A Blogovella by Ezzie Dryar (Anne Martin)

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20. mirror, mirror


Window Reflection by HunterChanel

It’s been a weird day today, sunny and bright during my run, then rain, and now a hailstorm, storming like my head, writing about mirrors, memories, and friends – one whose cancer has been in remission for 10 years – it’s back, and she has always done her best to hide it, we’re not that close, but close enough for it to hurt, hurt like the hail falling outside, scattering the birds in my garden – I feel for her husband, who I’m a little closer to, and her son who I watched grow from a silent three-year-old to an outgoing teenager,

but that isn’t what I was going to write about today; I’m fixated on mirrors, staring at myself, my body, still strong, approaching another birthday, still worth looking at, if you are old enough to appreciate a fine wine through the wrong part of your varifocals – well, maybe not that bad, I haven’t got enough for the southern move to be that significant, and I keep myself in shape, good shape, it’s what’s inside that you can’t see in my mirror, but it’s there poking fun at me – too many mistakes in my life, too much ego, not enough compassion, and plenty of love for sale, not for sale exactly, but lots left to give and lots of desire waiting to be fulfilled, yet I look again, and I see my friend, imagine that my days are numbered like hers, but she’s not my only friend counting days, too many, and I’m counting them, too, along with them, even though my end is more obscure, two days, two years, twenty, fifty, who knows,

her body at least betrays its weakness, she knows to put her affairs in order, but I’m still looking for affairs, expecting tomorrow to come as the clock ticks silently within, unknown, my guardian angel standing at my back protecting me – from what? – who knows, my friend knows, her angel fights furiously guiding her doctors, eeking out as much existence as she can from her tired body, while I abuse mine,

assaulted by memories and mirrors, I haven’t got the stomach for sex today, mistakes, navel-gazing, lost loves, loves not-so-lost but out of reach – I want to smash that mirror, at least I’d get those seven years of bad luck guaranteed, put them in the bank and suffer through them, alone as usual, but not quite alone, still more alone than I want to be, but I’m too picky to find someone else, other than that skinny, tall, aging woman in the mirror with hazel eyes and dyed hair, struggling to stay 29 in her comfy blue sweatshirt and torn jeans, she judges me, she punishes me for thinking about him, my dying friend, my narcicism … those memories, those dreams …

oh accusing mirror, it’s all your damn fault!

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19. Flying Virgins and 10 Sure Fire ways to Satisfy your Lover


MILENA_CLOSER by loehr_ralf (Jungtier)

This morning was one of the coldest of the year here.  My black Nike tights, the ones that should have been a forgotten item of apparel by now, came out of the drawer again, along with my white Nike thermal top.  That’s right, cold is black and white to me and branded discreetly with little Nike wings on my ankles and left breast.  That one was hidden under my blue Nike sweatshirt, which is my almost daily companion, hot or cold.  In case you are wondering, my shoes are Nike, too.  I’m a mobile Nike advert.  You can’t see that which isn’t Nike, my underwear, and I’ll leave that to your imagination.

I expected it to be the usual cold 5-mile Tuesday morning slog (Wednesdays and Saturdays are my long days), but this morning I was greeted by a hot air balloon, hovering about 30 ft over the field that I was passing.  It couldn’t have been more than 50 yards away from me.  I think they had stalled there, as the air was perfectly calm.  They must have been freezing their tootsies off!  (I’d warmed up by then.)  It would have been fitting for the balloon to be branded Nike, but no.  Coincidence didn’t run quite that far today.  It was a bright red Virgin … you know, Richard Branson, et al.  Is he a virgin?  One wonders.  Maybe he was when he formed his company.  He was probably barely out of short pants then.  Anyway, it was a surreal sight at 7:15 am on a brutally cold, sunny, frosty morning.  Cold seems colder here in the UK than it does elsewhere because it is so damp.  It was really only about 25 degrees (F).  About a mile further into my run I spied another balloon – no, not Nike either.  This one had an ITV logo and had stalled in the next field over by the time I passed it again on my way back.  The Virgin had fled to the local glider club’s airstrip about a half mile away.

