the fractured attach
love and hate in the same glass
mixtures of blood and cum a code mutation
a living archive built for use

our beginning and ending eternally present
another ferocious pluralist spreads her legs
swallowing their slow death

image (Last Kiss) Andrew T Hunt

I dreamt about you. I hate when I dream about you, it reminds me I still love you.

My grandfather (Pops)–used to say to my Grandmother (Gam),

‘ahhh woman–lovin’ you is easy–it’s living with you that’s killin’ me.”

She hated that–then he would chase her around, trying to make her dance to some jazz that he always had playing way too loud, she hated that too–the jazz not the dancing.

The dreams I have about you always remind me of the dreams I held in reality. They seem silly now that life has had their way with them, those simple ideas I had about love. A dance like my Pops and Gam. Cooking together–arguing in the grocery store about ingredients. Those quirks and niches we hold and how we come together forming our own quirks.

Often I miss your warped innocence and optimism, your voice telling me– whispering in my ear…

“it’ll all be alright, we’ll make it work… just gimme that smile.”

I believed you so many times, even when I knew it wouldn’t be alright, and my snowflake smile would always end up in tears.

I dreamt of winter in Denver. I left you–I had fucking left you–for about the hundredth time. Leaving you really did feel like my heart was broken, like I was suffocating, I could not see clearly every thing was dirty and gray.  It felt like I had stopped breathing and when I would start again, it was a forced deep breath, followed by a toxic exhale.

When you showed up my silly dream came with you and we danced. We fucked, I cried when I finally felt your dick inside me again. Riding your solid beam, my strong thick thighs flanking the side of your body, your abs tight and contracting every time my pussy swallowed down onto you. Your hands grasping around my tits like  handles that if you let go you would lose me again. Never did you close your eyes–watching my body rock into yours, almost surprised that I was yours. I came all over your cock, the build up of all that love and hate I had for you poured out of my cunt and soaked us, and I continued to fuck you after I came and I cried and fucked, and I fucked, and I fucked.

Your cock coated in me tasted so right, I love worshiping at your root, you always get so hard and look so good–like a carved stone art dildo. I never needed a cock as much as I needed yours. I needed you to feed me a constant flow of your dick. I needed you in my mouth,  I needed to taste my pussy on your shaft and taste your cum fill my mouth and slide down my throat. It was a need I never quite understood.

When I woke up my fingers where fucking my pussy, I couldn’t breath, I felt like the weight of your body was on top of me, crushing me–I fucked myself, I came and I cried and I came again and the night dream fragmented into morning sunlight.

attaining things we never thought we would
the photos from when we sailed high on the sun ship
my smile consisting of snowflakes and sunshine

our shadow that links has disappeared
what without him are we?
lost souls that once claimed the other as their prize
mending the broken gashes of living

the ascension of you as I descend
Hard–like sweet bitter love belted out by the queen
happiness is followed by its partner–tears
when gravities pulley brings me to your lap—thinking with my lips

rationality is not logical—when love becomes the valid argument
our snapshot reminiscences rolled tight in their cylinder coffin
awaiting escapism

He asked me–
“don’t you want love, isn’t that the goal? Don’t you want to wake up next to someone?”

And I sat there for a moment slightly dumbfounded. I wanted scream out. Yes! Damn it I do! of course I do, there is nothing I want more than that. I want to share a breath, my moments–the challenging, the monumental, the mundane. I want to share my bed, your bed. Yes I do, of course I want love.

Remember what that first love was like? All consuming, fueled like a crime spree, nothing else mattered, the reach and strain only came from our sex. Your cock always straining to get to my cunt. Our minds buried between the others thighs, tangled together like overgrown summer grasses. It was innocent and simple. It is learning how to have sex, how compromise  your way to pussy, to erection–how to make each other cum. Lessons we learn to take to next one we fall in love with.

Second love? I married mine. It was sex, drugs and rock and roll. It was artist to artist conflict, it was fucking unleashed, tumultuous as a late summer tornado–the sky turned black, the air caught sparks of an electric fire of two. The city was ours, it felt like we revolved around it, the city, our love, our fucking embodied this feeling of the city. We were here to do something, we were here to create art–to live, love and fuck like artist. We did– until we let our city and our narcissistic personalities sully and turn it to shit. It was this love that began to change me, change my personality, build on my cynical bitterness–an ugly side of me. A bag I held on to for too long, a bag I took with me when I fell in love for the third time.

