Muse

She begins it with a burning, a yearning, a small fire. I’ll be seeing a movie, checking my email, sitting in class, driving home or reading a book, and suddenly she’s there: an intrusive demon requiring placation. She rears her head, smiles her sadistic, toothy grin, and will not be buried. She tells me, “Now. The time is now. Do it.”

The beast visits often; I am no longer surprised by the calls. I still try to drive the need away, burying myself amongst the pages of the book I was reading, narrowing my focus back to the film I was watching. I tighten my control each time in a mere attempt to keep her at bay. I always believe my will is stronger than hers, this fiend, this she-devil. It is never so.

She prods me from inside, stroking my brain’s synapses, performing a tap dance on my mental sinews. She writhes against my lungs, causing my heart to palpitate, my breath to come short. She slides her lithesome body inside mine, pressing herself into my veins until she becomes a wet, throbbing part of me. She makes me her marionette; making me dance, her unwilling victim on strings. I cannot ignore her.

Perched in my ear, she implants ideas, stories and images. She creates other lithesome, seductive, bewitching little succubi with my fragmented thoughts and her wretched kisses. Together, these succubi straddle my ankles and bind my wrists with their tongues. They pour poison into me, and the poison always eats its way out. Her words paralyze me as if they were toxins; forcing me to take my hands, use them for her purposes.

I fight her. I tell her, “No! I can’t!” When she has had her way with me, I tell her, “No more. I have no more to give.” She nods her head, smiling again, hissing, “Yes, you have more, and you’ll give more.” She makes me. I give her what she wants.

My she-devil, my beast. My inspiration, my muse.

F/G/T

Her writing does something explosive to me. Her words create an awareness, a divine feeling of being larger than oneself. Her descriptions have a way of flowing within, leaving me changed in some small way.

"I suppose I’m drawn to the rules of language for the same reasons that I’m drawn to sex that has ropes, blindfolds, the sting of floggers and the sweet smell of submission. I like rules because I like to break them. I like structure because I enjoy subverting it. I like structure, and structure is narrative, and just as I pretty much abhor free-form poetry, I pretty much abhor lyrical fucking, that rose-petal-strewn-bed, Sarah McLaughlin saccharine flavor lovemaking—that kind of sex that abides by conventional Hallmark syntax and doesn't allow for nips, bites, wicked attenuations, or short declarative sentences of pneumatic fucking.

I like some DeLillo fucking. Self-referential, meta-sex expressed in tidy syntax like a parade of carefully shorn terriers. I see the beauty of Woolf foreplay, a long and languid descriptive frottage where the infinitesimal movement of one saltshaker can be laded with meaning. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of a good libido should be in want of Austen necking. I like discursive sex, narrative sex, argumentative sex, and expositive sex. I like my fucking to be bigger than a greeting card and a lot more memorable."

Chelsea G. Summers at FilthyGorgeousThings

Blogroll

I have a crush on a blogger. As with all of my crushes, this one is rather conflicted. I love her. I'm turned on by her constant ability to turn a charming, well-educated phrase. I greatly admire her work. For these reasons, I refuse to list her on my blogroll.
I follow this blogger on twitter, and gobble up every tweet. I use my blogroll to catch up on my favorite blogs. I occasionally stumble across her blog, read a blog or two, and wonder why I do not link to her from my blog.

I remember why. She's good. She's what "The Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius" should have been about. Please do not misunderstand. The bloggers I have listed in my blogroll are all amazing, but she's perfection. She's so perfect that it pains me to read her material. I want her talent. I want to mimic her erudite ways. The smart blogger would read her work obsessively, garnering any information about how this lovely lady blogger writes so well. I read her work and compare my shortcomings to her complete lack of shortcomings.

"Quality reading inform great writing." What do you read lovely lady blogger?

To those out there who read to write, what do you read?

Because the only people for me are the mad ones

Sometimes it feels like a disease, some horrible affliction. It is a constant source of stress in my life. Never is it as simple as people make it out to be. Never is it as complex as people make it out to be.

It's a fire. A need. An all consuming desire. Not just for orgasms, but for contact, for the rush. Sex does not satisfy it. Sex sometimes makes it worse. I hate it and revel in it.