That bit of excitement was a nice distraction, so I ran well today, but it also got in the way of my intended topic for this week’s missive.  I was in the newsagent the other day, and I allowed myself to peruse the top shelf.  For those who have never been to the UK, that’s where they keep the men’s mags.  I’ve never understood why men are so obsessed with udders so large that women lean forward when they walk.  I’ll stick with my lightweight, aerodynamic design.  I’m rambling again.  What intrigued me was all the talk about improving your sex life, satisfying your lover, punishing your girl (she’ll love it, they say – not me, thank you), 3-ways to prolong your sex, 10 ways to improve your sex, and 5 ways to attract your ideal woman.  There was one story that spurred me on to this topic, and I (in my dotage) have completely forgotten the title.  I think it was on the April Loaded.  Their website is already onto May, and I couldn’t be bothered to trek around to find it again.

Of course, I didn’t read the articles, but they started loads of fantasies spinning around in my head, as such things do.  Why this obsession with finding the perfect act, the perfect position, the attractions?  It seems so simple to me.  The single thing that attracts me to a man is that he is relaxed and self-confident without being too full of himself.  He should be attentive to my needs without being overbearing.  He should open doors for me, not because I’m a woman, but because it is polite to do so.  This type of man cares about his appearance, but not too much.  Individual features don’t matter.  Applications will be considered; post them in my forum, but be advised that if you have resorted to that, you probably have already disqualified yourself.  That means you are desperate.

How do you satisfy me as a lover?  Simple:

1. Sex.  Be adventurous and unpredictable, but not gross.  I prefer being on top of you, but variety is a wonderful thing … and you know what, it doesn’t matter if either of us doesn’t orgasm, it’s the fun of getting there that pleases me.  We can always try again, and we will hopefully.

2. Sex.  I want to see you, to touch you, to be touched by you, and to be seen by you; that’ll start my ticker going.  Talk to me, but keep it clean, and don’t distract me from what you are doing, and I won’t be offended if you tell me what you want.  I may just do the same.  Let your tongue do some of the talking and the walking, too.

3. Sex.  A little moisture doesn’t hurt anybody – saliva, the other stuff, food products.

4. Sex.  If you are interested, let me know.  I don’t care if you are obvious, but if I’m not in the mood (when am I not in the mood?!), I’ll tell you.  Don’t be afraid to initiate contact, and I won’t be either.

5. Sex.  Touch me.  Have I said that before?  Touch me as often as you want, wherever you want, but don’t embarrass me in public.

6. More sex.  I think I don’t need to go any further.  You probably have the idea by now.  Oh yes, don’t forget to kiss me.  I want your tongue in my mouth (as well as the other places), and I want to taste you.

Damn, do I want it now!  Where are you?!  (You can find me in the shower.)

18. Lapdancing


untitle [#180] (2004) by Hellen van Meene

The things that swirl around in my head – lap-dancing, today – I wouldn’t be your ordinary erotic dancer, four-inch heels would have me gasping for air in the stratosphere, and you’d be staring at my kneecaps as I strutted around you in your chair, a standard desk chair, it swivels like my hips, and has no arms – they’d get in the way – so as I strut, I trace my fingertips along your shoulder-blades, maybe they are a little cold today, like the weather, and my nails don’t dig because I keep them short, but I’ve painted them glittery burgundy in your honor, along with my toenails – yes, I’m barefoot – I’m told I’m good with them, maybe you’ll find out someday, but not today, as I pass around behind you; my fingers, they’ve found your top button and I couldn’t resist, two, three, and my hand is down your shirt – it’s getting warmer now – like my breasts that dangle tantalizingly close to the back of your head, brushing against your hair – do you feel me, I certainly feel you and give your chest a playful squeeze – alright, both hands, and now you can definitely feel my two pillows caressing your neck

