strumpet (2)

well, here you have it.  part two of the story i started last week.  i’m not sure if it lives, or even matches, up to part one, but perhaps you’ll be kind enough to let me know in the comments…?

***

She led him, dazed and unsure, around the back of the club, to the performers’ entrance.  Upon reaching the door, he regained a little of his composure, and baulked at the crossing of the threshold.

She turned, a question in her eyes.

“I really don’t  think I should go in there, ma’am…”

“Oh, nonsense!  And my name is not ma’am.  It’s Rosalie.  And your name can be Daniel…”  Winking, she pulled him over the threshold, and into the lions’ den.

Inside, it was warm and close.  He could hear the faint pulse of music through walls and ceilings as she led him through corridors and rooms, deep into the heart of the club’s backstage.

As she towed him along by his hand, she chatted about the history of the old theatre, and what a good thing it was, since there was loads of room, and the dressing rooms were quite spacious.  Pulling him through a final door, she closed it behind him, and deposited him on a heavily brocaded chair.

“Here we are, Daniel!  Home sweet home.  Phew!  It’s warm in here! Now…  kettle…”  as she bustled off to find the kettle, she removed her coat and threw it over a chaise longue in the corner of the room.  Lifting his eyes from the coat to the racks of clothing around the room, he blushed furiously, and dropped his eyes to study the toes of his soaking boots.  Much as he tried, he couldn’t clear from his mind the wisps of lace, the satin, the tassels, the beading—winking at him in the light of the makeup mirror.  He was still trying to ignore the way her perfume seemed to twine around his senses and stroke him in places he dared not think of when she placed a warm mug between his still chilly hands.

It felt so good.  Instantly, thaw began to creep up his hands, wrists, arms.  As it began to flow  across his shoulders and down his torso, he looked up.  His attempt to thank her failed, as the green of her irises momentarily filled his world.  Blinking and clearing his throat, his second attempt at thanks was successful, if a little croaky.

“Aw, honey – that’s ok.  I couldn’t just leave you out there, now could I…?”  Smiling softly, she brushed a lock of hair away from where it had fallen against his forehead., and moved her hand around to cup his chin.  “Now, then – let’s get you out of those wet things before you freeze to death, h’m…?”

His eyes widened in panic, as he scooted backward into the chair, yelping as tea splashed over the back of his hand.  “D… don’t you touch me!”

Rosalie merely giggled.  “Oh, Daniel, honey—I’m not trying to hurt you.  I’m just trying to look after you.  That’s all.  Trying to give you a little care and attention.  I can tell what a good boy you are – I’m sure your momma’s very proud of the way she raised you.  And it’s just so sweet of y’all to come here and try to save our souls!  So I’m just returning the favour.   Now, how ’bout you go on behind that screen and get changed into that nice, warm, fluffy robe that’s hanging over the radiator back there, and put your clothes out to dry, h’m?”

Daniel remained pressed back in his seat, legs half drawn up, tea dripping on to one thigh as his hand trembled, very slightly.

“Now come on, sweetheart – I promise that I won’t hurt you.  Just…”  Here she leant forward very slowly and carefully, reaching for his face.   This had the effect, intended or not, of distraction.  For, as she leant forward, his bulging eyes fixed on the collar of her blouse.  Where it had fallen open very slightly, there was a suggestion of shadowed softness.  A movement of subtle ripeness that, will he or nil he, focussed that helpless young man’s senses on that one spot.  This allowed Rosalie to stroke his cheek soothingly with one hand, whilst removing the mug and setting it aside with the other.

Her gentle voice broke through his fixation.  “Daniel.  Daniel, honey.”

“Hmmm…?”  He raised mesmerised eyes from where they had snagged on her décolletage, only for them to be drawn to the exquisite curve of her half-smile.

