A Blogovella by Ezzie Dryar (Anne Martin)

Posts tagged “boredom

Oil Slick


I can often be found sitting on this wall, a half a block up the street from my apartment. It’s the perfect height for me, so I just lean on it, and soon I’m sitting. I like to watch people walk by, to say hello, to gossip. There are those that say that if something’s going down on my street, I’m the one to ask. I see it all: Mrs Jones running out of her house with a bloody lip and skulking back a half hour later, Janine Harper with her two boyfriends, and what they get to up in her bedroom. She couldn’t have hung that mirror in more useful position. It helps that I’m a little far-sighted. She knows I can see them, and I sometimes wonder if she is performing just for me, or maybe she’s just gloating. She’s got two and I have none. I wouldn’t want either of them anyway.

Dan Jenkin’s Buick has a bad oil leak. He always parks it in front of my perch overnight, and I can see its rainbow stream of black gold oozing towards the curb in the morning. I love the aroma of a warm engine and the reflection of fresh motor oil and water in the warm sunshine. He must fill it up almost every day.

Twice I have been questioned by the police about soliciting, but they have never caught me at it, probably because that’s not what I’m doing. It has been years since my last … Sorry, but saying four-letter words makes me blush. Dan and I stopped when we got caught by his wife, Cindy. He was my first, back in High School, and occasionally we got together when I got sick of abstinence, and he got sick of Cindy. It was a purely physical arrangement, bourne of mutual need. Cindy was prone to use the withholding of sex as a weapon to get back at him, and he decided early on that using me was better than taking the matter into his own hands. Aside from releasing my pent up energy, Dan was never my true love. I just never really liked Cindy. After Dan popped my cherry, she moved in for the kill, and bingo … offspring, and a teen marriage. Dan and I never could have married, but I would have appreciated a second go before anyone else claimed him. Cindy’s a barracuda, and I don’t envy him.

Many wonder if I’m just a layabout, sitting on the wall all day long, but I’ve taken to sleeping in the evening and working from home after midnight. Nobody realizes that I’m a famous author. Everyone has read James T. Lincoln’s vampire novels. Nobody knows that he is me. My publisher hired a 40-something model for the book-jackets. I love writing at night, letting my fantasies run free. The reviewers get on my case about the amount of sex in my books, but that’s what brings the readers back time after time. Granted, every time has to be different and it has developed itself as a form of lycanthropy, a supernatural disease that even my main character has succumbed to – Det. Elmira P. Wrozniak, a specialist in paranormal crime by day and Meera, Queen of the succubusses at night. It’s the perfect cover and it helps her get rid of the competition. My readers think I’ve sold out, as Elmira’s sex gets more and more kinky. I don’t care, since my last novel sold the most ever. The diehards still prefer Elmira when she was still fully human, so I’ve started a new series just for them. Riccardo Malipiero, paranormal investigator and vampire killer. The first book was almost as big a seller as Fire in the Undergrowth, the first Elmira book.

Writing does strange things to me. It’s almost like having sex myself, especially when I’m in the midst of writing a juicy sex scene for Elmira. That’s why I can’t go to sleep in the morning. After a night of vampires and werewolves, I need the sunlight to reaffirm my humanity and cool the fire in my loins. If my neighbors knew how much I was worth, I would never get any peace. My visitors just think that I’m a big Lincoln fan, but nobody has even noticed that none of the other books in my library are vampire books. Not a single one! I prefer real literature, the classics, modern fiction. I’d read Jane Austen long before I read … what’e her name … I can’t remember. Her followers don’t like my books – the say Elmira is a slut – but what makes her any different from whatshername’s heroine?

If anyone is a slut, it’s me in real life, watching every handsome fella that walks by and orchestrating a fantasy that they star in. The good ones make it into my books, the rest keep me a deep breath away from an orgasm. I confess that I have come that close, sitting anonymously innocent in the sun, but the fella is usually long gone anyway.

There’s Mrs Jones back, right on cue, and Janine is busy pumping boyfriend no 2 dry. She waves discreetly, thinking that I envy her, but I’m sitting in an oil slick of my own making with Mr Bearded-Blond-Runner wrapped between my legs, his clothes in tatters on the sidewalk, and I’m about to scream in ecstasy. He’ll probably make his second sweaty loop around the block in about 10 minutes. Maybe I’ll stop him when he passes, burying my tongue in his mouth and perhaps more. He’s hot for me, I know, I can see it in his eyes. No, not today, the real thing is never as good as the fantasy.

If people only knew what I was really thinking…

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24. Virtually naked


red chair by fre_natae

I'm free. Take me now. One and one, one on one, you on me, to make three.

Today was one of those days. I'm only virtually naked right now because I couldn't be bothered to take my clothes off. My internet body floats on the sun naked, waiting for fulfillment. That's your cue. Come to me, with me.

