My life is insane busy at the moment, my inbox is stuffed with a ton of unanswered emails, my laundry is piled high, I have not been to yoga in three days, I turned down an actual bona fide date offer and those offers of cock, movies, meals, drinks–all turned down to take care of other matters. Soon! All library/professional/career advancement  projects will be complete by Friday and my time will once again become mine. I am feeling like a bit of a shut in. Although I have been doing my part for masturbation month–I am in serious need of a real night out culminating in a good old fashioned dicking down.

I have been daytripping a lot about past lovers, married men, those communications that drift into my world then back out. My past, those few I can claim as love. I’ve had a few, and I want a few more.

Driving the coast line, our hands unable to cease exploration. Yours deep inside my skit–finding my wet slit, heat emanating from my spread thighs. Mine, on your hard cock–straining against your jeans. The drive seemed endless, the anticipation to flesh. Other drivers would notice our hands, recognize that look on our faces. We didn’t care if they turned away–like they caught us in the act, or if they watched, rubbing their own stiffing knob–we were in our own.

We would hide out in my tiny apartment, staying up all night– smoking, drinking, fucking, rest then repeat–talk of poetry, architecture, the way in which you wanted to render me  in charcoal as I lay in repose on my couch–the broken sides of life–his sexless marriage–my unyielding loneliness. My fingers–tender in comparison to how you had just finished fucking me–as they ran through your hair, my sweet side–the I could love you side–even if it is for this shard of time.

Ending up all over the place, fucked and then exhausted and falling wherever we lay. Often I would watch him as I waited for his cock–covered and glossed in me– to rejuvenate. Our eyes heavy, lusty, lost in separate– yet joined thoughts and I would let my fingers slide between my lips. I liked the way it felt, your cum and my cum mixing–joining–culminating, my pussy full of stimulation and still wanting more. Sloppy and wet with us.

I would often come this way, with you watching me. The memory of the way your cock would begin to drip while I stroked my needy folds–the thought makes me still love him.

I love the way his cock drips for me.

I mentioned the other day that love is not as easy as sex–I would like to amend this statement. Love is easy, I fall in love all the time, daily even.

Because love can come easily, and while it may not be that love some think of, that… I want to marry you, have your children, buy a house, get a dog, wash your underwear kind of love. It still is love and it is the kind of love that makes the sex, the fucking– all the sweeter.

It is simple, while being complicated at the same time. It can happen quickly without notice–in fact it usually does. But it can also be temporary, momentary, fleeting. Transitory love.

Last year I fell in love twice, maybe three times, and the sex was memorable. The men are gone. We get to this point in life where obligation comes in many forms, men can’t stay, and I cannot have them stay, but I loved them while I had them, even if it was only two days, two nights, two months. Because I loved them it made the sexual– more powerful– than the ones I had/have on a regular basis, but did/do not love.

When we fucked we fucked, his cock stabbed me and I felt it with every part of me. Electric mind threads and strands of bodily fluid connect and we made love. You bent me over, my palms to the floor, body in half, open. You plowed me, grabbing on with each thrust,  stopping abruptly because the heat of my pussy, the center of my core was pulling everything out of you. Everything. Your cock dripping with lust.

Your eyes lost.

I fell in love with your eyes first. Can you fall in love with someones pain reflected in their face?  Because I think I did. The short time together was full of passion, poetry and lusty nights of rain and the smell of cock to cunt. Sometimes we connect in solace to people. Life brings many things to us, including a whole lot of pain. Like the songs say– you can’t sun without the rain, and your can’t have the laughter without the tears. Life is struggle and these pains and joys are what make up our beings–it’s what makes people fall in love with us, even for just one night. I saw it in his eyes before I tasted it on his cock.

But… when I tasted it on his cock, all inhibition melted away and spilled into some form of love. We find love, comfort, two drunken stones warmed themselves side by side –until those transitory waves takes one or the other away. Until then the nights were full of your hard stone. I loved the way you fucked me. The way my pussy surrounds you, when I pull up and squeeze you inside of me, then slide back and down your solidity, leaving your trunk coated in a varnish of my love. The way your eyes become slits as your hard beam slides between my lips. And I loved the way you taste, salty lustiness drives down my throat in attempts to lock out the daylight. I open wide to drink you in and for the moment my search is ceased, I found love and am I fucking your like I love to fuck you, like I fuck to love you. My mouth loving your cock. My eyes do the talking, because I have nothing left to say.

Sexuality charged becomes pumping and fast. Love. We spin, pant, buck and moan. I gasp in pain with each permeating stab that I love. You fill me with your come, draining your swell inside of me like only someone I love would. Spent– we collapse, want quelled,  liquid spills and your cock is glossed with me. My other me runs her fingers through your hair. Softly I fall in love.

My days can be varied at the library. Hectic always, life altering once in awhile and life threatening some of the time. I have had patrons take a swing at me, drool on me, spit on me, bleed on me, ass grab, curse and verbally abuse me from every which way to next week. It is all just a days work in a big city library. How do we, the library staff, cope? Well, we are all probably kooks–kooks who stick together. We rely on each other, I make it a point to greet not just my immediate co-workers, but my secondary co-workers as “my library family.”