Taking hold of his wrist, Rosalie drew him up and forward.  Rising obediently, he allowed himself to be steered towards an oriental dressing screen in the corner of the room.  Once there, he dreamily peeled off his sodden coat, shirt and trousers.  Draping them carefully over the radiator in place of the robe, he then enveloped himself in it and the ghost of her perfume that clung to the towelling and dislodged with his movement.  Wrapping it tightly around himself, he relaxed into the situation.  Surely this beautiful stranger was just a good Samaritan in the guise of a…  a…  he couldn’t bring himself to think the word.  She was obviously a good girl – her momma raised her to know the right things—she just…

In the midst of trying to resolve the dichotomy between what he had been taught and what was clearly in front of him, a wave of shyness engulfed him, and he peeped around the edge of the screen, hoping she might have her back turned so he could sneak out and huddle himself into a chair without her seeing.

She had her back turned, all right.  Whilst Daniel had been changing, so had Rosalie.  Into her show costume.  As he peeped around the corner, she had her foot up on the chair he had recently vacated, and was fastening the ankle strap of the highest, most glittering pair of stiletto shoes he’d ever seen.  Also glittering was the suspender belt and brassier she was wearing.  But all of this paled into insignificance, a mere sparkling frame, to the glory of her outthrust buttocks.  She was humming quietly to herself, and her delectable posterior making tiny twitches and wiggles.  Had Daniel been in full possession of his faculties, and not poleaxed by the twin forces of desire and shame (not to mention his own personal pole, rapidly making its presence uncomfortably felt), he would have realised that she was mentally rehearsing her routine for later in the evening.  As it was, though, all thought fled.  His entire capacity for rationality temporarily blocked by those full, smooth globes of delicious-looking flesh.  Hs mind was suddenly full of images – licking and sucking and biting and nibbling, and…

He let out a sound which, if it were written, would probably be spelled, “Meep”.

Hearing this, Rosalie straightened and turned, further discomfiting poor Daniel.  He almost saw the undulations of her graceful movement in slow motion, as her back straightened (with a slight arch), and her torso twisted, bringing into view Rosalie’s pillowy and upthrust bosom.

She smiled.  “All done?”

A mute nod was all he was capable of.

Satisfied, she marched over to the screen, grabbed his hand, and drew him forward, sitting him in the chair that had so recently borne her foot and…  Imagining the view he could have had from here seconds before was his undoing.  His erection surged, and he groaned, folding forward to hide his shame from this helpful and, yes, beautiful young woman.

However, Rosalie had other ideas.  Crouching before him, she took a firm hold of his chin and made him look at her.  “Daniel, honey, you look at me, now.  And you listen to me good.  I know why you’re all curled up like this.  You got an ache, right?”

The barest nod.

“And it ain’t no stomach ache?”

He dropped his eyes, this time, but gave his head a tiny shake, his face flaming.

“Well, honey, since I’ve been looking after you till now, and since this is something I know how to fix, why don’t y’all let me do you a good turn and help you out again, huh?”

Daniel was silent and still, at war with himself.  His body at war with his head.  His brain was screaming about sin and hellfire, whilst his body was screaming about throbbing aches, and fire and need.  Gradually, incrementally, finally and absolutely, his body won.  With a whisper of “Thank you” to Rosalie, his shoulders drooped in defeat.

“There’s a good boy,” she crooned, drawing his face to hers and kissing him gently on the lips.

Now she was so close, he could smell the notes underneath her perfume.  The notes that were purely and only Rosalie.  The summer afternoon smell of her stole his breath and filled his lungs, dizzying in its subtle complexity.  Opening his lips to the tip of her tongue, he added taste to smell.  Closing his eyes, he heard the rustle of satin and a sigh of desire as she pushed his body back on to the chair and kissed him deeply.  Helplessly, he waved his hands around, having no idea what to do with them, until he gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles going white as she lowered her hips to his and pressed his length between them.

In between kisses, she rolled her eye down to his hands death grip on the chair and giggled.  “Why don’t we find something else for you to hold, honey, huh?”  So saying, she knelt astride him on the seat of the chair, pried his fingers loose, and transferred his hands to her buttocks.

Giving him an arch look, she moved her hips in a figure of eight.  Daniel’s eyes flew open, and he whimpered, his fingers tightening on her buttocks.  His hips also gave an involuntary twitch.

