealing with are symptoms. I have found myself attracted to Ana since I met her, several years ago. But our encounters were passing, insignificant. That only changed in the past year when our circle of friends came together and Anya and I were able to attend. Yet I had not believed anything significant developed between us. Not, I guess, until that simple, single email from her. Which perhaps inadvertently emphasized her husband's absence, her presence.
I suppose I am desperate, in some regards. I am so angry and unhappy right now. Which makes no sense, since Marcello is so wonderful. But other things are crap, between even myself an Anya. Some of it predictable, since she's gotten a new job and I've remained only underemployed.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
the perennial female undergraduate
whose tight black jeans, bare ankles, and faux dance shoes, as well as the diamond shape of her face, provoked me to say, without second-guessing, that she reminded me of Audrey Hepburn. Is that a come-on?
I'm writing because I have been thinking about this encounter since, in fact, because of something she said shortly thereafter the above, which has made me wonder about non-linguistic forms of communication. The communication of those attracted to one another.
For she took that as a compliment, which I said it was meant to be, and I think I said so only innocuously. But perhaps I did not so much. In fact, I've think Audrey Hepburn is beautiful but I do not think I am attracted to her. Yet, I am to this student, who is blessed with a modestly nicer bosom than the former.
We began to talk about her essay assignment, on Aristotlian friendship, on Macintyre's views on the matter and she happened to mention her theory. Which is that girls bond over bad decisions. That I found hilarious, and I couldn't control myself, for some reason, I found it so funny. This is not to say that I laughed uncontrollably, but I did think it was very clever.
Her examples: the girls that decide to do another shot. And then, as she put it, "should I cheat on my boyfriend?" And I know her boyfriend because he is another of my students.
She immediately said, almost under her breath, that she should not have said it and I pretended not to pay it any mind. But I was suddenly struck by the fact that she was hitting on me and suggesting that she cheat on her boyfriend with me.
When I was in grade school it took me quite some time to decipher the signs that women send because I was convinced, as the result of my own poor self-opinion, that no matter what a girl did, it could not have been a sign of her interest.
Yet the certainty of this moment seems clear, unimpeachable. And I wonder why? Because she used the first person singular form. Because students don't speak to their professors about cheating on their boyfriends. Because they don't speak about it unless their professor knows that they have a boyfriend. Because you don't talk about cheating, especially when it comes to yourself, with someone you don't know that well.
Then I was totally distracted and she was distracted. Neither of us knew what we were talking about, but we continued talking. A moment occurred where I knew I could stand up and close the door and lean over and kiss her.
Then I might touch that subtle cleavage that appeared only by the way her hair hung over the curves of her chest.
Nothing happened.
Those moments seem so fragile. They last for a few minutes and the passing of the minutes makes it so that what happens is irreversible. A forbidden clutch passes unclutched and shall never so be. This is good. I am a married man, with gainful employment and a bun in the oven. I wish to risk none of this.
Yet the allure of her flesh, her kiss and her passion is so real. My heart races. I have lived through danger.
I'm writing because I have been thinking about this encounter since, in fact, because of something she said shortly thereafter the above, which has made me wonder about non-linguistic forms of communication. The communication of those attracted to one another.
For she took that as a compliment, which I said it was meant to be, and I think I said so only innocuously. But perhaps I did not so much. In fact, I've think Audrey Hepburn is beautiful but I do not think I am attracted to her. Yet, I am to this student, who is blessed with a modestly nicer bosom than the former.
We began to talk about her essay assignment, on Aristotlian friendship, on Macintyre's views on the matter and she happened to mention her theory. Which is that girls bond over bad decisions. That I found hilarious, and I couldn't control myself, for some reason, I found it so funny. This is not to say that I laughed uncontrollably, but I did think it was very clever.
Her examples: the girls that decide to do another shot. And then, as she put it, "should I cheat on my boyfriend?" And I know her boyfriend because he is another of my students.
She immediately said, almost under her breath, that she should not have said it and I pretended not to pay it any mind. But I was suddenly struck by the fact that she was hitting on me and suggesting that she cheat on her boyfriend with me.
When I was in grade school it took me quite some time to decipher the signs that women send because I was convinced, as the result of my own poor self-opinion, that no matter what a girl did, it could not have been a sign of her interest.
Yet the certainty of this moment seems clear, unimpeachable. And I wonder why? Because she used the first person singular form. Because students don't speak to their professors about cheating on their boyfriends. Because they don't speak about it unless their professor knows that they have a boyfriend. Because you don't talk about cheating, especially when it comes to yourself, with someone you don't know that well.
