WOMAN.

Exotic, hypnotic, erotic.

She could be a drink at the bar.

Illusion, confusion, delusion.

She could be a rising star.

Spine-tingling, blood-curdling, bone-chilling.

She could be a crime scene’s fashion.

Mysterious, nefarious, delirious.

She could be a want-to-be writer’s passion.

Mesmerizing, fantasizing, hypnotizing.

She could be an old style romanticist.

Haunted, undaunted, yet flaunted.

She could be on a best seller list.

Loquacious, flirtatious, so gracious.

She could be in your dreams tonight.

Young, unsung, high-strung.

She could be wings without flight.

Perception, deception, conception.

She could be a million more things.

Cause she is a real being

with thoughts, and ideas, and dreams…

She is WOMAN.

 

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Bacon Roses

I am extraneous in your life.
Expendable.
An unnecessary evil.
A useless appendage.
I am bacon roses to be consumed and, thus, forgotten.
I am a mullet.
I can be expelled.
Radically.
Without cause or provocation.
Simply because I do not belong to the equation.
I am rapidly becoming rainwater when you have a built-in sprinkler system.Image

Mental Mind Fuck

The smell of rotting, putrid flesh flared her nostrils as she stepped unnoticed into the dimly lit room.  A television screamed from the corner, its face sullied with images of leather-clad girls fucking in a big, metal bird cage.  Only one word leaped into her mind.  Surrealism.  She inwardly laughed at the possibility of a video camera hidden in the sprinkler system, silently capturing this scene for some unnamed producer of perversion to jack off to later.  Shaking her head to clear away such unholy thoughts, she turned her attention back to the scene before her, and a tired sigh escaped from her lips, just another mental mind fuck in another day’s list of events.  Glancing at her watch, 4:43 am flashed up at her in a luminescent shade of green. 

Continuing her trek through the clutter of old magazines, boxes of pornographic movies, and dusty, tattered bric-a-brac from years long past, she turned her attention to the task at hand, yesterday’s dishes, piled on the counter in what seemed to be some bizarre game of chess.  Knight’s cup to Bishop’s plate, check.  Turning on the tap, she watched as the warm water poured over her hands, filling the sink with swirls of suds, silently creating order from the chaos. 

(NOTE:  I always meant to go back and finish this; it was actually a real minute that happened early one morning in my life a few years ago.)

The Shower Scene…

          She dragged the razor carefully over her exposed skin, her mons pubis soapy with suds and warm water from the steamy shower playing behind her.  The water cascaded down her back and over the ample cheeks of her ass, as she leaned slightly forward, the razor in her right hand, her left holding her labia flat and tight, so as not to nick the delicate area.  She imagined the intake of her lover’s breath when she saw the final results.
They wouldn’t see each other for three more weeks and, at the end of that time, the now-slick and smooth skin would be very faintly and finely covered with short curly, downy-soft hair, making her pussy feel smooth and soft.  And, every day, for the next three weeks, she would lotion her arms, legs, neck, hands, feet, and pubic regions, making her skin soft and pliable for her lover’s mouth, and hands.  Leaning back against the shower wall, she daydreamed about how good those hands and that mouth were going to feel on her smooth skin.
Stepping out of the shower, she dried off very carefully, in between her toes, the valleys between her legs, the warm places behind her knees, everywhere.  Picking up the cream oil lotion that she had bought for its moisturizing abilities, she began to massage her calves and her knees, working her way around her ankles.  She smiled to herself as she imagined her lover’s soft hands caressing her legs.
Applying more lotion to her hands, she rubbed her inner thighs and then her stomach, thinking about the first time her lover had kissed her stomach, and how surprised she had been by the action.  She allowed her hands to roam up her body, spreading the silkiness of the lotion even higher, around her back, around her sides, and finally up both arms and shoulders.  She thought about her lover’s mouth biting at her shoulders, and she smiled again.  Cupping her breasts, one in each hand, she rubbed the lotion over them, tweaking the nipples, and again thinking of her lover’s hot mouth on this body part as well.      