Rosalie giggled again.  Leaning down so her lips brushed his ear, she whispered, “I think you need a little help here, honey.   Let me show you how it’s done.”  So saying, her hand slid between them and, with a couple of deft movements, slid both his robe and her panties aside, and laid the straining head of his cock against her lips.  “You feel that, honey?”

Daniel nodded.

“Hot, isn’t it?  And you still need some warming up.  So…”

Daniel made a noise between a groan and a whimper as Rosalie moved her hips and he disappeared inside her, inch by agonising inch.

 

***

 

Poor Daniel, like most green and untried young men, had little self-control.  Rosalie, however, was prepared for this, and so was not disappointed.  She regarded it as simply an hors d’oevre, and was content to wait a little.  She figured it wouldn’t be long coming.  Daniel had certainly whetted her appetite.  He may have been hasty, but he had a beautiful prick, and it reached all of the right places.  But first…

“Daniel, honey,” she whispered, nipping his earlobe to bring him back from his post-orgasm haze.

“Hmmm…?”  he turned dreamy eyes and beatific smile her way.

“I have to go work now, sweetheart.  Will you stay here, and wait for me to come back?”

He frowned.  In the back of his mind was a little voice telling him he probably shouldn’t.  “Well, gee…  I dunno, Rosalie, I mean…”

“Tell you what – why don’t you think about it whilst I’m gone?  And keep yourself warm whilst you do.  And maybe, when I come back, you can return the favour?  How would that be?”

 

She kissed him on the cheek, and left him to ponder.

 

 

Exhausted

exhausted Squeaky is exhausted

Dear reader, I pretty much fail.
The 15 minute writes are not happening as they should.  However, in my defence, this s mainly down to exhaustion. It is April. The  last time I had a break from work was December. And boy, am I feeling it. Especially after the Epic Training Session Of Doom yesterday. The content was extremely complex, and the impact it will have on myself and my colleagues is enormous. That,
along with a general rise in work pressure and a little stress at home (nothing vast, but it all adds up) and lack of a proper break means I’m pretty much mentally exhausted this week. It’s funny, but up until the beginning of last week, I was more-or-less keeping it together. Now? Not so much. But then I have next week off. It’s like my subconscious just let go of the ropes a week too early or something. Anyway – after the initial burst at the beginning of the month, my well is pretty much dry in the evenings. I am officially giving myself a break until Saturday. I refuse to beat myself up over it. Something has to give and, just now, it’s writing.
XXX

strumpet (1)

this is what’s come out of the last few days of the 15 minute write.

honesty, here – life’s been kicking my ass a little, this week.  nothing serious, there’s just a little bit of transitioning going on at home, and i’m in desperate need of a holiday.  well – at least in desperate need of just not having to go to work for a week.

anywhoo.

the upshot is that i’ve actually been saving up my 15 minutses, and have used a few days’ worth today.  but it’s like pulling teeth.

tell me now and tell me true, dear reader:  am i wasting my time on this one? (pleasepleaseplease tell me if you think i *am* wasting my time!  i’m totally ambivalent…)

*******************************************************************

He was warm.  Definitely.

Despite the rain and the bitter, icy wind, the strength of his righteousness protected him from the elements, surely sent to try him.  His fingers curled more tightly against the placard he held.  Knuckles whitening, he couldn’t feel the cold.

Nope.

Couldn’t feel the cold at all.  Couldn’t feel a gosh darned thing, as it happened.  But that was a blessing, right?  He was blessed that his fingers were so cold he could no longer feel them.  Counting his blessings helped take his mind from the icy trickle that had somehow found its way down between his neatly-cut hair and neatly-turned shirt collar.  Despite his neatly-fastened coat.  But, he reminded himself, he wasn’t here to be comfortable.  He and his fellow protestors were here at the encouragement of their pastor.  He, in particular was on a mission to confront and defeat his demons.

