I haven't written a stream in a while, a stream where I bare my soul, maybe my virtual body, too, what I'm thinking, what I shouldn't be thinking, and possibly shouldn't be writing, about sex, my mojo, what moves me, what makes my body tingle and keeps me up at night if I'm not getting it, or even if I am, since it is always on my brain, eating away at my concentration, keeping me from fully commiting to whatever I'm doing, be it work or shopping or playing my horn, that's the only thing that can grab my focus, since I sound like shit if I'm not giving it my all – that is what possesses me today – giving my all, doing everything in such a way that I can't fault myself later, like streaming, not allowing myself to stop or go back, living in the moment, without a pause for thought or even to finish a sentence – I bet you are about to keel over, since I haven't stopped to take a breath, changing directions without transition, transitioning without changing directions, on and on, but it's an exercise in focus, keeping going, getting a little lightheaded with anticipation of what might come out, giving everything I have for you dear reader, stripping down to nothing, letting you feel that tingle, that breathlessness, a dizzy mix of my deepest desires, the desire to be loved, to give love, to give it completely with my entire being, and to be loved in return the same way, the heady, giddy height of new love, lasting love, all-consuming love, and with it a desire to please and be pleased – am I pleasing you – I'd take off my sweatshirt for you, but it's really cold in my house right now, and just moving my fingers on this keyboard helps to keep them warm and my mind on – I was going to say writing, but my mind isn't there, it's where it always is, on sex, the warm feeling between my legs that you, yes, you dear reader give me when you read my writing, it keeps me warm even in this cold room on a day the thermometer plummeted, well, I shouldn't say it that way, if the thermometer plummeted, it would probably be broken (like my heart) and unreadable – the temperature plummeted – but my heart is still broken, as it has been for quite some time now, and today, in my usual holiday introspective mood, am writing about it, maybe boring you with it – can't this woman write about anything else, you ask, but I feel it everyday, it makes me what I am and feeds my desire to create, to make something out of myself, to gurgitate it onto my computer screen, not regurgitate, since I haven't yet gurgitated it, until now, so I guess I'm regurgitating, but I'm giving it all, as I always do for you, and it's having its desired effect, it's warmth radiating out from my centre, warming my body, my soul, making me ready for you, your love, maybe it isn't a physical love for me that you have, or a physical desire – no, the desire is physical, you can't get around that – you want me to turn you on with my sexy words, my breathless yearning monologue, hoping to turn it into a dialogue, and I hope you are loving it, because I'm loving you, as you creep into my fantasy, my virtual clothes – I can feel you there – there is always room for you, your hot seething flesh up against mine, adding to my warmth, maybe excess warmth now, as my sweatshirt is doing what it is designed for, to soak up sweat, the sweat that dribbles between my breasts – I didn't bother to put on a bra today (it's a lowercase day) – but my panties are getting moist waiting for you to pull them off, that might have explained why my legs were cold, since I neglected to progress past panties when I dressed this morning, I'd put something on, but I've got you now to keep me warm, inside and out – do you mind – I'm using you again, using you to fuel my fantasies – it doesn't matter what you look like, or feel like, or sound like, since you are a God to me, one who keeps me, who pleases me, and I've created you in my own image – well, a compatible image – an image that fires the coals of my being, that makes me lightheaded, gasping for precious air, seething with desire, want, giving my soul to do what you will with, giving myself in fantasy, so I can be the partner of your dreams, fulfilling you as you complete me, all of me, all, all, kiss me before you leave, and lock the door on your way out, I'm spent
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.