It needs no trigger. The question I receive most is, "what turned you on?" Does it need a catalyst?

I ache now. Nothing precipitated it. I ate dinner, I went to a movie, I listened to music, and now I want to consecrate the kitchen counter and the couch. Visions of threesomes dance in my head. I itch to take a tight little nipple into my mouth. I ache to feel a caress in return. Today, I hate it. My skin burns a living, breathing, crawling fire and, oh, how good it would feel to have someone's mouth quenching that flame.

It is not enough to have just someone "fix" me either. A cold orgasm is akin to starvation. This ardor needs to meet its match, needs a mate. Give me someone who burns the way I burn. Give me someone that drowns in it as I do. I need that intensity. Anything less is just far too paltry. I am starving.

Contest with an Njoy prize

So....Edenfantasys is running a contest through EdenCafe. Check out the rules here.

The contest runs until Nov. 21st luvvies, so get crackin'.

Not only will an entry for this contest potentially win you one of these, (or one of these, or one of these...) it will also automatically get you one of these gorgeous little things:



Cool huh?

So soon

I don't know what causes it, the deep welling of emotion from seemingly nowhere. This time, this blog provoked it.
Maybe the sadness in the words, "I don't know why we came together like this only to part so soon," provoked it.

The moments are strange. I break into deep sobs, but shed few tears, and they pass in just moments. They are melancholy epiphanies.

I sent her a text a moment ago, asking when I could see her. It was a bad move. Reaching out to her is bad idea.
She isn't available in any way, and grasping for her and receiving nothing just causes more pain.

Texts are our only form of communication, although communication is not an accurate word for what occurs. Lately, she does not answer my texts. She answers when she needs to talk, needs a ride, needs someone to ease her loneliness. I enjoy giving her whatever she wants to take, but she is taking the wrong things.

Purpose

People are supposed to fuck. It is our main purpose in life, and all those other activities—playing the trumpet, vacuuming carpets, reading mystery novels, eating chocolate mousse—are just ways of passing the time until you can fuck again.

— Cynthia Heimel

via aag

Experimental

On Wednesday, I was doing what college students do, namely, walking in to take an exam I had barely studied for. Surprise!

I chose a desk covered in student graffiti; my favorite kind. The surface was crawling with silly things like "sigma's are sluts." Because it's a college, dontcha know.

Someone had also written, in shiny blue ink, "I love anal beads." Some other industrious pen crossed out "beads." A third student wrote a response to the anal-loving person, "You are a disgusting individual."

My favorite comment, and the reason for this post, was the reply to this last bit. One fellow sex-positive commenter kindly crossed out "disgusting" leaving "experimental" in it's place. Love!

I'm pleased as punch that this desk now reads "I love anal" and "You are an experimental individual."

If course, in the group I run in anal beads are not nearly so much experimental as a matter of course...

Facets

I found an awesome blog recently. The writer is a wildly libidinous woman with a number of beautiful entries concerning her sex life. The writer is a mother with a number of young children, some adopted from a friend, some biological. The writer is a skilled gardener and an amateur photographer. She includes a lovely picture of bits of her garden with each blog. She sometimes blogs about the idiosyncrasies of motherhood. She sometimes blogs about sex toys, masturbation, or recent "dates." She edits her own flower photos, as well as an occasional photo from one of her paramours. She's my hero.

I hate the way the title "mother" equals "caretaker", but never equals "woman with desires of her own." Why are these titles always so exclusionary? A person is a faceted creature. One person can contain an endless number of personas. I could, on any given day, rattle out a list a mile long of categories I fit into. Even some descriptors are also categories, merely because of the stereotypes associated with them. This is why the woman who writes this blog is my hero. She shows everyone the facets...especially the two people deem the most contradictory.

LOVE

http://aagblog.com/

L-O-V-E

Is it presumptuous of me to post blogs so frequently? Posting blogs kind of implies that people should read them, doesn't it? I want it stated (so I'm going to state it) that I don't expect anyone to read these, and while making this statement, I prove the presumptuousness of posting blogs.
And here I go telling you that I really only write them for me. It is true. Except for when it isn't. And then it is up to you to decide when which is the case. Goodnight then.