He’d gone to see Pastor Jones a few days ago, with a problem.  After much um-ing and ah-ing, and much beating about the bush (which thought made him blush, and grow warm with embarrassment), he had finally, much to the pastor’s relief, got to the point.  He had told the pastor that his thoughts, of late, had been occupied with things that were not…  pure.  His dreams had been populated by lewd images.  A glimpse of soft flesh gilded by sunshine and soft as a ripe peach had consumed his dreams for three nights in a row.  Each night, the glimpsed flesh had spread to fill his vision.  He had felt it brushing his face, his torso…and…Well…  here he had blushed more furiously than ever, before muttering about “elsewhere”.  He was a good boy.  He swore he was.  He loved his family and he loved his creator.  It was just that, lately, there seemed to be a demon taking ahold of his mind and thoughts, and…Well…um…  this time, he really had stopped.

The pastor had been grateful that the young man was staring at the floor.  It gave him time to compose his features into the correct fatherly expression, hiding the smile that threatened to spoil his image.  It also gave him time to stifle the tiny sigh of frustration at conservative parents, and how unrealistic and sometimes borderline cruel their morals could be on their blossoming youngsters.

So here he was.  Standing outside of a small club in the drizzling cold, holding a placard exhorting entrants to the club to think again about their immortal souls.  He was alone.  The handful of his congregation that had come with him to try and save a few sinners had given up one by one.  As the drizzle became more insidious, each had made their excuses and left.  But he could not.  He felt the more souls he saved, the more likely he was to be forgiven for his sinful thoughts.

He sighed.  Pastor Jones had tried to tell him that what he was feeling was natural, and a part of the way things should be, but he was not convinced.  Oh, no.  What he was thinking of was so shameful that he could not bring himself to admit it to the pastor.  Therefore, it couldn’t be natural, surely?  Not that.

Staring out into the halos around the streetlights, sunk in misery that he refused to admit, he was startled when his vision was clouded by red.  Auburn hair framing a porcelain face, and red lipstick framing the most delectable smile he’d ever…

Eyes screwed shut, he shook his head to clear it of this new demon-inspired vision.  When he opened his eyes and it was still there, he panicked slightly.

“Hello, honey, you look cold – are you all right?”  The concern was evident in her voice, and the tiny crease between perfectly-shaped brows.

He took in her warm, hooded coat, tall shiny boots, and the glow of her cheeks.  Felt even colder.  “I…  I’m fine, thank you.  The cold is momentary.  Just a distraction.  Here – have a leaflet.”  He tried to uncurl his fingers from the stem of his placard in order to peel off a sodden leaflet from the wedge o them held in his other hand.  They wouldn’t, so he thrust the lot towards her sheepishly, in the faint hope that she might take one.

“Ummm…  Ok…”  She reached a delicately-gloved hand out to the sodden lump, and peeled a corner up from the pile, which then came away in her fingers.  “Oops!  Oh, dear – looks like they’ve had it.”  She glanced up at his face, pale and pinched.  “Oh, honey – so do you!”  The crease between her brows grew a little deeper, and she bit her bottom lip in thought.  Her plump, succulent…

“I’m fine – really!” he squeaked, looking resolutely away.

“No.  No you’re not.” She countered, firmly.  “You can’t do the good work if you’re freezing to death, now, can you?  What kind of a way to treat this fine body you’ve been given is that, huh? Giving it the flu out of pride?”  She quirked a brow at him.

His eyes flew to her face.  “P…  Pride?”

“Yup.  My momma brought me up good, and I know all about the Seven Deadlies.  So why don’t y’all let me help you?”  Her lips curved upwards in encouragement.

As the smile reached her eyes, it made him want to do things to keep it on her face.  To keep that warmth coming his way on this frigid night.  “Well, I…  uh…”

“Why don’t you let me make you a cup of tea, honey, huh?  C’mon.  Come with me.”

Stupefied by the waft of her perfume as she leaned forward, he didn’t protest when she took the sodden wedge of leaflets and dropped them in a nearby bin.  He almost jumped out of his skin when the smooth, delicate leather of her gloves curled around his frozen fingers and levered them from the stem of his placard.  Leaning it against the wall, she tugged on his hand insistently, until he followed.