Then I was totally distracted and she was distracted. Neither of us knew what we were talking about, but we continued talking. A moment occurred where I knew I could stand up and close the door and lean over and kiss her.
Then I might touch that subtle cleavage that appeared only by the way her hair hung over the curves of her chest.
Nothing happened.
Those moments seem so fragile. They last for a few minutes and the passing of the minutes makes it so that what happens is irreversible. A forbidden clutch passes unclutched and shall never so be. This is good. I am a married man, with gainful employment and a bun in the oven. I wish to risk none of this.
Yet the allure of her flesh, her kiss and her passion is so real. My heart races. I have lived through danger.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Sex and Deception
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Communication of Bodies, the Words Spoken by Eyes
She was in my office, she wanted to talk about St. Thomas. She is only 18 or 19. She told me that she's decided to minor. She has a beautiful face, with long brown hair, wavy, a lovely jaw line, perfect teeth. And green eyes. Like mine. She looks directly at me, not turning away. I talk and ask her questions. I pull my chair closer to hers. In those rare moments when she looks at her book, my eyes move to her cleavage, barely visible between the open wings of that coat, like a curtain parted just enough to present the drama which will soon unfold.
When I want to kiss someone, I look at their mouth, in a way that is evident to the other person. In those moments my face betrays, in some secret language, that I understand others recognize, but which I cannot simply duplicate, the desire to kiss, to fuck. The body becomes an object in my eyes.
I can talk through medieval philosophy without thinking. But she falters, loses her concentration because she recognizes that look. She giggles and is embarrassed, but ostensibly about not being clear about what she's saying. I know that it is because there is a warmth between her legs. I lean back in my chair. My arms are not crossed, but still on the arms of the chair, beckoning, imploring.
And then she leaves. And I remain someone who has left one, professionally vital line, uncrossed. My sex begs for attention when I come home. Come home, it says. Come home.
When I want to kiss someone, I look at their mouth, in a way that is evident to the other person. In those moments my face betrays, in some secret language, that I understand others recognize, but which I cannot simply duplicate, the desire to kiss, to fuck. The body becomes an object in my eyes.
I can talk through medieval philosophy without thinking. But she falters, loses her concentration because she recognizes that look. She giggles and is embarrassed, but ostensibly about not being clear about what she's saying. I know that it is because there is a warmth between her legs. I lean back in my chair. My arms are not crossed, but still on the arms of the chair, beckoning, imploring.
And then she leaves. And I remain someone who has left one, professionally vital line, uncrossed. My sex begs for attention when I come home. Come home, it says. Come home.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Remembrance of Things Past
"As I walked out on Bristol Street ..." the sun stared me down, reducing all to shadows. A world of ghosts. A couple walked in front of me. College students. And she walked with this tiny, nearly imperceptible saunter that magnetically attracted my vision. I could see nothing else.
And I thought of the excitement anticipating sex. When I was in college, I did not see women's butts. Maybe it was the fashion. Or maybe I just hadn't learned to look that way. I fetishize faces, I suppose, first. In this respect it does not strike me as strange that I cannot remember the body of Jodi, high school girlfriend. The virgin who gave me her virginity. But loved to suck cock. Among the things she taught me was the sweetness of the woman's sex. How it could become, far from something objectionable, as I may have anticipated it, a younger, unexperienced man, the most sublime taste.
Thinking of her I am reminded of the excitement around sex. She had a sexual appetite and she was not afraid of expressing it. She went to the local girl's parochial institution and wore skirts and knee socks everyday. Lovely.
But I cannot invoke the image of her body. In my mind's eye, all I see are skirts and knee socks, atop a fictional set of legs. For example, I want to know what kinds of breasts she had. I imagine that they were B cups. She was a small girl, maybe 5'4, 5'5. I wonder what I thought of those breasts. Those sensations are gone to me.
I know that I thought, despite the slight naiveté in her eyes, that she was beautiful. Her skin was fair, like mine, but she had strawberry blond hair, blue eyes. These things I can still see quite clearly, albeit through the mnemosyne of a black and white photograph that I captured on the beach in Massachusetts. Jodi had a voice that was not high, but could get high when she was excited. Luckily, that did not happen very often.