We are honest, for the most part– kind to one another, we make each other laugh. I love to make people laugh, with my dirty open book sense of humor. We blatantly flirt, we touch, our bodies graze. Yesterday I was a a robot, a library girl machine– automated. The music plays in the buds and I do my thing, blocked but aware, moving from this side of the building to the other with a book truck, like a choreographed musical number, I load material from one truck to the other then glide it across the atrium floor to where it lives on the shelves.

He walked by, his wet lips dragged across the back of my neck. A shiver shot though my spine, instantly my temperature rises, my face burns and my ass–under her own cognitive natural behavior– backs into him. He smells good, he is smooth, dark, handsome, with a smile that could awake a dead woman. We flirt. I pull the bud out of my ear as he whispers something, I don’t know what because I am steal hearing the shiver in my spine. With his lips that close to me my cunt begins to ache.  My ass is so close to his cock. Does he know I am wearing my jeweled ass plug today?

I have often wondered what his cock is like. He’s a boaster, a city talker, a San Francisco boy. Like me, but different, he says things and can get away with it. I could reach my hand around and feel his cock for myself. The moment starts slipping away and I let the shiver run its course, slither out of my bones and through my skin and I start to think of  Erykah Badu…

I want somebody to walk up behind me
And kiss me on my neck and
breathe on my neck

The day was long, I continue to flirt with many men after this incident. I go above and beyond librarian service for particular men. I fill their informational needs and wants, thinking of only how they might fill me. I do this for the rest of my shift. I hide in the bathroom, pushing my jewel further in, while slipping my fingers into my wet pages– drifting into his image, and that ones smile–his cock, or his curve. That ones hungry tongue, his eyes as they look down on me while his cock thrust slowly into my word hole. Those words are not necessary now. My fingers filling I can feel the steel in my ass from inside the walls of my full pussy. Your cock  filling my mouth so right, like my jaw is unhinged and fully accepting-saliva dripping around your beam and off my chin.

Fuck my mouth, please.

When my fantasy begins to take the most of me, I yank the jewel out,  and stars mash into the top of my skull, my pussy pounds, but I refrain. No coming. I pull my fingers from my pussy-they are glossed. I taste.

~

My “out in the world” day ends at the gym, where I continue to behave like an automated machine. I stare intently at the woman on the treadmill in front of me, with her young round firm ass displaying the Victoria Secrets Pink logo, curved and stretching around her plumb cheeks, with each stride they drop lower and lower revealing her string thong, which becomes completely exposed– and her tramp stamp peeks out under the hem of her tiny white tank top. I look around to see if any one else is staring at her like I am–simultaneously hungry and envious of her body. Nobody is, or at least they are not as lecherous as I in doing so. I consider snapping a photo for a friend, but that is grounds for dismissal, and I cant’ have that.

I get home late, do those things one does when first getting home from a long day–mail, wine, meal, unwind…

Clicking the blue glow to on, I see the Architect has emailed me. We had a hot, but all too brief love/fuck affair–he moved overseas  and stayed in his sexless marriage, now our few times together are only memories. He is poet, he make me wet with words that are left out, implied by traces. We fuck online, and he, unlike others makes me come like I mean it, like I want to be fucking him, not just because  I want to come, but because I want to come for him, with him. He is a naughty cock, a sort of lost heart with a cock that curves and drips and impales me in all the right ways.

We chat about regret, what we wish we would have done. How he should have slowly slipped his long cock into my tightest space, how there should have been more nights of fucking while the rain came down, scotch warming our bodies  and cigarettes in the fog. I ask about his naughty cock.

“It’s hard, I am stroking it to you, I am watching you, fucking your needy cunt, your face–mouth–lips parted in want, you slut.”

Words I love and I tell him. The vibrator is set to a low rumble on my pussy, I tell the Architect I am running it along my wet slick lips. He ask me if I will fuck my ass for him. Responding, I ask how he would do it?

“Slow, easy, take my time.”

I slide the vibe, wet from my pussy, slowly into my ass, the plug from the day has me open, accepting.  My pussy instantly reciprocates in appreciation of my ass being filled. I grow full and plump, wetter than before–dripping even. I know I will come soon, it has been an all day build up. I stand, bending over my desk and with a steady rhythmfuck my own ass, as my fingers and palms open up my pussy petals, my cunt feels like a nectarine with a bite out of it. I plug some letters out onto the keyboard, not comprehensible, but completely understandable.

“Come for me, while I fuck that ass, come on my slut… come for me.”