Lamblike.

hunger

 

…oh, dear…  this is what happens when I paint my fingernails scarlet…

blood drips from my fingertips and trickles from the corner of my mouth as i come to my senses.

what the fuck did i just do?

my vision widens and my senses return to my body in a stream.  i feel the burn and cramp where i have been kneeling for too long on the bloodsoaked sheets.  minute movements of muscles in my hands reveal a stickiness of surface that tells me it’s not just my fingertips that are bloody, but much of my hands, my arms.  my chest, too, feels warm/cold and sticky.  my vision is red, not just from the carmine of my bedroom’s decor, but the remains of what lies in front of me that have caused this.  against all odds, there is a flicker of movement.  a tiny groan invades the buzzing in my ears that is brought on by returning awareness.

“Lila…?”

i always loved the deeper end of the red spectrum – the scarlets, the brown-tinged and slightly rotten burgundies, purplish and vibrating hues that would draw me in and make my mouth water.  but i never understood why, until i met you.  you with your deep mahogany hair and eyes to match.  your skin so pale it flushed delightfully when i fucked you.  and it didn’t take me long to do that, either.

friends of friends of friends.  a bar deep in the warren of the old city, your scent smacked me in the face, then in the gut.  i know you felt it too.  it’s a cliche, but when our eyes locked, i almost heard the feral growl rumbling in your chest.  my core flipped, and i knew it wouldn’t be long before one of us had the other pinned against a wall, tearing at clothes with fingers and teeth.

in the end, it was mutual.  we barely said a word in the steam and cacophany of the bar, but we didn’t need to.  i don’t remember how we got from inside to outside, but the alley suited us perfectly.  there was no finesse, there was no seduction.  there didn’t need to be.  all there was was you, and me, and oceanic hunger.

now we are here, and i have awoken from my lust-induced trance to see your ravaged body lying before me.  deep gouges in the flesh of your shoulders, your chest. a chunk missing, here and there.  almost guiltily, i probe pressure points in between my teeth and confirm the ragged flesh caught there.  absentminded, i lick a trickle of blood–your precious blood–from the corner of my mouth.   i am swamped by your scent once again, and i almost come on the spot.  this is what you do to me, what you have made me.  i cannot get enough of you.  i bend to all fours and begin to prowl forward.

you stop me with a raised hand.

it’s dim in here.  candlelight gleams from your eyes gone black with low light and desire.

“Stop,Lila.”

i hesitate.  “S…Stop?  B…but….”  i groan in frustration.  lick the back of my hand.  “I can’t.  you can’t do this to me…please…  i need more…”

“No, Lila.  not yet.  i need to recover.  i need…  food…”

at once, my chagrin disappears, and a slow smile spreads across my gory features.  i feel tiny cracks appear where the sheen is so thin that it has already dried.  my pulse increases as you start to haul yourself upright, your expression matching mine.

your teeth gleam in the gloaming as you reach for me.

 

reflected gold

bright, white teeth shining down from above.  yellow feathers drawn slowly across the dips and whorls of a quiet body.  soft, gentle breath sighing in the rustling, sunshine silence of a summer afternoon. tiny sounds barely register among the gentle rustle of breeze in leaves.  the bend of a back, the quirk of a brow and a mouth, tiny silences speaking louder than words of deep, abiding intimacy.  a sigh and slide, a tiny gasp.  the widening of eyes, the grit and release of worried but trusting teeth as the intimacy deepens further.  a grunt, a whimper, rhythmic silence breaking into isolated sounds of joning.  squeaks and purrs join the gentle rush of air from side to side.  tiny muscles contracting, lifting, hot and cold shivers shuddeering across sheened and flushed skin.  marks, red and white striping across the flush, evidence of connection, trepidation, pleasure, and triumph, as a duet of alto and baritone weaves through shafts of sinlight and shade.

the scent of apple

these two vivid and enduring memories were inspired by this post, by the amazing Vina Green.  i urge you to visit her blog – her prose is mesmerising in its beauty.

sometimes…

it’s the tag end of winter.  the heavens are intermittently filled with sunshine and sticky, stinging rain.  the air is raw and viscious.  in contrast, the coach is warm and humid, its windows steamed with the breath of thirty-odd junior school children and a handful of adults.  there is a fug in here of wet outerwear in a warm, too-cramped space. the children themselves are noisy and somewhat bored.