Still naked, she sat on a kitchen chair, straddling it backwards, and propped one foot at a time on a second chair, working the lotion through her toes, deeply massaging her feet, kneading the lotion into her skin.  She thought about how much fun her mouth was going to have with her lover’s feet, and she smiled again.
Finishing with the lotion, she reached down to feel the silky smoothness of her mons and found her lips were wide open, exposed, in this position, and she couldn’t help but to push her left middle finger inside of the awaiting wetness.  Her right hand had found her clit at the same time, and she moaned as her eyes closed slightly at the sudden feelings stirring in her stomach and below.  She was still in the kitchen of the shared apartment, naked, and vulnerable.  What if her roomie came home unexpectedly, she thought, but her left hand continuing the gentle thrusting, and her eyes closed again as her head tilted backwards and her right hand circled her clit harder.

(Should I go on or have you had enough?)

Wanted:

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Who I’m looking for –

I want a seamstress.  Someone to sew my heart into new positions, and mend my aching arms.

I want a chef.  Someone to simmer my juices, and slow-bake my soul.

I want a mechanic, too.  Someone good at fixing my lips into a smile, and welding my body into new shapes.

I want an Einstein who got dropped on her head, i.e., someone who isn’t afraid to laugh and smile, and yet someone who is intelligent.

I want an undercover operative who can decipher my smile and then slip unseen into my heart, leaving my senses reeling with only a vague remembrance of what was before.
Are you who I want?

Who I am

I am an explorer, and I will delve into all the dark recesses of the jungles of your mind, searching for whatever undiscovered treasure lies within you.

I am a sailor, and I will navigate through your storms as well as through the smooth open waters that define you.

I am a fast-moving northbound train, because you won’t see me coming when I burst into your heart, forever shattering your preset notions of ‘how life is supposed to be’.

I am a challenger variety puzzle book, and just when you think you have me figured out, you won’t be even able to find the page I’m already on.

I am a bag of potent potpourri, disturbing your senses, leaving you heady and slightly dizzy.
Am I who you’re looking for?

Please Excuse The Mess

I crumble to pieces in front of myself.
Discarded.
Unwanted.
Unloved.
Not enough, never enough.  NEVER ENOUGH.
Emotions flowing through me like hot lava, 
scalding my soul,
searing my skin,
ripping the flesh from my bones.
Fold me in little shapes.
Origami me.  Fly me across the room.
Make me worthy of something.
Struggling to breathe, gasping,
awash in a sea of tears,
drowning in my infinite sorrow
that no one can see,
no one can feel,
and no one wants to know about.
Unfold me, smooth out the creases,
breathe life into me,
set me on fire,
MAKE ME FEEL SOMETHING.
Fucking menopause.  Mental pause.  Men will pause.
I wish I had claws,
to rip out my own heart,
chew on it awhile,
and then throw it to the dogs.
Eat me. 
Please excuse me while I laugh insanely.
Thus said The Scarecrow quite profanely.Image

Snow Day

If I had a pair of giant scissors, I’d use them to cut a huge marshmallow square of clouds and sky from a summer sunny Florida day and then I’d roll it up, with the full enclosure of its breezy warmth and southern smells still intact, and seal it in a giant jar, and tuck it away carefully in the back of my closet.

If I had a giant rake, I’d use it to collect a fresh morning wave of pure sea foam while the tide is still rolling in, and then spread it out to dry in the hot summer Florida sunshine. And then I’d carefully spread an overflowing bucket of your kisses evenly over it to sweeten it, as only your kisses could. And then I’d cut it into tiny heart-shaped squares of chewy, spongy salt-water taffy, faintly reminiscent of your lips. And then I’d seal those beautiful kiss-drenched candies in a giant jar, and tuck them away carefully in the back of my closet.

If I had a giant net, I’d use it to capture a million and one fluttering, flickering fireflies. And then I’d sit with them awhile, and charm them with stories of you and your sweet perfection. And then I’d seal those eager carriers of light in a giant jar, and tuck them away carefully in the back of my closet.

And, when the soft snow started to quietly fall in dancing flurries, on those long, moonless, cold winter nights in North Carolina, I’d dig through the back of my closet and take out my wonderful summer collection of giant jars and carefully unseal them.

Image

I’d take out the soft blanket of summer warmth and spread it on the cool ground beneath a giant weeping willow tree. I’d take out the jar of magical fireflies and set them out beside it at the base of the tree. And I’d take out the jar of salt-water kisses and hand feed you until I’d satisfied your sweet tooth. And then we could snuggle in and curl up, wrap ourselves in our giant comfy blanket of Florida warmth, and make slow passionate love by firefly light, keeping each other safe and warm until the early morning sunrise breaks over the ocean’s horizon.