Third love? The ultimate take me there then tear me down, ravaged my brain and soul, it destroyed me. It was everything, love, passion, hate. We fucked all night and all morning. I fell back in love with San Francisco when I feel in love with the gangster. He took me places I had never seen in the city, places we would go to at the break of dawn, when every thing is orange and wet. Together we were raw energy, inseparable–for a time.  But pain beget pain and we turned into some form of a twisted love life.

Since the loss of my love life, I think, purposefully, I may have been putting myself in the situation of avoiding love, or more so of avoiding heartache. I opt to play the role of slut. There were times when I allowed love to slip in, but it left as quickly as it came. Love is not as easy as it was when I was 20 or even 30. Love in San Francisco is not easy to come by. Life has a way of showing on our faces, the complications, the quirks, the way we sit in our ways.

I get enough cock, but not nearly enough love. Sometimes I feel like have this uncontrollable amount of drive and passion for not just love, but fucking and living and I don’t know where to put it all, so I slut it. But, in the end,  it never does it for me like I need it too. Those who want all this fuck passion or fucked up passion, are rare and far between– and all the cocks I suck in search for the next great passion– are merely that, just cock. My mouth like a dowsing wand for turgid maleness, my cunt a repository of cock that is not for me, not mine, not the one.

What do I do with it, with all this want, with all this passion between my thighs? I don’t know where to put it, I don’t how to use it and often end up abusing it. Drowning it with my own cum.

For being a gangster he was simultaneously a child. Innocent, generous, and when he chose for it to be, his heart made of sunshine. He didn’t know how to take me. His shyness would wash over him whenever he approach me. Our first kiss was truly like a first kiss. As though we had never kissed another. It was full of sweetness, awkwardness, a tenderness I thought was not possible again in my life.

Sitting in his little room, he slid to me, coming across the floor on his knees, almost at a crawl. His rough hands inched up my legs, to my thighs, learning my curves. He cupped my mounds of ass pulling me, tugging, drawing me into him, my thighs surrounding his frame. As he glanced up his brown eyes stared at me, I, out of habit, glanced away. His eyes drop and  slide across my body, understanding with his stare. I watch him watch me, rising along my landscape, his nervous hands not knowing where to go, but they feel just fine on my thighs.

He moves in, his shoulders suddenly become broad, his lips find mine. I feel like it was my first kiss all over again, but then all of that melts away and our kiss become just that, ours. Innocent and dirty at the same time. Wet, sultry and intoxicating, I was blazing. We kissed all night, my pussy was melted to the chair. We did not move much from our original position, he remained between my full thighs, pulling me–his cock is straining, enticing every part of me in. I want more, pulling his fingers to my lips, I draw them up, in. Kissing, sucking the tips, two fingers on my tongue–my lips surround. Suck. I want to suck, I want to have him in my mouth, filled, lost. Fucking my lips, mouth, me. His thumb slides in. Unison sigh. Dynamic fusion in my mouth, saturation pussy.



I lose my wits eternally and am full of lusty. I don’t want too, but I do it. Lips separate, and I, somehow,  manifest my departure. We float to standing, his cock stiff knocking at my door, pressing into my thigh. The link between us is linked.

Monogamy and infidelity are two words that often go together. Monogamy is a difficult, if not impossible, situation to remain in. I have yet to be in a monogamous relationship that has not lead to infidelity in many senses of the word.

When the gangster cheated on me, it was worse than when the man I was actually married to cheated. Gangster actually fell in love with another woman. That about killed me, it wasn’t like he just fucked some bitch. It was not a simple case of stupid hard dick. It was a case of loss of love and he finding it somewhere else. My heart broke and turned to some sort of toxic crazed rage, that I kept fueled with booze, various drugs, random cock, and by never letting go of the gangster when I should have. It was truly a sick time in my life. When thinking back on it, I still get upset at how much his betrayal hurt and how I did not know how to deal with that–except for crazy.

When I was married, it was me who first dipped into disloyalty.