what am I wearing you ask, not much, but as I said, I’m not your ordinary lap dancer, and my bra selection is limited mostly to running wear, since I spend so much time pounding the pavement, but a sports bra makes me nice and firm, nothing to bounce around, and bikini briefs – no thongs in my wardrobe – and have you noticed that I almost always wear dark colors underneath, burgundy today to match my nails and my hair, which I had done this morning – I’d indulge you with it, but it’s too short for anything particularly sensual now – oops – I’ve accidentally untucked your shirt, and unbuttoned it – sometimes I’m just on autopilot – I strut around in front of you; do you like my nice firm tummy, it pulses for your delectation, but maybe you don’t notice, since you are nuzzling between my breasts,

take a nice sniff, no artificial scents on me, I’m allergic to them, just normal body smells, sweat, pheromones, yes, I’m hot with them today – I thought about doing a striptease for you, but there is no teasing here, I’m serious, pulsing with the music – OK, maybe the bra can come off, I find them too confining, so off it goes and around your head – there, we bounce a little, just for you – and what do lap-dancers do – yes, I’m so there pulsing up against you, with you between my legs – I lower myself onto you – I need this as much as you do – there is so little fabric between us, and I can feel you pulsing with me as the music speeds up – have you ever had a belly-dancer on your lap – every muscle finely controlled for your visual enjoyment, but how about up against you for your tactile pleasure, jiggling my pillows in your face as my firm lithe body throbs around you ever quicker, firm – yes, we both are (snickers) – and I course my fingers through your hair because I’m getting carried away, I have a runner’s endurance and could go all night if you wanted me to, but maybe now’s the time for you to stick your tenner in my – well, the bra is gone, so I guess it will have to go in my panties, right there in front – go for it – I don’t mind it getting a little damp, not if it is earned through my pleasure and perhaps yours – put it in nice and deep, so it won’t fall out – yes, right there – no I won’t stop, not till I’m damn well ready, and I won’t mind if you put your arms around me, just don’t get any ideas – this is a business transaction – another tenner? – fifty and it’s a deal, go ahead, slip it in, nice and, ahhhhh, deep

17. Wet and Windswept


Whipped cream and other delights

That’s me, wet and windswept – we are having gales outside right now, 50+ mph gusts and all that, but it’s not raining, I’m wet, well, just because of what has been going through my head lately: sex, more than usual, and it’s crept into my dreams, wild ones, naked as usual, running, dancing, touching, being touched, but never climaxing – it’s so frustrating – it’s been too long since my last passionate, blood-pumping romp; he was a loser, at least I found that out later, but he was alright in the sack, if unimaginative, not like my fantasies, my dreams, hey, do any of you elder-statesmen remember Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass, my parents had an LP (you know, black, with visible grooves) of theirs from the early seventies, it had a “naked” woman dressed completely in whipped cream – well, last night I dreamt I was that woman; it was so vivid I could actually feel the cream all over me, with her it was probably some kind of foam that she wore for hours while they attempted to get just the right photograph – I had the real stuff with just a touch of sugar, and no bathing suit or whatever like she probably had underneath – I practically swam in it and it was heavenly, all that was missing was chocolate

must stop there for a moment, but no periods, not allowed today, because I’m up, and up for it, too bad you aren’t here right now, because when I get like this, there is no stopping me and if you were here, I’d be all over you – you wouldn’t have a chance, you could pretend that I was wearing that whipped cream, or maybe you brought it along, I’d like that, I do have some honey down in the kitchen, you could pour it all over me, and then I’d wrap myself all around you and we’d share it before we removed it from each other (orally), yes, I love the taste of honey on a salty sweaty body (yours, perhaps)

but getting back to that whipped cream, what an amazing feeling, maybe you would join me, and maybe we’d – you know – before our ‘dinner,’ yes, swimming in it, in each other; it’s images like that which have made me a wreck and kept my panties damp, crimson today, like my mood, my desire, why aren’t you here right now, we could have such fun, ahh, it’s sad that I live in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere, populated by the blue-rinse brigade – my special friend is nearby, but it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to be here, because I might do something I would regret later – so that’s your cue – you should be here, right in my chair, I’d be in your lap, doing (you know!), and thinking of edible paraphernalia, whipped cream, honey, cooking oil – yes we would be doing our own cooking, and then maybe some chocolate ice cream later – are you staying for dinner?