I recall three or four sexual experiences with her, in some detail. Our first was in her mother's house, the night of our second date when she asked if she could do something and then took out my handsomely large penis, which impressed her quite a bit, and gave me "oral pleasure." Also, a rainy night in the summer when I traded virginities. How strange it is for two bodies to come together like that for the first time. We didn't know about how our bodies needed to approach the other. The operation was merely sticking this into that. She was in pain and I was a total gentleman, concerned about her pain, although I think I filled that little condom with my cum. Also, a surprise visit to her dorm room in the year following, when her roommates were gone and we could be alone and naked. Also, just after our breakup, a furtive night spent convincing her to have sex with me, in the back of my car behind the junior high school. I recall that time in particular savoring the taste of her wet pussy.
These are remembrance of things past becuase, I have not savored sex in that way. I do not any longer feel the pleasure anticipating sex. Anticipating sex would last for hours, perhaps days, during which I maintained a hardon and rubbed the fabric of my pants across it, subtly, no matter where I was, to pleasure myself. Now the anticipation had been reduced to a few minutes preceding the act, or the text messages that I send to a lover with whom I never have love.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Moments in which Nothing Happened
Returning from Florida, here in my old home for a few days before return to the city. And I have stories of denial and rejection from the past seven days.
Myra: I went to visit her, knowing her beau was out of the country. It was the evening and I stopped by on my bike. She looked out through the screen window when I rang the doorbell and couldn't see who it was, although it seemed like our eyes connected for a second or two before she asked who it was. Then she let me in and we sat on that couch together, separated by a foot, perhaps, their dog, and a newly-found resistance on her part.
Myra's skin is fair and her hair is blond, she has blue eyes. We spoke, exchanging basic small talk for a while. She was making stuffed animals for some novelty shop owner, I can only assume, in the city. Bears with their heads cut off. I left shortly because the atmosphere was so anodyne. And I couldn't tell if she wanted me to leave. Although she told me to stop by again sometime. I went to the bar and then received a message from her saying, that was a bad idea, that I'd freaked her out, that I shouldn't stop by. So after the bar I rode back over to the bar. We sat for a few moments on the stoop. My back to her. Nothing could come of this. We wouldn't be forgiven this time.
Blythe: my mind works methodically. Since Myra would not sleep with me, I knew not what to do. At least at first. Then yesterday when I was masturbating, the thought of lovely Jewish ex-girlfriend, so well endowed in all of the best ways, Blythe. We texted, planned to get together tonight.
We have a ritual. We spend hours talking about sex with each other. A little about the sex we've had with each other. But more about her sex life. Who she has been sleeping with. I have found vicarious accounts of her sexlife arousing since I first met her and she told me about being fucked one night by her boyfriend and his friend. Last night it was about the new guy she's been hanging out with. They won't have sex, apparently, meaning intercourse, but other things are game. This means that she gets down on all fours, while he is seated and sucks his cock arching her back as much as possible to present that beautiful lilt of flesh from the small of the back to her bottom. Or so I imagine.
I spent the night with my eyes trained on her cleavage. Occasionally imploring her to show me more. Finally, we started talking about my indecent proposition. Primarily indecent because it was such a paltry sum. I wanted to kiss her, to have her disrobe before me, for her to get down on hands and knees before me, turning towards me at first engorging my cock in her mouth, and then turning away from me as I fucked her from behind.
She let me give her a backrub. The rub is, that I mean too much to her. If we were to do it again, it would immediately lead to some emotional complications, because, as I have said in an earlier post, sex is our language. Now you can see to what degree.
As I walked down her stairs, to the door, she leaned over the ledge above, watching me leave. Her wonderful and full, so full breasts hanging just slightly over that ledge. During sex she would, after I showed her that I liked this, pull my face into her breasts while she was riding me. Then I would come inside of her. All of my future into her.
Myra: I went to visit her, knowing her beau was out of the country. It was the evening and I stopped by on my bike. She looked out through the screen window when I rang the doorbell and couldn't see who it was, although it seemed like our eyes connected for a second or two before she asked who it was. Then she let me in and we sat on that couch together, separated by a foot, perhaps, their dog, and a newly-found resistance on her part.
Myra's skin is fair and her hair is blond, she has blue eyes. We spoke, exchanging basic small talk for a while. She was making stuffed animals for some novelty shop owner, I can only assume, in the city. Bears with their heads cut off. I left shortly because the atmosphere was so anodyne. And I couldn't tell if she wanted me to leave. Although she told me to stop by again sometime. I went to the bar and then received a message from her saying, that was a bad idea, that I'd freaked her out, that I shouldn't stop by. So after the bar I rode back over to the bar. We sat for a few moments on the stoop. My back to her. Nothing could come of this. We wouldn't be forgiven this time.