The first time was odd, I found myself at my local dive with two of my co-workers, one of whom happened to be close friends with my husband. We were getting into some serious drinking—eyes were glancing and dancing as fingers and hands were thigh grabbing under the table. With my inhibitions fully lubricated– my sensibility walked out of that dive bar that night. I could feel my body overcome with inebriation as my hands also slid under the table grasping at my coworkers fingers, guiding them between my legs. My pussy, always socially lubricated before me, seized, embraced and let loose all at once. I was sitting there on my bar stool with wet panties, feeling a mans cock who was not my husband. It was not until our lips locked that my judgment snapped in. When our companion left for the bathroom we shared our first kiss, it was soft, wet, tasted like booze and sizzling hot.

More drinks! More libations, more liberation. My kissing companion became more brazen, he knew I was married and yet his maneuvers were no longer a secret his hands handled openly—his lips found mine without fail. When our other co-worker finally saw, finally caught on–he looked at me like what the fuck are you doing?

That was all it took, the last kiss through me over the edge and I freaked, jumping out of my chair I flew out the bar in a complete drunken sprint, luckily I only lived three long blocks away. I never told my husband, and my husbands friend never said anything about and rarely does now, but it is a secret between us–and the man I kissed, who has now acquired the nick name “Fingers Williams.”

My second indiscretion came at the time when my marriage was truly suffering. We were at a point of dislike. Everything about the other was annoying, a struggle to smile and be happy with each other. It made this particular cab drivers moves very appealing.

This day, which eventually spanned months, was exhilarating, wild, and completely out of character. He was abrasive, rough a fucking cab driver for Christ sake. Asshole. Ahhhh the many assholes I’ve loved. He was a childhood friend, of a friend and we all ended up together on one fine SF Sunday, hitting bar after bar, in which he seemed to know every bartender. Free drinks flowed. His cabbie personality was distinctly hot. Abrasive, honest, a native San Franciscan. His kisses, his approach was all smooth natural—there was no feeling of cheating on my husband, for that moment there was no husband. Cabbie was larger than my dismal hate filled married life, he was escapism.

Taking me out of the bar, pushing me against the outside wall, the dim alley lights–lighting our way, his kisses soft–his pressure hard, pinning me against the brick, he lifted one of my legs at the thigh—so strong was he that the other legs was sort of dangling. I was being held up by my thigh and his lips. His fingers and hands explored all of my body, roughly–like only a cab driver would, his big hand rounding my curved ass down into the folds of my pussy. Cabbies full palm reached between my junction, pressing my cunt, creating liquid flow. Letting my thigh drop, but never taking his lips off mine his hand cupped my full tits, smashing, searching—dying to taste. When his fingers locked into my belt loop, I knew. He tugged hard pulling my waistband out enough—then his hand dove into the front, past my panties into my soak. He finger fucked me against the bare wall, lifting me off my feet, lips working my lips, his fingertips tangled into my bush. He made me so wet, he made me cum on his hand, in my panties. I felt my body collapse on to his big fist when I came. Along with cum, came a feeling of defeat—I came by a man who was not my husband.

I knew that night my marriage was over.

Guarded, controlled and yes– my body betrays with abandonment. And yes, I think you may be right, I do get some perverse pleasure in battling against the dichotomy of my mind and body. I am into dichotomy and my pussy is definitely into it.

When I got to Chicago for round two I felt prepared. Although, I am never sure one can be fully prepared to be fucked in the ass and controlled by a dom lovin’ man. This is part of my experiment, the exploration into one of the many sides of my sexuality. I have a dominate persona myself, I have dominated men in and out of the bedroom. Ahh, but the other side, maybe the stronger side– is soft, a giver, generous and nurturing. Submissive? I truly do long to take care of you, to feed you, comfort you, listen to you, love you and more than anything to be your sweet dirty nasty slut. Life becomes contorted though. Values, ideals, hopes and dreams get diluted and we are left with shards of theories of love and sex, which we stitch together to make up our particular proclivities for getting off.