the occupants of the coach have recently emerged, blinking, from the dark depths of Buxton Opera House, deep in the heart of the English Peak Disrict.  they have spent the morning watching an incomprehensible spectacle of ballet dancers moving to dull classical music.  it is an honest-to-goodness wonder that any, let alone all, of the children managed to remain wakeful.  and now, they are finishing their lunch.  one particulat little girl is getting more and more uneasy the closer lunch gets to its conclusion.  this is because the teachers have gaily informed them that after lunch, there will be A Walk.  they will march forth into The Beautiful Srrounding Countryside and Get Some Healthy Exercise.  the girl finishes her soggy sandwiches, her too-salty crisps, and her eye-wateringly acidic and chemical tasting orange squash.  an insidious sweat bathes her body as she waits in trepidation for the order to move out.  fidgeting with her long blonde ponytail, she gets herself more and more worked up.

don’t want to go on a walk!  why do we have to go on a walk?  walks are stupid.  it’s cold. it.s wet. it’s muddy. walks are boring. I DON’T WANT TO!!!

but she goes, just like the rest of the children.  she has no idea how long it lasts.  her head is sunk between her shoulders, her beanpole body is curled as far in on itself as it is possible to be and still remain upright and moving.  she endures the walk in misery, and it lasts forever.  before the end of the walk, she is in tears at the sheer injustice of the world that makes her do these things that make her so uncomfortable and cross.  she hates it and wants to go home.

returning to the coach is a mixed blessing.  yes, it means the torturewalk is over (and she fervently hopes that she never sees Buxton, or ballet, or open moorland, ever ever again), but she is surrounded by, woven into a web of, of smell.  entwined throughout the whole day, and now hardwired into her hippocampus for all of her life, is the smell of warm, half-fermented, tupperware-tinged apples, and its associated horror.

…on the other hand…

the girl with the blonde ponytail is now a little older, and she is on a farm.

the girl loves being on this farm, and jumps at any chance to visit.  it’s an old farm,  crammed full of the most fascinating and mysterious objects, all tucked into seemingly endless secret corners and hidden nooks and crannies.  in the summer, she and her brother spend hours exploring it, playing in the woodpile, or down by the river that runs past the farmyard.  she loves just spending time here even if, as it is now, it is just her and her mother, in the caravan, minding the stall.  you see this farm belongs to some family friends.  the families met through the social media of the 1970′s and ’80′s–the CB radio–and they often need help.  wether it’s with bailing, harvesting, treating counting or marking the animals, or (in her dad’s case) tinkering with machinery ad infinitum, the girl’s family often pitch in to help.

today, the year is rolling rapidly towards winter, and it’s apple season.  as a sideline to the farming, the farmer sells apples transported up from his brother-in-law’s orchards in Suffolk.  they have one of those roadside stalls you see everywhere in the more rural parts of the country.  it consists of a couple of crude, handpainted signs, a table, a caravan, some scales, and more apples than the girl has ever seen in her whole life.  whilst everyone else is busy elsewhere on the farm, the girl’s mum is minding the stall for the afternoon, until it is time to take the girl to her pantomime rehearsals, and the girl is with her as she is too young to be left home alone.

the girl is in the caravan.  it has that old-caravan smell.  slightly musty, slightly mouldy, slightly damp.  old and worn and unloved.  it sits just off the roadside, on the drive that leads into their farmyard.  the air is dry, still, and bitterly cold.   the blonde girl is bundled up to the eyeballs in woolens, and she feels awful.  she won’t realise until days later, but the inocculation she had yesterday against measles, mumps and rubella has given her a fever.  she is pretty out of it, drifting in and out of sleep, though the fever has not taken hold completely, yet.  that will not happen until later in the afternoon, when she will get into trouble during rehearsals for lolling about and not paying attention.  her mum just thinks she is tired – she had a late night last night.  so her mum lets her sleep as she serves the customers.  as the girl lies dazed in the caravan, her mind drifts on a sea of nothing, buoyed up by the sharp and all-pervading smell of coxes, jon ‘o’ golds, bramleys and, her eternal favourite, russets.