Blythe: my mind works methodically. Since Myra would not sleep with me, I knew not what to do. At least at first. Then yesterday when I was masturbating, the thought of lovely Jewish ex-girlfriend, so well endowed in all of the best ways, Blythe. We texted, planned to get together tonight.
We have a ritual. We spend hours talking about sex with each other. A little about the sex we've had with each other. But more about her sex life. Who she has been sleeping with. I have found vicarious accounts of her sexlife arousing since I first met her and she told me about being fucked one night by her boyfriend and his friend. Last night it was about the new guy she's been hanging out with. They won't have sex, apparently, meaning intercourse, but other things are game. This means that she gets down on all fours, while he is seated and sucks his cock arching her back as much as possible to present that beautiful lilt of flesh from the small of the back to her bottom. Or so I imagine.
I spent the night with my eyes trained on her cleavage. Occasionally imploring her to show me more. Finally, we started talking about my indecent proposition. Primarily indecent because it was such a paltry sum. I wanted to kiss her, to have her disrobe before me, for her to get down on hands and knees before me, turning towards me at first engorging my cock in her mouth, and then turning away from me as I fucked her from behind.
She let me give her a backrub. The rub is, that I mean too much to her. If we were to do it again, it would immediately lead to some emotional complications, because, as I have said in an earlier post, sex is our language. Now you can see to what degree.
As I walked down her stairs, to the door, she leaned over the ledge above, watching me leave. Her wonderful and full, so full breasts hanging just slightly over that ledge. During sex she would, after I showed her that I liked this, pull my face into her breasts while she was riding me. Then I would come inside of her. All of my future into her.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
the anthropologist
Being in Florida I have had the odd occasion to think of the anthropologist: lcb. Her family was from this state. I cannot remember where. This was years ago. Now she teaches up north. She was quite beautiful, albeit frazzled. But I suppose I have no room to speak on such matters. She had this birthmark that stretched across her shoulder.
I met her through my closest friend in the world. She was his exe and he thought, given our interests, we might have things in common. We started exchanging emails. She was then at the Harvard of the South, I was in Independence Land. I remember she sent me lifted lines from Emily Dickinson and this, in particular, seduced me. Our emails were fanciful rather than direct. Oblique. I wrote about pressing thumbs, about Jean Genet. She wrote about the fork and the spoon. I am not even sure that we were really writing about ideas at the time. It was more about the intuitions of ideas. This was early in my training and coming out of a literary background, I could still speak in that register. It would be dreadful to think how we might talk now. Now I am afraid that my authority would drown those possibilities. This is the effect of training.
We first met at the Met. It was December 1999, I think. This was after several months of exchanged emails. She was going to NY to visit relatives. I had just broken up with MC and had no idea that the latter was carrying my child. Which I would only find out a month later, after she had aborted the pregnancy, and despite my political convictions, I would tarry with the guilt. We walked through the ancient exhibits, aimlessly. I think still petrified by the fact that we had just met this other person who had produced so much desire. When we left, about an hour later, we kissed, standing by a park bench. That night we went to a bar and drank a lot, had dinner. And then I drove her to Queens, where I left her.
I was 26 when I met her. She came to visit me several weeks later. To stay with me. Which was fine with me. I was smitten. But I was curiously wholly impotent around her. I remember her naked on my bed, on all fours with her back arching and I was completely unable to plunder to fuck that incredible ass. Instead, I touched her all the other ways I knew how. I am sure that my lips spent a lot of time between her legs.
Several months later, despite the disappointment (and surprise, for me) of that incident, she invited me to visit her, deep in the South. It was strange being there, if not particularly because my grandfather had just died, only months before, in that Southern city. She picked me up at the airport in her cheap car whose climate control was stuck to unbearably hot.
When we arrived back at her apartment, that eve, we went into her dark apartment. I put down my stuff and sat on her bed. She started kissing me and within minutes she was mounted atop me. I had no trouble this time. And no plastic sheath separated her holiest of holies from my cock. For the next seven days we fucked continually.
We took apart her bedframe and put the mattress on the floor because it created such a racket. Since I could not come in her, I would pull out and she would then put my cock into her mouth and swallow all of it. Once while she was working at her computer, I crawled beneath her legs and kissed her. My tongue struggling to press inside of her. She made me stand in front of her, still seated. She unzipped my pants and licked my cock up and down like a popsicle. It became so hard in her mouth, with the head turning darker purple. We went into the bedroom and I sat down on her chair. I was still so hard and she did not mount me but turned around, casually, as if she was going to sit in the chair as if I was not even there. She slowly lowered herself onto my cock.