16. Self-employment


Everyone is so busy right now.  I haven’t been on the WC much lately – too much work, so little time.  Easter is on Sunday, and I just can’t get excited about it.  It just means that I have less time to get my work done this week.  It’s not fair!  Every day that is a holiday should be extra, meaning that if Friday and Monday are holidays, then they should get tucked in after this Friday and before next Monday.  That means Thurs, Fri, Good Friday, Sat, Easter Sun, Easter Mon, Mon, Tues, etc.  You people that are “employed” still get your days off, while we who are “self-employed” can fit in the all-important work days, and then take that extra day off.  I hear you howling!  But you get those days off, while we still have to work, because we don’t get paid for not working like you do.  If we want to take days off, we have to work like maniacs to fit all the work in, so we still meet our deadlines.

Now you see what you’ve done?  I sat down to write about sex and instead find myself obsessing about work, work that I should be doing right now, since my lunch break is nearly over, a lunch break that I probably shouldn’t have taken, to write a piece that I shouldn’t be writing.  My rent-boy muse has decided to take his holiday early, too, and I’m left alone here to contemplate my navel.  Where is he?  Probably Tenerife – I don’t know where he goes.  He never takes me along.  My best friend is S/E like me, and he’s just as manic as I am, since he has to go to Finland next week.  It’s alright for some!  I want to say that I hope it snows there … alas, he’s going to freeze his tootsies off anyway.  Maybe I should send my muse there in his place and take my friend to Tenerife where it’s warm.  Somehow, I don’t think his wife would go for that.  Anyway, my muse is already gone.

Image result for rupert everett

Maybe I’d be more in the mood if I took my clothes off.  Nobody’s watching, except you my dear reader.  Well, it’s just too cold for that.  I can’t even conjure up one of my Rupert Everett fantasies.  He can be a little cool as an actor, but he’s not half dishy.  I loved him in An Ideal Husband.  I so wanted to be Minnie Driver.  Did I ever tell you my friend knows her cousin from way back?  Probably not.  That’s me: I know people who know people, but I’m never the first one in the chain.  Of course, he’s never met Minnie.  I say that with only hint of jealousy because I know that he has actually met a few rather famous personalities.

There I go, more digressions, I slip into streams that I don’t want to swim in – the water’s cold – and the one where I’d like to go skinny-dipping seems to be closed for the holiday.  Maybe I’ll just leave you a pic – she wants to be my friend, apparently.  (Why did I ever open a hi5 account?  It’s closed now.)  Why is it only women that want to be my friends?  Don’t hunky guys ever flaunt themselves in internet sex chat rooms?  I’m not into hunky anyway, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.

Just pray that I dream of Rupert tonight and not the woman-across-the-street’s dog (again).

15. Slowhand


curled

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been awol lately, mostly because of work commitments, and I just find myself tired and uninspired at the end of the day – too tired to even ponder the S-word; I haven’t been writing much poetry lately, because I leave too much of my soul out there on the page, my past, my loves; it isn’t that I wan’t to hide, but I find that sometimes rather than being cathartic, it plunges me into the depths; I’m not bipolar, but I can really whip myself up into a frenzy, sometimes sexual, other times I just wallow in the misfortunes of my life, and that isn’t considerate to my friends;

it’s better to stick with sex, that’s where I can let myself go, the warm gurgle of an orgasm, the touch, real or imagined of a lover as well as his scent, his taste, his sounds, his warmth – it’s infectious – and I feel almost as if I’m flying as I touch on a fantasy, perhaps a fantasy of touch, of taste; I’ve told you how physical writing is for me, but it does that to me, starting subtly, perhaps while I’m writing about being too busy to visit you, my friends, but then it seduces me, the soft rustle of leaves, a gentle stream, my stream seductively floating me to the white water, the rapids of my fantasies, I think of it, sensation, my breathing becomes shallow, as if I’m on a run, but more like the first touch of a man, a kiss perhaps, but possibly the exploration of his hands, testing me – a test drive? – It could go that way, and I feel warm, too, breathing deeper, hopelessly taken by my mental wandering, I reach out for more, for him, I’m hungry, I’m insatiable, and I want him, my fantasy man – he’s no hunk, just an ordinary guy, but he has to be intelligent, he’s got to seduce me with his words,

