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
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?
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.
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).
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
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
I’ve been sitting here working all day, and all I have been able think of has been taking my clothes off. Sometimes, I just find wearing clothes repulsive. I know that sitting on a wool desk chair will get uncomfortable fast, not to mention that I’d get cold rather quickly. Still, they have to come off, at least for a short time, until it gets old, or I start turning blue. (I can put a towel on the chair.)
Excuse me ……………
Ah yes, that’s better. I love this feeling of freedom – and the answer is, no, I do not have a webcam. I don’t do pictures, in any case.
Well, what now? I know – I’ll watch you. Call me Big Sister, as I watch your everyday lives, walking around, working, taking care of the kids, however you spend your day or your night. Yes, the night is more interesting – don’t mind me, I’ll just sit here quietly in the corner as you make love to your partner. Pretend I’m not here – OK, if you get off on that, you can imagine I’m there, naked, in a dark corner of your bedroom. Don’t worry, I have very good night vision; you can have the lights off.
Rough stuff? No, I’m not interested. I’ll be looking out the window, watching my friend, the moon, traverse the sky. Oh, that’s better, gentle kisses, a little bit of tongue action. Now, you’ve got me. Wait, don’t hide under the covers. I don’t have X-Ray vision. I’ll turn the heat up a little, as you turn up your heat. No, don’t hurry on my account. I like it slow, and the slower you go, the more excited I’ll get. I might even, yes, do that, along with you. Don’t pay any attention to my moans. Oh, that was good! I like it when someone does that to me. That should get you going. Mmm, that too, I never would have guessed that a tongue in my ear would have that kind of effect.
You’ve forgotten me by now. I’m still here, but I might just move a little closer. I want to feel your heat – yes, right here on the edge of the bed. The moon glistens on your sweaty bodies, and I have to restrain myself from giving you a hand. The rhythm picks up. You are getting serious now – and so am I – the air is thick with the sultry musk of your copulation, and I’m breathing it in like water vapour in the desert. Ooh, careful – maybe I’m in the way. I’ll just kneel on the floor and lean my head on the edge of the bed – I’m closer to the business end there, and that’s what I want to see. Oh, ride’m girl! That’s my favourite position – on top and in control. Her thigh is only an inch or two from my cheek, pulsing, throbbing. He’s ready – I can tell – his feet are tensing … That’s right! Let it out. I’m not into pain, but noisy is fine, “Yes, yes, yes!” YES! Let the neighbours hear it. Oh my, now I’m sweating, too. Language, dears! OK, you can shout as many expletives as you wish. Getting closer – me, too – hmm, never heard that one before. Three backs arch in unison – and, and …. (pregnant pause) …. YES! blessed release …. oops, he popped out, careful! Oh! He got me right in the face. Warm and slimey. It’s OK; I just wasn’t expecting it. I’ll just wipe it somewhere out of the way. There, he’s back in now, where he belongs.
I’ll just lean here against the side of the bed while you finish up, and savour the post-coital aroma of your bedroom. Yes, of course you may do it again, but I have what I’ve come for. (Hehe!) I might just listen, however.
Ah, I’m back at my desk, sitting on a wet towel. I’m still warm, though, thanks to you.
It’s happening again – I’ve got to let it out, I’m writing too much real fiction, The Wind Whisperer, and no sex, well, not that much in the story at least; people have been saying that I’ve should write more of the real stuff, fiction, essays, I enjoy that part of writing, for me it’s therapy, letting out the frustration, and that usually means sexual frustration, I want it now, I need it now, you, dear readers are going to give it to me, yes, I can feel it already, the heat, the rush, mmmm, I can feel you as if you were sitting here in my lap, well, you are, via computer technology, between my legs where you belong, and I open myself to you, my heart, my body all of me – I can feel your heat – yes, there, oh, you can be so good to me,
I’ve been pondering the seven deadly sins lately, and I keep coming back to lust, I’m finding it difficult to tackle wrath, and although I have a long fuse, it’s a big explosion; sex can be that way, the longer you wait for it, the better it is, if only that were true – I’m expecting an 150 megaton blast, you’d better watch out – that’s the physical wait, but I make up for some of it by writing these words for you, my bedfellow – you keep me warm at night and sometimes during the day, like right now on a Sunday evening while I’m waiting for dinner to cook, I can just smell it, not dinner, sex, I can feel it coming like dinner, and I’m hungry, so hungry for you, and I’m tired of the foreplay, foreplay is good, but I want the main course and you are my dinner tonight, can you smell the semen in my hair, that’s left over from my jacuzzi fantasy, I loved that, but today you get to join me, and in fact, I’m your fantasy today, what am I doing now – holding you while you keep me warm, mmm, your skin is so soft against mine, I assume I’m naked in your fantasy, or about to be, did my cloths come of easily, torn, shredded, wet – I like it wet – water, baby oil, corn oil (hehe), even, yes, you know about that already, but no blood, and no pain, but I suppose if that is your fantasy, you don’t have to tell me, don’t, I don’t want to know, let me have it, and I take you places, where you want to go, need to go, I’m doing it now, do you like it, I do, and I’m feeling it, yes, there, the usual place, the best place, how do I taste, you haven’t tried, do, I like to be tasted, I think I taste like commas tonight, I’ve been using them almost relentlessly, but no periods, it’s not that time of the month, I’m ripe and ready, salted, peppered and comma-ed, what are you waiting for?