ever after, for all of her life, the russet apple, its rusty skin, its sweet, sharp, tasty yellow flesh, will take her back to that farm, that caravan, and that feverish afternoon in the arse end of the year.  but she won’t remember the feeling of awfulness engendered by the fever – she can barely remember that.  what she will remember was the sharp, clean freshness of mountains of apples that seemed to fill the whole world.

the feeling of possibility and potential and joy of discovery that place held for her.

in memory of Richard Stirland.  my reserve daddy, and still so sadly missed. 

love you, Richard, wherever you are.

XXX

not even close

my feathers, blacker than the air around me, rip through the rain and wind of the storm-tossed night.  closing fast on the forest, i fold my wings slightly, and plunge beneath the thrashing canopy.  angling my body, i weave between trunks and around branches, my entire being focussed on my path between and around every unseen obstruction.  the only illumination to aid my way is the lightning that forks and spears through the roiling clouds above.  it does so as i reach my destination.  the trees open to form a clearing around a lake and, as i drop to the shore, sucking my feathers back into my limbs, it lights the seething curtains of rain. hair straggling and plastered to my goosefleshed limbs, i fall forward to my hands and knees, heaving and sobbing the pain that radiates from my core, threatening to engulf my soul and draw me into nothing – crushed in my very own black hole.  crawling forward, voice raw and face distorted by grief, i drag myself to the water.  lightning flashes once more, thunder following hard on its heels – the ear-splitting crack and rolling roar drowns out my howl of despair as my momentary reflection is not me, but you.  your eyes hold your raw and bleeding soul, your grief deeper and wider than i ever thought possible.  softly, now, silently, i lower my body and slither deep into the black water.  opening my mouth, i draw it as far into my lungs as i possibly can.  the millstone of my horror and self-loathing drag me through the endless dephs, and i welcome the water’s crushing embrace.

flo’s demon

i’m not alone in my dry spell.  one immediate desert companion (immediate to me, at least) is the gloriously dark angel Raziel Moore over at The Erotic Writer.  yesterday, he posted this post about a little challenge he’s set himself for the month of April.  if you go read the post (and i urge you to – there’s a really, really delicious scene in there), you will see that the challenge is to write for 15 minutes per day.  sounds easy, no?  no.  what follows took me far longer than 15 minutes to write, but i admit it was hampered by the fact that i am currently live streaming Florence + The Machie from the Albert Hall, and i keep crying.  love that woman.  but i almost didn’t turn my computer on at all.  thinking, as always, “Well really – what’s the point?”

the point is this:  to write. fucking. something. 

anything.

so i did.

the pitter patter of her heart betrayed her.  the moisture on her parted lips damned her as she gasped a tiny breath.  tail coiling, the demon sat astride her chest, half gilded with sodium flare, half charcoal silhouettte.  she knew, and he knew, that she was no longer asleep.  the slow, serpentine smile curving his lips indicated his amusement at her terror.  arms pinned to her sides by his crouching legs, feet pinned by the blanket tucked under the matress, she was held immobile by more than just her night terrors, this time.  this time, her darkness had emerged to claim her.

cumming…clean?

so…  the reason for the ponderings of the last post can (almost) be summed up in one word:  erotica

that’s where it starts, anyway.  yup – there’s this whole erotic world out there, and i find it utterly. utterly. fascinating.  i’ve been slowly discovering its existence for…oooh…  maybe a year?  year and a half?  something like that.  anyway, i think Tom Lehrer sums up my feelings about it pretty well here:

not just the vanilla stuff, either. the kink, too, has me fascinated.  eyes wide and shining, i read about the extraordinary alternative lifestyles that people lead. and i talk to them, and discover that, hey – they’re not all cartoon characters spouting bad dialogue and posturing in a ridiculous manner.  they’re real, complex, and often quite lovely people – open and warm and funny.  although to be fair, people are just people, and the delightful world of alternative sexuality has it’s share of unintentional comedians, just like any other sphere.  but in talking to many people across this wide and beautiful spectrum, and reading about it more (the blogs – oh, the blogs feed my mind at a gluttonous rate!), there is so much healthy openness going on here – so much sunshine shone into what societal structures i no longer subscribe to have previously suppressed as bad/dirty/taboo/whatthefuckever…  it often makes my heart swell with joy.