How sublime was this crude turgidity and the sharpness of sensation it enables, as my cock pushed into her. My hands were on her hips and pulling her down upon me. The curve of her back, how it narrowed and then swelled on her hips. The line of her spine pointing down to the tip of my sex.
"You're fucking me so hard."
"I want you to fill my pussy with your cum. I don't care. I want all of you in me."
"I want to feel the pulses of your cock and the warmth of your cum in me."
I was in love with her. I wanted the abomination that mirrors and copulation share.
I met her through my closest friend in the world. She was his exe and he thought, given our interests, we might have things in common. We started exchanging emails. She was then at the Harvard of the South, I was in Independence Land. I remember she sent me lifted lines from Emily Dickinson and this, in particular, seduced me. Our emails were fanciful rather than direct. Oblique. I wrote about pressing thumbs, about Jean Genet. She wrote about the fork and the spoon. I am not even sure that we were really writing about ideas at the time. It was more about the intuitions of ideas. This was early in my training and coming out of a literary background, I could still speak in that register. It would be dreadful to think how we might talk now. Now I am afraid that my authority would drown those possibilities. This is the effect of training.
We first met at the Met. It was December 1999, I think. This was after several months of exchanged emails. She was going to NY to visit relatives. I had just broken up with MC and had no idea that the latter was carrying my child. Which I would only find out a month later, after she had aborted the pregnancy, and despite my political convictions, I would tarry with the guilt. We walked through the ancient exhibits, aimlessly. I think still petrified by the fact that we had just met this other person who had produced so much desire. When we left, about an hour later, we kissed, standing by a park bench. That night we went to a bar and drank a lot, had dinner. And then I drove her to Queens, where I left her.
I was 26 when I met her. She came to visit me several weeks later. To stay with me. Which was fine with me. I was smitten. But I was curiously wholly impotent around her. I remember her naked on my bed, on all fours with her back arching and I was completely unable to plunder to fuck that incredible ass. Instead, I touched her all the other ways I knew how. I am sure that my lips spent a lot of time between her legs.
Several months later, despite the disappointment (and surprise, for me) of that incident, she invited me to visit her, deep in the South. It was strange being there, if not particularly because my grandfather had just died, only months before, in that Southern city. She picked me up at the airport in her cheap car whose climate control was stuck to unbearably hot.
When we arrived back at her apartment, that eve, we went into her dark apartment. I put down my stuff and sat on her bed. She started kissing me and within minutes she was mounted atop me. I had no trouble this time. And no plastic sheath separated her holiest of holies from my cock. For the next seven days we fucked continually.
We took apart her bedframe and put the mattress on the floor because it created such a racket. Since I could not come in her, I would pull out and she would then put my cock into her mouth and swallow all of it. Once while she was working at her computer, I crawled beneath her legs and kissed her. My tongue struggling to press inside of her. She made me stand in front of her, still seated. She unzipped my pants and licked my cock up and down like a popsicle. It became so hard in her mouth, with the head turning darker purple. We went into the bedroom and I sat down on her chair. I was still so hard and she did not mount me but turned around, casually, as if she was going to sit in the chair as if I was not even there. She slowly lowered herself onto my cock.
How sublime was this crude turgidity and the sharpness of sensation it enables, as my cock pushed into her. My hands were on her hips and pulling her down upon me. The curve of her back, how it narrowed and then swelled on her hips. The line of her spine pointing down to the tip of my sex.
"You're fucking me so hard."
"I want you to fill my pussy with your cum. I don't care. I want all of you in me."
"I want to feel the pulses of your cock and the warmth of your cum in me."
I was in love with her. I wanted the abomination that mirrors and copulation share.
Friday, July 11, 2008
An Indecent Proposal
Tonight I was watching this movie. Or rather, paying attention to it, every now and again. While doing other things. Since I didn't watch all of it, much of what I will say may be pointless. But I feel confident in the purchase of my opinions. And as I have said in other venues, I don't need to see all of something to make a judgment.