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
There are times when I like being in between, between the sheets, a lover's arms, legs, between orgasms, yes, that's my favourite as long as it's only a few hours – not days or years – the feeling of satisfaction meets the anticipation of more satisfaction, love is never deeper than in that interregnum, physical love maybe, but there are no doubts, no “What ifs” – he just did and is about to do it again, that is the rawest form of love;
between lovers implies that you are going to find a new love, yet as we all know, that is when the pain is greatest because we don't know IF we will find that new one – I've waited a long time; it seems like forever, for I've met my one true love and rejected him, unforgivably and certainly rashly, and I can't take it back – that love is broken, like my first Barbie with the “growable” hair that “grew” too long, leaving her bald, not even like a fuzzy peach, just hard plastic and an empty hole, empty like my heart, like my brain when I pulled on Barbie's hair or when I chucked my love, not the feeling of empowerment of when I chucked my husband, he knew that my love for him wasn't as deep as it should have been, so he found another, a younger model, someone who sweat on him rather than out on a 6 am run,
running has its in betweens, too, you are always in between, between start and finish, between runs, between injuries, between new shoes; they say I should replace them every 300 miles, that's every couple of months and they still look good, except that they don't cushion as well as they used to; replacing them regularly keeps me between injuries, like my pulled calf muscle last autumn, that's my regular ache, as well as the occasional achilles soreness – my running keeps me thin and ready for a wild night in bed, if that ever comes – I last longer, well, I take longer, too, because exercise suppresses my hormones – that's OK because I love the tussle, the satisfaction of surviving a marathon, having to wash the sheets after a sleepless night, sheets with the sweet smell of love and sweat, a well-earned ecstasy and hyper-relaxation – I run fastest after sex – I don't know why, I assume it's the relaxation and possibly an adrenaline high;
I've been between jobs, you could say that I'm between marriages, but that assumes (wrongly) that I will marry again, I'm between novels, paralyzed between two that I can't ever decide which to work on, between poems, this was supposed to be one, but I let my mind unravel, pouring out the first stream for you in a long while, but as soon as I'm done, I'll be on an island between streams again, in limbo doing in the mambo (just wanted to use that line!), which is better than being in mambo doing the limbo or the samba in a mambo bikini (I'll post the picture for you, although she isn't dancing in it) – I like the easy release ties, for when you'd rather swim (or dance?) au naturale, or maybe something else, yes, I'll take that something else instead, because I want to be back in between, the short in between, the interregnum.
I went from having a weird semi-writer's block last week to having a complete full-blown lack of inspiration. Did you notice the complete stop (not to mention the period) at the end of that sentence? I was hoping that writing about it would free me up, but so far that hasn't happened. That it started when I joined The Black Seals is pure coincidence, I hope. I haven't really posted anything new there, since I was hoping I'd concentrate on my novels once that area is set up. There again, please was meant to be posted there, but I decided to duplicate post both there and here, just so I could get some more reviews. Nobody has reviewed it there yet – sometimes I wonder if people are afraid to review me because I've started getting a little more brutal with the reviews I give – all well meaning and nice, but I've just become a little less tolerant of poor work. It's partly to do with the fact that I've become disappointed with the quality of the reviews here, and decided to start bringing up the level on my own. Not a single person has noticed that the poem was a chain of haiku! There are a lot of kiddies around here now, and I'm not going to stoop to their level. This is an adult site, so I'm going to treat everyone like an adult.
So this has become a fucking rant. I don't like swearing, but sometimes that's what it takes. (I also wanted this to fall distinctly into adult writing. Gotta have the obligatory fuck. It's all the rage now.)
Sometimes it takes talking about sex. (You knew that was coming, didn't you?) I was poking around Flickr for some avatar pictures for future work and possibly some inspiration. I thought maybe it was time to find some artistic male bodies. I was so disappointed. Everyone thinks that all we want are muscles and maybe a peek at genital hair. Well, I'm not into muscle, frankly. (I guess that might explain why most of the avatars I post are women. They are meant to represent my main character, which is often some vestige of me.) I've decided that I like light, shade, character, and innuendo. Rarely do male nude portraits have any of that. They are all about showing his body. I want to know what is inside, to see character in his eyes, to feel his heart, to touch his soul. So many of them cut off him off at his nose. There is character elsewhere, but I wouldn't expect to find any in his six-pack.
Where does that leave me? Back where I started, looking for character, for inspiration, for hope – hope that I'll kick this funk.
Maybe I should blame it on my bee-sting. Last week, I got stung while I was running. I had to stop for a barking Scoobie-Doo who had taken far too much interest in me for my safety. Moments after his owner had him under control, I felt a sharp pain in my shin. I assume that it was a bee. If it had been an adder, there would have been fang marks, and I'd probably be in the hospital now. (Yes, there are adders in the wood in which I run.) Anyway, by the time I finished my run (4 miles later), it had swollen, and I was getting pins-and-needles type pain all over my shin. I kept an eye on it for the next 2 days before it was back to normal.
I guess I'm normal now – for me at least – except that the bee has sucked my soul out of me. I want it back.
(reprinted from WritersCafe.org from 2008)
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!
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.)