I've had something eating at me all day, and I don't know what it is. There's no monkey on my back or nicotine craving. This distraction has been crawling up my legs since I awoke this morning after a dreamless night.

There, I've taken my shoes off, one of the most liberating things I can imagine, almost as satisfying as taking my bra off. My distraction didn't allow me to put one on today, so I'll miss that pleasure. I had no meetings scheduled, so I didn't really need to dress at all. It's a good thing I did, or the postman would have gotten a free show. Well, I did dress for my run, but that all comes off before I shower – that's when I start my day over. Sometimes I dream in the shower; it's more than a daydream. I lose track of everything. I can be there unmoving while the water pours over me for more than a half hour. I'm back in the womb again, naked, wet and warm. Soapy, yes, I like that, too. After 7 miles on the road, I have to wash my hair everyday, something gentle with conditioner. It's getting long now. I'll need to get it cut soon.

I've had dreams on my mind lately, as you might have noticed. I'm riding a dream right now, a dream that someone else had, and that I've claimed as my own. A little bit of my womb-like shower has been creeping up my legs – maybe I didn't wash the soap off thoroughly, maybe it's the thousand tongues of fantasy, my stolen dream waiting to please me. I so need to be pleased.

The invisible dream that I'm having has possessed me, invisible because there are no visions, not even images, yet I'm in it, naked as always, and the object of someone's desire. Maybe it is the dream that desires me, calling me back to my bed where it can ravage me.

Excuse me while I get more comfortable …

I had to take my jeans off. There, the bare skin of my legs, surprisingly soft for the amount I punish them. I can't see what has given my legs so much attention today. They look normal, yet I feel that dream, as though I was sitting in chocolate pudding. (It has to be chocolate.) And it softly vibrates, pulsating from the waist down and thoroughly distracting from the waist up.

I'm dreaming again, an imageless dream, a black photograph, but something stirs in the darkness, pleasing to this moonchild, this waterbaby. My darkness is clear and light, as bright to me as day, and it calls to me.

The darkness plays with my spirit, a sensual game, that's it! That's my distraction, my dream, being taken, being loved by the night, my day, my moon, swimming in the pool of my life. My dreams are obsessed with sex and the darkness has been trying to include me, to please me, to love me, to make three.

Sleep is calling me, to come out to play, so I must go. I'm in the mood, and I think my nightdress will remain lonely on its hook tonight.

Dream, take me. I'm free.


23. lowercase


NUDITY by junges idiotisches herz

it's raining tonight and i'm feeling decidedly lowercase and period-free, not punctuation-free, but maybe i'll be there by the time i'm finished with this, a very slow stream, slow motion, slow time, maybe even super slo-mo, i'm on a roll, but it's almost uphill, like that place in canada where cars defy gravity, i'm defying gravity myself, it would have me in bed now, in bed alone (again), but i’m up decanting my thoughts for you, my loyal followers, my lovers, yes, you are my lovers and it is my job to seduce you with my words, to keep you reading long enough to grasp my point, or even until I find one, caressing my keyboard, tapping softly, lightly, lovingly, perhaps whispering into your ear – i want you – yes, that's it, but i don't even have to say it, i'd just blow gently, enough to give you goosebumps, do your nipples firm when you get goosebumps, mine do, and they are, just thinking about it, and thinking about you, maybe i'd breath on the back of your neck, warm and inviting, because that is what seduction is, inviting you into my world, into my life, into me, if you're lucky, into my clothes,

i got caught in the rain watching my friend's team lose a cricket match, now that's a boring game, i don't know what he sees in it, but as long as i see him, that's enough for me, especially seeing him drenched in his cricket whites, and i would say he reminds me of you, but it's you that reminds me of him, someone who i wish was close to me now, taking advantage of my unbuttoned nightdress, i was feeling too lowercase to bother, i'd have him drooling, perhaps panting, and i'd let out a sigh, just so, ahhhh, and he'd know that i wanted him, i need to feel wanted, do you want me, i'd like you to, do you feel me, my smooth runner's thighs and firm tummy, oh, and you finally noticed, no panties, i just got too into writing that i never got around to putting them on, it's cold and wet outside, but inside it's hot, and as i write it's getting a little of the other too because that’s what writing does to me a natural aphrodisiac and i've lost the ability to use commas because it's gotten to me i should really be sitting on a towel but i can still find my apostrophes well maybe i cant they are gone now like my inhibitions and you better whatch aut or i mite forget how to selpl and taht mgith gt hrd 2 reed cuz im getting 2 in2 it in2 you luver the surrogate object of my desire im sighing again just 4 u and i kan reely spell butt my body is has other things on its mind if a mans brain is in his penis where is a womans in her heart no mines a little lower than that and it is thinking of you, you with me, you on me, you in me – oh, the punctuation is back, because i'm on mine, lowercase, waiting for you to get uppercase


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).


13. Voyeur


The Unsuspecting Victim by rekha_is_batman

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.