There is nothing remarkable about this movie, in total. I suppose it pretends to raise these questions about money and sexuality and love and the thin lines that separate these things. The premise is that this ultimately honorable fellow, played by R. Redford, suggests that a starving architect sell his wife's body for one night for the price of $1M. Of course, the money offers opportunities that seem to outweigh the moral or emotional consequences ... or at least block them from view. The architect, of course, loses his wife to that night of calculated passion. Money for flesh. But in the end, she returns to him, although partially through the surfeit of the ultimately honorable millionaire.
I have never paid for sex. That is, paid cash for sex. I have probably paid for it in other ways. As it is, sex is always regulated by exchange, especially when we ostentatiously reserve it for those who love us. But we are sickened (when we follow the upturned nose of our moral sense) by the odor of exchange when it approaches the sexual act. Or so we say.
In the film, the wife never (at least as far as I could tell) claims that she is not merely a piece of property. Either to her husband or to her would-be paramour. In fact, she even offers herself as exchange as a sign of her love for her husband: this would be good for him and as a gesture of love she would be willing to sacrifice herself. I suppose there is a bit of provocative "social realism" in this, insofar as she is admitting that the laws governing property include her body. Yet, if this realism is not made tacit, then it merely subsists beneath a hypocritical and lying morality, of the manifest "indecency" of this proposal. The inscrutable bonds of marriage and their obligations.
An email exchange with Marianne has made me wonder about my options. I want desperately, while Myra's suitor, my colleague, is in Italy, to get in touch with her. And I too am several hundreds of miles away from my beloved. Perhaps just to say hi. Perhaps for more. Of course, more is presently impossible. I'm hundreds of miles from Myra. Until now, I must say that I have, with the exception of several drunken evenings, not suffered such a desire. At least since the event with Myra went sour. And it was a good thing that it did.
While watching this movie, particular the scenes directly following the proposal where the married couple consider it, I thought, why don't they, instead of merely considering the financial possibilities this proposal would enable, also think about the emotional and moral consequences? Frequently I have other level-headed thoughts while watching movies about men that cannot express themselves to the women that they love. I say to myself, just tell her that you love her! In fact, I think these thoughts are no less preposterous (yet again from some remove) than the wish for the characters of a horror film to turn on the lights ... or leave the room. Reflection will not save us from all of the bad judgments to which we will surrender. Reflection has its own conditions. These conditions are frequently inaccessible.
Oh Myra. Would that you read this journal. Or perhaps not. I do not know. I know that if I talk to her again, I am not sure what would happen. Things have come together with Anya in such a way, as of late, that it would be unfortunate to disturb them. And in fact, I have seen the "vicissitudes" of Myra's emotions. I know just how imperfect she is. I don't care about the fact that she is flat-chested. She has, nonetheless, an incredible body. And the face of an angel. Like Meryl Streep. Those eyes and that hue of skin. It is the way that she looks at you (me) that is killing. And her confusion around me. And the fact that this woman I'd pined for, silently, for years, wanted me. Was addicted to me.
Of course, the kiss was always strained. Never right, because of the moment. And I would never get past the waistband of those underwear. Which maybe is okay. Maybe I like the communication and the complicity more than the collision of bodies. Maybe.
There is nothing remarkable about this movie, in total. I suppose it pretends to raise these questions about money and sexuality and love and the thin lines that separate these things. The premise is that this ultimately honorable fellow, played by R. Redford, suggests that a starving architect sell his wife's body for one night for the price of $1M. Of course, the money offers opportunities that seem to outweigh the moral or emotional consequences ... or at least block them from view. The architect, of course, loses his wife to that night of calculated passion. Money for flesh. But in the end, she returns to him, although partially through the surfeit of the ultimately honorable millionaire.
I have never paid for sex. That is, paid cash for sex. I have probably paid for it in other ways. As it is, sex is always regulated by exchange, especially when we ostentatiously reserve it for those who love us. But we are sickened (when we follow the upturned nose of our moral sense) by the odor of exchange when it approaches the sexual act. Or so we say.
In the film, the wife never (at least as far as I could tell) claims that she is not merely a piece of property. Either to her husband or to her would-be paramour. In fact, she even offers herself as exchange as a sign of her love for her husband: this would be good for him and as a gesture of love she would be willing to sacrifice herself. I suppose there is a bit of provocative "social realism" in this, insofar as she is admitting that the laws governing property include her body. Yet, if this realism is not made tacit, then it merely subsists beneath a hypocritical and lying morality, of the manifest "indecency" of this proposal. The inscrutable bonds of marriage and their obligations.
