A Blogovella by Ezzie Dryar (Anne Martin)

Posts tagged “stream of consciousness

30. fidgit


Photo by Engin Akyurt from Pexels

I've been bad, very bad, and not naughty, as I was prone to being, long ago, well, a couple of years, when I was a writer (one perhaps never stops being a writer, even when one stops writing), but not writing is bad, and if I had any inspiration, that would have awoken me from my doldrums, in the humdrum, bass drum rimshot existence of relocating to a non-foreign, foreign country, to my old country from the old country, forcing myself to look back – look back like I don't allow myself to do when I'm writing one of my streams, wading through my dreams, hoping to find something to stir the deep inner recesses of my obsessions, today writing a thirty sentence story in only a single verbal gush so rabid that at some point you may lose the will to live in your search for a full-stop or a period as we Americans call it, although I hesitate even to allow you a comma or a dash while you dive head first into the mush that I call my consciousness but you might rather think of as unconsciousness or perhaps you are already heading to lalalandwherenospaceslive and where my brain has become a slippery goo that – well, yes, you might not call it a brain – some would agree with you, but not the organization who has calculated my IQ, which is microscopic, in its inversion, while my self is in revision, or perhaps reversion to my old sensual ways – yes, you thought I might never get there – but if you are delving into my consciousness, you are likely to slip into my sub-conscious (if you aren't unconscious already) where that stuff lives, where my soul breathes fire and water simultaneously in the simulacrum of similarity of the sensual to the sexual that lives only an atom's width from the surface of my identity, my being, and my soul, which is probably not all that far from my being or my beginning, or my benign personality, which on a good day has trouble stringing a lucid sentence together.


27. Packing peanuts and skinny-dipping

person feet dipping on pool

Photo by Nadine Wieser on Pexels.com

i am naked, well almost, i haven't removed my panties, yet – yet, mind you, but they will come off soon, because the heat is stifling here and in the uk air conditioning is almost unheard of in private homes like mine, private like me, although when i pour out my soul into streams like this – ah, a nice cool stream – it's distracting me now, skinny dipping, yes, that is what i'd like to be doing instead of sitting here with my hot laptop sticking to my sweaty thighs, not sweaty for doing anything particularly fun, but moist in this airless room, even with the windows open – having them open only helps when there is a wind – i imagine you blowing on me – not as good as a stream, but better than what i'm in – maybe a cool drink, lemonade, an ice cold pepsi, even a glass of water, i need it, but not until i finish my stream, no periods allowed as usual, and no caps this time, i'm lowercase today, wishing i had someone uppercase lying next to me, well, not too close, but maybe we could blow on each other – i know i'm fickle, but if i can't have you, i can resort to fantasizing about my friend again, if he were only here, i would blow a cool stream of air on his uppercase bit, you know what i mean – he'd like that, perhaps too much, and it would get even hotter and sweatier here, but you know – sometimes it is worth it, even more than that ice cold drink that i will taste as soon as i finish this mess, yes, an unfocused sweaty mess, an untold fantasy, untold you wonder, because i only told you that there was a fantasy, or the potential of one here, and i'm thinking of it now, and although it includes my friend, some ice water and a ceiling fan, you don't know what we will do with the bags of packing peanuts – did you know that some packing peanuts are water soluble – but that isn't a hint – what do you think, should i remove my panties before or after i go pour that drink – that can be your fantasy for tonight

26. Blonde again

adult attractive beanie beautiful

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Sometimes I sit in an empty room with the heat turned up. It helps me relax my aging joints in the dead of winter. I can't stay long, as the light sweat that my body generates means my bum sticks to the varnished floor. I would have brought a mat to sit on, but that ruins the purity of the room, featureless, save for an uncurtained window that overlooks fields to the north.

I leave the light off, so I can gaze out the window anonymously at the silvery moonlight on the frosty grass. If the moon is full, there is sometimes enough light to read my cards. Mostly, I just sit there and be me. Tonight, it is dark, so I left my cards in the bedroom.

Sitting alone in this room, I leave the frozen outside world out there, listening in the silence for the soft beat of my heart. There it is, nice and slow, the pace of an athlete. Leaving my eyes open, I imagine a glow around me, red tonight, for the fire that is ready to burst from me, the fire of passion, or lust, perhaps.

I became a blonde again today, because they have more fun, and I want a part of it. I've been sitting alone on my own too much lately, as it's been too cold to go out, even on my morning runs. Ordinarily, the cold doesn't stop me, but lately it has been wet, too, and as much as I would like to, I can't run on ice. Now we have three inches of snow on the ground. Poop!

Rather … poof! I'm a blonde. Now all the men desire me, and that's what the red glow is for. It's me filling my room with desire until I reach critical mass. I'm calling to them – to you, and you are coming. I can feel it in my centre, molten. I have enough for everyone. Come to me now, and we will share. The walls aren't a barrier tonight, only to keep the cold out. It's Bermuda inside, and I'm here waiting in the centre of my triangle. The room may look square, but I have become the Bermuda Triangle, summoning those I desire, and those who secretly desire me – more, now that I am a blonde again, the spider in her web wanting, waiting.

You are here. You float through my web like a soft breeze, and you are caught, caught in my triangle, my web, my aura. Yes, you are here, and I feel your desire, your need. I'm a blonde-bombshell ready to explode for you because my need is greater, and I must devour you, so you may be reborn, fulfilled. The walls glow like lava now, and I dare not go near the window, lest the neighbours see my naked body. I will stand in the centre for you, still visible, but they will have to work for it, earn it.

I breathe you in, cool, but I will warm you – yes, you are warmed within my womb, your desire entwined in mine, the fuse burning, searching for the powder keg. You are the sweat between my breasts, dripping down, down, towards my red fire, and in it you come to life with white-hot energy, burning off impurities. We are one, liquid gold beyond price, too hot to touch, a puddle searing my varnished floor, and you are freed, spotless, as I wait for the next, for I am blonde, desirous to all and insatiable.

My fuse still burns.

25. Today, tonight

Like the moon by solea

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

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

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!