It’s Love Like…

It’s love like, I swear I can feel my heart

swelling up and overflowing

just with the thought of never seeing her again,

and the love will leak out of my eyes.

It’s love like, her voice warms me,

cradles me, caresses me, holds me close,

even when it’s through the phone.

It’s love like, I find her totally fascinating

even if she’s talking about the most mundane thing you can imagine…

bread ties, or bar stools, or chicken feed…

it is still a conversation that will find me leaning in to it,

completely captivated and utterly enthralled.

It’s love like, just the touch of her arms around me

completely melts me,

and when I cry over the silliest things you can possibly imagine

she says, it’s okay.

It’s love like, she brought me home a coffee cup, that reminded me when we went on vacation

and I bawled like she’d bought me a diamond ring,

because, to me, it said,

she was thinking of me when she saw this cup and of our weekend together,

and she wanted to share that moment in time with me.

Honey Love.

  Waking up this morning, I find my hands are tied together above my head.  I strain to see where you are for surely it must be you who has bound me so.  I can hear you in another part of the house, and I wonder what devilment you are up to out of my line of sight.  I hear the tea kettle begin to whistle and I sag a little in the restraints for I know now, or at least I suspect, what your wonderful mind has been dreaming up.  I am suddenly aware that my ankles are tied also and I realize that I am spread eagle on the bed, and in my birthday suit. 

      You appear in the doorway, leaning nonchalantly against the frame, with nothing on but a smile and your boots.  I love your boots and have from the first moment you appeared in them in my driveway.  I love the sound of you walking in them, that hollow click of heels on pavement or wooden floors and the echoes they make in the cool evening air.  I love how confidently you stride in them, how suddenly more erect your stature becomes when you are wearing them.  When you first told me that you wore cowboy boots, I remember smirking, finding this inwardly mildly amusing…well, that is until you showed up in them, and forever smeared my faint smirk into a huge smile of delight and awe.  It takes a certain woman, a strong, independent, confident woman to wear cowboy boots and you certainly wear them well and you certainly do them justice.  You have definitely shattered every illusion slash misconception that I ever had about ‘cowboy boots’. 

      I am jolted back to the present as you clear your throat and take a sip of your hot Earl Grey.  My mind is already imagining how hot your mouth is going to be and I wonder where you will place the first lick. 

      You are watching me with amusement, I can see this in the twinkle of your eyes, as you survey me, tied to the bed, waiting for you.  And I wonder what you are thinking as your eyes drink me in.  I know how you love to tease me so I am certain you are thinking of something delicious to do to me, knowing that I cannot get free to stop you…not that I would stop you anyway, for I love the delightful ways you tease me, even though I may say I don’t.  There is something in the way your eyes penetrate me that always makes me blush, always arouses me, and always makes my heart skip a beat.  You have a look that can strip away my clothes, even when we are sitting in public, and I simply adore that look and the prickly heat tingles it gives me, down there

      No words have passed between us this morning, and sometimes I feel, if there were never words, we would still communicate volumes for we seem to know each other’s mind at times.  You disappear from the doorway and I hear you in the kitchen again.  ‘What are you up to, my love‘, I find myself wondering.  You suddenly appear again, this time holding something behind your back and I find myself a little anxious…the not-knowing is causing those tingles to resurface between my legs and I feel my nipples starting to perk up and harden as well.  I test my restraints but you have definitely thoroughly tied me and there is no moving beyond an inch or two.  You have noticed my brief struggle and I get a sharp warning look from your eyes, which have become a little darker than their usual tiger’s eye gold.  I know not to go too far in my struggles, for I have no wish to incur your ire.

      You have turned your back to me and I cannot see what you are doing but I see your muscles bulge a little in your arms and my mind begins racing.  I hear the sound of a jar lid being released with a little ‘pop’ and I wonder what you have in your hands.  You turn around and I can plainly see that you are holding a jar of honey in a kitchen towel.  You dip your finger into the jar and rub your fingertip across my lips, looking into my eyes intensely, even a little expectantly, as you do so.  I am instantly aware that the honey is very warm and I can see now what you were up to, warming the honey in a bowl of hot water…very clever.  Expecting drops of warm honey to fall onto my nipples, I raise my back up off of the bed, straining toward you, but you have other thoughts on your mind apparently. 