An email exchange with Marianne has made me wonder about my options. I want desperately, while Myra's suitor, my colleague, is in Italy, to get in touch with her. And I too am several hundreds of miles away from my beloved. Perhaps just to say hi. Perhaps for more. Of course, more is presently impossible. I'm hundreds of miles from Myra. Until now, I must say that I have, with the exception of several drunken evenings, not suffered such a desire. At least since the event with Myra went sour. And it was a good thing that it did.
While watching this movie, particular the scenes directly following the proposal where the married couple consider it, I thought, why don't they, instead of merely considering the financial possibilities this proposal would enable, also think about the emotional and moral consequences? Frequently I have other level-headed thoughts while watching movies about men that cannot express themselves to the women that they love. I say to myself, just tell her that you love her! In fact, I think these thoughts are no less preposterous (yet again from some remove) than the wish for the characters of a horror film to turn on the lights ... or leave the room. Reflection will not save us from all of the bad judgments to which we will surrender. Reflection has its own conditions. These conditions are frequently inaccessible.
Oh Myra. Would that you read this journal. Or perhaps not. I do not know. I know that if I talk to her again, I am not sure what would happen. Things have come together with Anya in such a way, as of late, that it would be unfortunate to disturb them. And in fact, I have seen the "vicissitudes" of Myra's emotions. I know just how imperfect she is. I don't care about the fact that she is flat-chested. She has, nonetheless, an incredible body. And the face of an angel. Like Meryl Streep. Those eyes and that hue of skin. It is the way that she looks at you (me) that is killing. And her confusion around me. And the fact that this woman I'd pined for, silently, for years, wanted me. Was addicted to me.
Of course, the kiss was always strained. Never right, because of the moment. And I would never get past the waistband of those underwear. Which maybe is okay. Maybe I like the communication and the complicity more than the collision of bodies. Maybe.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
A Dream of A Thousand Loves
Last night I dreamt of a thousand loves. This morning the words hung on my lips, as I carried myself out of bed. I never dream of my fiancée ... what this means, I dare not ask. Instead, I dreamt of a girl with whom I made out. A girl. Perhaps a student. Typically I dream of conscience infidelity.
I wonder if I speak of this theme continually, if my readers will observe that I am not asking for comfort or compassion or understanding. My reader, it might be better to say. Marianne. I know nothing of you, except for your midriff. One of those areas of the body that make men losen their ties and breathe more deeply, hoping to draw the odor of another part of the body.
My body, on the other hand. 'Tis long. I have green eyes. I have brown hair. I have fair skin. I have small hands, small feet (need I question the "I" and the strangeness of attributing possession to it, when rather, these possessions are I!). I have scars. Or they have me. I have a sca
r on my crown. Several, in fact. I have a scarred bone, the bottom of the left tibia. Two fractures. I like material things that have memories, but some of my first and most powerful emotional responses were of material things that would never be the same. "The same." Philosophy has nothing to do with it.
And of course, there is your own deep attraction towards lovers, despite your marital bliss. Whom your husband does not know, no?
I don't want to speak again of Anya. I need this badness. This evil. It makes me feel strong again. A different kind of strong than the kind I have with her. The kind of strength that I have with her is of extreme quietude. With her, I am a Buddhist cow.
I have been thinking of Myra. Oh Myra. Her boyfriend/wannabe-husband has gone to Italy. I know she is now alone for the next month. And I want to contact her. He has cheated on her. With a woman (AT) with whom I have cheated on Anya. The symmetry is frightening and hilarious. Last night I dreamt of him, which was really a dream of her. He was getting into an old VW van. Backing out of the driveway of a house in Syracuse NY. Why did my dream get situated there? In his back, as he was leaving the house, literally as he was going out the door, I saw the small of her back.
This, as I may or may not have informed you, was that vital area of the body that inspired the step not beyond (le pas/pas déla). At this point, a homosexual dream would be delightful. Even merely homoerotic. But I am blind to all but women. Yesterday I walked through the supermarket. My sister has been diagnosed with MS. I am taking care of her while her fiancé travels to visit his parents in the old, old country. This just happened a few days ago. I might as well tell you that I am thinking of changing this to my regular journal. A far cry from my threat to abandon it altogether, no?
Would this mean that I would identify myself, as "Bryce," has (a moniker with which I am starting to tire) with the vile actions with which I engage, that otherwise populate only my subconscious ... j'ne sais pas.