The gangster used to control me in unhealthy ways, and in some misconstrued seductive way, I liked it. We fought and fucked. I would often purposely make him mad to see his anger, to feel his control. A rather fucked up cyclical situation. There was fire to every aspect of our relationship, not just sexually. When the sex died all that was left was the anger. My anger, his rage, my mouth of fire and poison would flow until he could no longer react with anything else other than his angry hand. The burning sting left across my face, the hand that wrapped and tangled around my hair pulling me to the floor, it connected to our sex–even though it was some twisted form of what our sex had become.

So this brings me back to my the investigation into my sexual dichotomy. While the gangster and I had deeper problems, I always recognized that his power and control turned me on, more so than my husband ever did or could, but that I was never without my control, it may have gotten lost, amalgamated–high on the mix of cock and love, but it was still there, just being an antagonist.

What is it about pain and control that makes so insatiably wet. I am not really a pain slut–I like good solid ride and nice pounding, just as much as the next girl, but why the rougher you became, the harder you bite my nipples, and clamp your hands around my tits, the wetter I get, despite my pleas for you to stop, despite my anger. I did not enjoy the pain, plus I absolutely hate being told what to do as you command in various ways, it pisses me off, but you like that. Don’t you? You like that fire that anger and pain give, that blaze that it sets to my cunt, the way it makes me saturate between my thighs. You like feeding me your cock, until I choke and gag, saliva spilling out the corner of my lips around your shaft and on to the hotel room floor, as my head hangs over the side of the bed being so completely filled and fucked.

What I am into is the way your strong hands wrap around my throat, tightening, while your cock fill me up. It is the closest experience to being high that I have experienced since being high. My cunts throbs, as my mind fades, and my brain turns to static, and tiny stars fill my eyes, and if I could see my face I know there would be a sick sick smile on it. Your hand gripped tightly around my throat, mine buried between my legs, grinding atop your rock, I am amazed at how wet I am.

“do feel that? Can you even feel your cock in all that wet mess?”

My pussy overflows, the mouth of my river meets the ocean, and I ride and grind with all I can, I use your cock. The fire and the anger is focused into my pussy and ride it out, while your hands lock, continuing to restrain my thought process, I don’t need a thought process at this moment. I come many times this way, using your solid beam, my pussy in control of both of us. You make me cum in ways I have not cum in long long time, for the pain may have been worth it. But, is it really the pain that made me cum?

The dichotomy continues. If was with the right man, would I not cum just as much, of not more? Wouldn’t I let my guard down for him and let go of my ocean without the connotation of pain? The search for what makes me cum, let go, fall in love, soar–in all those deliciously perverse ways continues. Will I see Chicago again? Probably. Is he the one? No.

Yesterday I received some feedback that I, and other female sex word spillers, do not discuss our tits enough, it’s always just pussy pussy pussy. So I thought I would re-post this one from 5/28/09.

But first…

Why do we not speak on our breast so often? Is it because of the duality of breasts, the mixing of sexuality and motherhood? That something that was once purely sexual, have then become something purely functionalist and therefore anti sexual. Or perhaps they are just more sexual to men than they are to us.

Men love them. Men love my tits and always have, but for me they have never been one of my most loved features. Women can be so convoluted about their own bodies. As I age,  I love my own body more and more. My tits, are not what they once were, they are not whre they started. Gravity is a bitch. My breast are a  big full C cup, one could be a D cup, mighty righty. They are big, squeezable, grab-able handfuls of flesh. They look fabulous in a good push-up bra. They are durable and can withstand a lot of mistreatment, if that’s what you are into. They are not so into mistreatment though, but like I have said before, I try to be a generous lover, and if you want to bite and box my tits around a bit, I can succumb, for awhile. I like a nice firm handling, sucks, bites, and solid squeezes. I particularly like riding and grinding on your cock, while your hands are firmly grabbing them while I ride, bouncing, but not free flying everywhere.

I have large areolas and bigish nipples that are a brownish pink and red. The nipples can be made  nicely hard  with the right manipulation. On very cold days my nipples hurt. I have one pierced nipple with a simple bar through it, I used to have both, but one was extremely crooked so I took it out. I like my nipples pinched, pulled and bitten. On occasion I will wear nipple clamps, this is a new one for me. At first it was quite painful, but now on the non pierced nipple I can wear the clamp on full pressure for several hours, the one with the piercing, is far more sensitive and difficult to get the clamp on, I can only keep it on for an hour or so.  I like the way they look with clamps on them.