      Instead of dripping the warm honey onto my upraised breasts, you drizzle it instead across your chest and a gasp escapes from my throat.  You have indeed surprised me and I watch as you tease me, tracing your fingers through the thick honey as I watch it run very slowly down your body, your hands easily scooping it back up, and caressing both breasts with handfuls of warm honey.  You have closed your eyes and thrown your head back, thoroughly enjoying the show you are putting on for me.  I can hear you starting to moan a little as you rub the warm honey all over your breasts and stomach and along your clavicles.  I can see your fingers tweaking your nipples and I can only imagine how good that feels.  Little moans are coming out of your throat and I find my own breathing becoming even more erratic as I try to struggle to get to you, a feat I cannot accomplish although you are only inches out of my reach.

      You lean over me and place your right breast in my mouth and I start sucking on you like some kind of crazed madman, wanting you so bad, that I have to force myself to slow down and not bite at you too hard.  You pull back slightly so that your nipple almost pops out of my mouth and then you brush your nipple across my lips, teasing me, keeping it just out of reach, just far enough away that I am straining to lick at you.  You then offer me your left breast, just enough so that I can lick the honey but not enough to pull you into my mouth.  Your eyes warn me to go easy and I find myself staring into those eyes while my tongue darts across your honey-covered nipple, feeling it growing even harder until the gentle playful tease of my tongue.  You then rub your breasts and your nipples across my face, teasing me further, smearing my face with honey in the process.  You lean down and lick my cheek and I strain toward you to try and capture your mouth to kiss you but you pull back, again silently warning me with your eyes to remain still.  It is sweet torture to lie still while you lick the honey from my face.

      Tilting the honey jar up, you pour the rest of the warm honey down the front of you, watching my face while you do so.  You love seeing me squirm and, oh boy, am I squirming, straining to get to you, wanting you in my mouth more and more with each passing second.  When you have emptied the jar and the thick warm honey is oozing down your front, you lie on top of me and rub your body all over me, coating me as well.  And then you begin to kiss me, softly, gently, and then harder as I want you more and more.  The passion continues to intensify between us as you slip between my legs and begin to grind your hips into me while you rub my breasts with your honey-covered hands, pinching my nipples gently, feeling me arching toward you, as you fuck me harder and harder.

     I feel you untying my hands, and instantly I am pulling you close to my body, holding onto you tightly, loving the feeling of the warm honey sticking us together.  You begin to kiss my neck, licking the honey from my skin.  I am already licking your clavicles, nibbling at your skin, wanting you in my mouth.  I love the way you grind into me, making me feel you so deep inside of me.  You lock eyes with me, smiling, and I feel the intense love between us. 

      Almost two hours have passed since I awoke tied up in bed and yet, not one word has been spoken by either of us at this point.  Your eyes, though, speak to me.  My hands find their way to your hair and I am pulling you to me, pulling your mouth to my breasts, wanting to feel that warmth around my sticky nipples and you silently concede, licking me at first, nipping at my skin with your teeth, and then sucking me into your mouth, your tongue driving me mad with desire, and I hear a cry erupt from my throat that sounds half-animal and I know you are pushing me toward the edge once again.  You begin to buck against me faster, driving your hips into me harder, and I feel myself losing control in your arms.

      I collapse under your body, convulsing wildly against you, while you hold me tightly to your chest, murmuring Iloveyou’s into my neck, your lips tickling my skin.  You move down my body even though you have to pry yourself from my arms as I don’t want you to move, but you are only freeing my ankles, which I had forgotten were still tied.  You rub the creases made by the ties, and my struggle against them.  I feel the skin tingling in my ankles now, where they had “went to sleep”, and I feel you kissing my ankles, then moving back up my body, kissing me on the lips and then you speak the first words of the day, telling me how sorry you are about my ankles, but I am instantly shushing you with kisses, for I regret not one second of our morning’s sweet pleasures…

And then some…

I’m starting to believe the lies I feed myself.

I’m starting to paint my room with normal trappings,

making my surroundings mine,

imposing structure and routine,

when a part of me wants to run screaming away from here,

knowing deep in my heart,

she is just scared,

afraid to let go of what she imagines to be security,

afraid to completely embrace

what she has spent her entire life watching happen around her –

people come and go and let you down when you need them the most.

I get it but just because I understand it, doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

I am just as good as any man,

and then some.