Propping one foot up on the chair,  I back my ass into each plunge. My muscles grabbing around the vibe– crushing around it, my pussy wholly pumping full of blood matching the pounding of my heart beat. I come hard, collapsing my head on the desk, my ass still jutting out, body spasms run their course, fingers still buried in my cunt, vibe still rumbling in my ass. Sitting– I regain, but leave the vibe in. I can type again. I want to make him come, he wants to make me come again, I tell him I want to and I can, my pussy being so willing and wet. Professing, confessing my need for his dripping cock to fill me, to take me, for a brief moment we may have actually been lost in one another despite the technology between us. As his cock filled me for the second time,  my pussy soaking around my fingers–my ass rocking on chair pushing the vibe deeper, I come in that all consuming blast of white static slamming against my scull that disperses into those tiny explosions of stars that blur my vision, then slowly comes to view. I have dripped into my palm and onto the  chair. He comes with me–our words intangible,  drift and drop across the screen. For that split moment we are connected, he is coming in me and I on  him.

with a heavy soul
desires have become memories
like a photograph I recall seeing
but not sure where

your past and mine
could be like
the energy of a wave

like the lines
on the back of my hand
the creases in your face

like a road map
We never follow
but keep—just in case

like the box
of secrets
hidden in the back of my closet

our history like intersections
crossing in the middle of nowhere
framed, dissected and hung on the wall
a silver gelatin camera-eye
languishing in our death’s-head
like love–that never happened

originally posted 4/30/09

Saturday morning I am always a slow moving vixen, but this Saturday–I was exceptionally slow, and in an extremely nostalgic state. The rain, the wind and the dark sky were not motivating me to get ready for my work day at the library.

I read some blogs, answered emails, posted, but my mind kept drifting back and forth to the day before. My afternoon company–it was kind, frisky, lingering, unhurried, and it felt right, even if perhaps it wasn’t.

I decided to take a hot bath, because I had yet to wash since yesterday afternoon. There is something about keeping the smell of man with me, after he has been all over me, in me, with me. For the rest of Friday night and Saturday morning every time I shifted I could smell you on my body. Remaining. It kept me in that nostalgic frame of mind– and now it was time to move on.

I ran the bath and filled it with bubbles, making sure to set the water for super hot, because it has not been getting quite as hot as normal. I stepped out of the room and let the water fill, gathered my coffee and library book; The Best of Best: American Erotica 2008, and set them on the edge of the tub. Stripping down and stepping into the bath, I was surprised to feel the hot water was back in full force. It was so hot, my skin turned instantly pink as I sunk into the bubbles. I began to sweat immediately. It felt so good soaking, listing to the rain and thinking about how you fucked me, how you bent me over the couch and plunged deeply into me, how your curve dripped with your pre-cum and my juice when you pulled out because you feared cumming too soon. Thoughts, of how your dick tasted with that mixed solution of you and me dripping from the tip, lingered in my steamed out mind.

I picked up my book and continued on a story I had already started, Fleshlight. This is the kind of story I would typically skip, because it started out rather slow and the author was a bit self-absorbed (maybe all sex writers are), but I got hooked and eventually he made laugh out loud with his style. The story is on of a basic masturbation with a sexual aid, hence the title Fleshlight.

As I got deeper into the story I noticed my hand was gently stroking my pussy, parting my lips pulling the hot water up to it, splashing it with heat. The story was becoming more intriguing to me as the author explored, from a male point of view, on masturbation. Simultaneously my mind was churning, thinking about my own reflections on feeling myself. He detailed the thought process of looking at a porn rag and how his cock reacts to this. Imagining what the “virgin girl on page 19, washing her truck” would say to him, “undo your belt sweetie, are you getting a hard-on thumper? Stroke it for me.” He recalls his yoga teachers warning “Be aware of your pud throbbing in its methodical yearning way,” as his “yoga breath turns to a pant.”

The heat of the water and my increased inflection on my cunt was making my body catch fire; I am sweating in my tub of hot water. I am fucking myself, thinking about fucking myself while you watched. The sounds of the water splashing around increases and amplifies, sweat dripping from every area of skin not emerged into the water. I slid my other hand down, two fingers in and began the push and pull of the full flesh that lives inside my pussy, pressing the spot as I recede out and quickly thrust back in. I become aware of my own “yoga breath” turning to pant. Scooping up more of the hot water on to my clit, handling, maneuvering it, as it popped out more with each stroke. I push further into myself, thrusting on to my fingers.

When I was about to come, you grasp harder on to my breasts and tell me how hot this is, and to cum for you. My mind drifts into my flowing out of stammering sex lexis, “ohhhh oh I’m gonna cum, fuck! I’m gonna cum…I’m gonna cum for you” the moans and the pants released without any control or hesitation, your hands firmly squeezing. My ass lifting of the floor, your hands all over me; I buck harder, my fingers now fully crammed into my pussy, moaning for release. Your verbal stimulation induces and entices, I cum with a last whimpering groan pushed out, filling the air, before my ass slowly drops back to the floor, fingers still in–feel a soaking surrounding them.

Water sounds fill my head as my ear lobes drift below the water line, my fingers relentlessly plummeting my own cunt as the same moans, from yesterday, echo in that underwater sound. My ass and pussy are grinding on to my hand while my other is feverishly flicking hot water on my clit. I cum hard, with deep guttural sigh; like my own, but not. Sweat ferociously and then I cave into my hot bath, feeling the cream of my cum mixed with the water of my bath, wishing you were here to watch.

originally published on 2/16/09