I have often toyed with the idea of a breast lift, not a fill just a lift. Am I that vain? Perhaps I should start the Vixen lift fund. Just thoughts. Now on with the show…

Treasure Chest

I would give him a nice slow to fast fluctuating blow job, getting his cock slobbering wet, slick. Sometimes I would kneel between his legs his cock in my mouth, sliding in and out, bobbing, my ass bouncing, because every time I have a cock in my mouth–I also imagine it is in my pussy too, which causes my ass to bounce while I suck, it makes me wet, drip, fucking you with mind and mouth.

Once I had his cock  hard as a stone, throbbing, straining against his belly–I would rise squeeze my tits together and slide the full flesh tightly around his wet beam. Pushing them together, fucking him, able to feel every characteristic, the ridge, the curves, his tight ball lost in the warm wet meat of my breasts, the tip of his cock peeping out with each thrust up. I would crane my neck down and assume my lips in the O shaped pucker, to get a suck each time his tip pushed through my tits, causing popping puckering noises, spittle strands from my lips to his crown, then back down into the flesh, disappearing.

He liked to crawl on top of my chest and fuck me this way too. He would grab and handle my breast, roughly pushing them together, forcing his cock in my open mouth, to get it fully lubricated, then clutching them together he would fuck my treasure chest, his cock, again, hitting my lips with each drive into my flesh. Hungry, I would try to suck his cock into my mouth, but he would continue his assail in between my tits. When he was about to come he would grab even tighter, strangling them around his dick. At this point his cock is the hardest, it does not even feel like flesh anymore. His body tenses, it became as rigid as his cock and then–explosion between my tits, followed by the waves of spasms in his body and he releases his low growl into the air, slowly letting go of the clutch he has on my flesh, gently smashing the cum goo around his descending cock, then his body would collapse on top of me glued together by his cum.

drunk on your spit and pre-fluid–on what’s to come
confidence–like love is fleeting
I am caught in a pattern–ebb and flow
the sacrifices made for cock and hunting

eager between my legs–set logic to static
white noise fills the voids–fingers the holes
my wave ripple to catch your swell

sunbaked in August
love affair of late September
fog rolls and never leaves

clinched jaw–wired to taste
metal mouth and oral narratives
cinch the deal

the shape of supplication
contemplated–analyzed
our story is over
were the words I trickled–before I understood them

I was so weak for him. We existed in pain more than pleasure; we thrived on hurt, devastation and the breaking down of sexuality to ugly and base. I hated him, I loved him. I cried, cried and cried about him. I cried when we had sex, I cried while I willing let him rape me. I cried and came at the same time. I hated how my ravenous cunt became wet every time, never connecting to the mind, my pussy works on her own.

He smelled of another woman. Mother fucker. He was child, innocent, stupid. He, I, we, did not know how to treat each other like human beings, let alone lovers. The destruction of what was pure, what was simple, what was man and woman; crashed in–like a bulldozer through a condemned building, in which the city planners forgot to notify and vacate the inhabitants.

Long after it was over– he would slink, stalk, torment my existence. I thrived on it. I thrived on being emotional fucked by this man. He had this innate ability to sense any happiness blooming within me, and would come along to cut off the supply of nutrients that allowed full bloom. He seemed to know if I was about to fuck another man, he would be there, intimidating, large, full of twisted pride.

One late night, he rang my buzzer; me—weak, always let him in. We did not speak any words, he followed me down the long hallway, I turned the shower on, hot steam filled the small bathroom. I stripped, climbed in, he followed. The heat of the water washing our depravity away.His hands consuming my flesh, my breasts filling his mouth, flipping me around, bending in half I grab the edge of the bathtub. From behind he begin to pump into my dome.Filling me, at home inside me. My pussy opening to him as I rocked onto his sleek solid dick. The heat went to my brain and my thoughts evaporated with the steam. Fucking into me harder, pounding, I–accepted with each thrust, my own thrust; pounding into one another, attempting to fuck away the pain. He could not see the tears streaming down my face. My cunt accommodating, my feet being lifted off the bottom of the porcelain, like I was being held up by the strength of his cock alone. Rabid, compromised and violently we fucked in our love and hate.