In the shower I thought this morning, philosophy should be defined as the act of following. Whereas the poetic inspiration is what leads. Now don't be confused. I am not saying that poetic inspiration leads philosophy. It does sometimes. But while poetic inspiration may provide the initial direction, philosophy, when it is good, follows a continuous trail. There is soemthing truly creative about that. Philosophy (Kant being the example par excellence everyone says) doesn't know where it will end. Neither does poetry, but poetry dances. It leaps.
I wonder if I speak of this theme continually, if my readers will observe that I am not asking for comfort or compassion or understanding. My reader, it might be better to say. Marianne. I know nothing of you, except for your midriff. One of those areas of the body that make men losen their ties and breathe more deeply, hoping to draw the odor of another part of the body.
My body, on the other hand. 'Tis long. I have green eyes. I have brown hair. I have fair skin. I have small hands, small feet (need I question the "I" and the strangeness of attributing possession to it, when rather, these possessions are I!). I have scars. Or they have me. I have a sca
r on my crown. Several, in fact. I have a scarred bone, the bottom of the left tibia. Two fractures. I like material things that have memories, but some of my first and most powerful emotional responses were of material things that would never be the same. "The same." Philosophy has nothing to do with it.And of course, there is your own deep attraction towards lovers, despite your marital bliss. Whom your husband does not know, no?
I don't want to speak again of Anya. I need this badness. This evil. It makes me feel strong again. A different kind of strong than the kind I have with her. The kind of strength that I have with her is of extreme quietude. With her, I am a Buddhist cow.
I have been thinking of Myra. Oh Myra. Her boyfriend/wannabe-husband has gone to Italy. I know she is now alone for the next month. And I want to contact her. He has cheated on her. With a woman (AT) with whom I have cheated on Anya. The symmetry is frightening and hilarious. Last night I dreamt of him, which was really a dream of her. He was getting into an old VW van. Backing out of the driveway of a house in Syracuse NY. Why did my dream get situated there? In his back, as he was leaving the house, literally as he was going out the door, I saw the small of her back.
This, as I may or may not have informed you, was that vital area of the body that inspired the step not beyond (le pas/pas déla). At this point, a homosexual dream would be delightful. Even merely homoerotic. But I am blind to all but women. Yesterday I walked through the supermarket. My sister has been diagnosed with MS. I am taking care of her while her fiancé travels to visit his parents in the old, old country. This just happened a few days ago. I might as well tell you that I am thinking of changing this to my regular journal. A far cry from my threat to abandon it altogether, no?
Would this mean that I would identify myself, as "Bryce," has (a moniker with which I am starting to tire) with the vile actions with which I engage, that otherwise populate only my subconscious ... j'ne sais pas.
In the shower I thought this morning, philosophy should be defined as the act of following. Whereas the poetic inspiration is what leads. Now don't be confused. I am not saying that poetic inspiration leads philosophy. It does sometimes. But while poetic inspiration may provide the initial direction, philosophy, when it is good, follows a continuous trail. There is soemthing truly creative about that. Philosophy (Kant being the example par excellence everyone says) doesn't know where it will end. Neither does poetry, but poetry dances. It leaps.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Breasts
At a distance, I regain the composure that allows me this secret expression. With her, I lose this voice. I do not begrudge her.
I just travelled back here from NYC last night. A whole day unpacking my belongings. Well, mainly just all of my books. Getting locked out of the apartment. Then in the car, to sit in traffic outside the Holland Tunnel for at least an hour. Oh, I was so clever leaving at rush hour!
Here, protected by distance, voluptuous bodies reappear in their full sensual splendor. Last night, I see the girl from the coffeeshop. I used to gaze at her body as she stood on top of a chair to change the station on the radio. She is 21 or 22. A college dropout. She is Chinese. Very beautiful.
But what floors me in particular are all of the breasts. Women passing by me here, sitting over there, etc. All of them with these breasts concealed by a bra and some suggestive outer garment.
I just travelled back here from NYC last night. A whole day unpacking my belongings. Well, mainly just all of my books. Getting locked out of the apartment. Then in the car, to sit in traffic outside the Holland Tunnel for at least an hour. Oh, I was so clever leaving at rush hour!
Here, protected by distance, voluptuous bodies reappear in their full sensual splendor. Last night, I see the girl from the coffeeshop. I used to gaze at her body as she stood on top of a chair to change the station on the radio. She is 21 or 22. A college dropout. She is Chinese. Very beautiful.
But what floors me in particular are all of the breasts. Women passing by me here, sitting over there, etc. All of them with these breasts concealed by a bra and some suggestive outer garment.
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