he can be quiet, but I’ve got to see it in his eyes – he knows, he understands, and he wants what I want – and we all know what that is right now – I take a deep breath to slow it down, the slower the better, he must be my Eric Clapton, my slow hand, but no cool hand, I want him hot, hot for me, hot under me – I want him uncomfortable, under my control, in my control, in me, in me in every way, physically and metaphorically, urgent like my lack of punctuation moving faster towards our mutual goal of mutuality of intellectual fulfillment of ecstasy he takes me to orbit past the hydrazine cloud of the destroyed spy satellite but I’m not afraid I’m more dangerous than that he knows he screams it for all to hear while I quietly destroy him there is no other but me and he is mine he … he … satisfies me, sates me with his words, the glint in his hazel eyes that mirror mine, and he hasn’t even taken off his clothes, yet he inhabits me as I possess him, body and soul, his words, my words, inseparable

14. Moondance


Ballerina foot by Tiquis

I’m in a place deep within, black like night except for a crescent moon – I love crescents, low on the horizon, reflecting on water, but it isn’t now, it’s reflecting on a black surface, like a still lake at night, but it has no shore; it extends infinitely in all directions, and I’m standing on it, it’s solid but soft – maybe I’m walking on water, but I leave no impression, cause no ripples – it’s warm here, and I’m dressed, well, comfortably, and by now you should know how I’m most comfortable – and I’m most comfortable now, now without periods, flowing on one of my inner streams, a stream that has become the endless sea that supports me and reflects my moon, my lover, and I feel happy – no reason, just happy within, free, free to express myself; I trace an arc with my toes around to my right, I spin and reach for the moon as I would a lover on the deck of a ship, departing on a long voyage, my moon will become renewed on its journey, I plier, relever, and glisser, again to my right (I’m horribly left-footed), and stretch my left leg up, pointing to my lover, before rocking forward, down onto my knees, rolling left, once, twice, onto my back, rolling into a split, again reaching for the moon – I rock forward onto my chest, remembering to point my toes, and fingers, I roll again, feet over head, back to a standing relaxed position, I sprint forwards into an arabesque

A devilish part of me wishes there was a pole here, I want to pole dance for my lover – I knew a pole dancer once, she, too, played French horn and sat next to me in an orchestra, she was beautiful, soft, not brash, like you would expect of a pole dancer, she was remarkably feminine and masculine at the same time, I could have loved her, would have if we weren’t both into our men at the time, both coincidentally across the orchestra in the trombone section, I wish she were dancing with me now, dancing together for the moon, perhaps she is, there in my heart, I’d feel her wrapped around me as I leap again and spin, she’s there, holding me, keeping me from falling as I become more daring, a double spin – I spot on the moon to keep from getting dizzy – I pretend she is there as my pole and envelope her, another relever, tourner, and élancer straight towards the moon and another arabesque, she’s right behind me,

I stop, plier, I’m quite flexible, but usually also clumsy, I’m perfect for my lover, setting on the horizon, my moon touches its mirror, as I embrace mine, my invisible pole dancer, in the fading light I spin again, and roll, I leap into a circle of arabesques as a final parting flourish, and another plier, relever onto my toes and a vertical split – can’t do that on my toes, but I’ve rocked back and spun – it’s almost black now and I can feel my pole dancer holding me, protecting until my moon returns, I’m safe, and expectant

Basic ballet movements:

1. plier, to bend
2. étendre, to stretch
3. relever, to rise
4. sauter, to leap
5. élancer, to dart
6. glisser, to glide
7. tourner, to turn

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