seriously – these are just people being people, as hard as they can.  often fucking up, and having trauma, but just as often bouncing back and getting on with their lives and loves and just …well…  being people.

if the world of erotica appreciators and erotica writers and other writers (whatever their favoured genre – or not) and kinksters and vanillabeans and everyone in between has taught me anything, it is that people are people, and i am often at fault for making judgements and assumptions.  the world needs more openness, and more respect, and more, well…  people ought to mind their own business more, frankly.  i am an athiest, but i have pagan tendencies.  and i try (and fail very, very often) to live by one of the central pagan tenets:

an it harm none, do what ye will

i try to do this every day.  and it’s hard, so hard not to be judgmental – to be more acepting of people and their faults and foibles.  to see the positive in people and situations, rather than the negative.

look, i’m sorry this is a long, rambling, and slightly nonsensical post, but you should probably expect more of these.

oh, and i have a request.

since i’m not going to start the anonymous blog, i’m going to keep Dazedeye, i would like you, if i (thoughtlessly or otherwise) manage to offend you, please to let me know in an informative and measured way.  i will then either be mortified and apologise profusely, or i will thank you for letting me know and be sad that i have offended you, but continue to post content that offends you (albeit possibly with warnings where appropriate).  but in the spirit of openness, i have decided that this is the one place in the world that is mine, and mine alone, and i shall grit my teeth and write what i feel i need to. and whether it be fiction or nonfiction, sometimes it will be thoughtless and/or random idiocy.  sometimes, it will be something that affects me deeply.  it’s entirely possible that the casual observer will be unable to tell the difference.  but i suspect that there will be acts of courage in my writing future, even if they are only small ones.

there is only one subscriber to this blog who genuinely knows me in real life, and i consider her a good friend, and know she won’t judge me on what i write here.  the rest of you will likely only ever see my internet face, and that can, really, be whatever i want it to, can’t it?  you can judge me if you wish, but i suspect that most of you wouldn’t either.  those that do?  that’s your perrogative, and you are welcome to it.

all i ask, reader, is be kind if you can, and constructive if you can’t.

thanks.

XXX

ponderings…

to be or not to be...
(image stolen from deviantart - clicky to see the page)

i keep saying it to myself. “i really should write more”. more regularly, more consistently, more daringly… just more of everything ending in “ly”, really.  i’m not really sure, though, if i keep saying it because i mean it (the road to hell is paved with good intentions – good job i’m an athiest), or in the hopes that if i say it enough that one day it will magically come true, without recourse to getting up off my metaphorical arse and actually writing something.  it’s a bit of a bugger when you’ve got nothing to say, i suppose.  no reall thoughts or opinions on anything.  well – none worth listening to, at least.  and there’s the crux, nub, and heart of the matter.  deep down, i hold a belief that no one would ever really want to read what i write – whether it be fiction or non-.  and i’m also scared of exposing myself.  The Fraud Police are always watching me, after all (check from 2:15 on the video link to see what i mean).

a couple of weeks ago, i had a fantastic lunch / got to hang out with three very, very cool ladies.  they are all erotica authors whose writing i admire for different reasons.  and they all do it anonymously.  the subject of anonymity in writing came up during lunch, and it’s been knocking around in my brain ever since.  and i’m considering starting another blog.  one that will have a pen name attached to it.  one that i will tell no-one about, where i can just…  write stuff that i’m too afraid, or shy, to share with people who kind of know who i am.  and by knowing who i am, i mean, have a certain image of me.  y’know – Squeaky.  equal parts bouncy and whingy.  always tries to be as nice as possible to her friends, and to disengage with her enemies, since she’s too much of a coward to fight and is anyway far too lazy.  but there’s stuff i think about (fiction and non-) that people might find shocking, or…  well.  whatever.  this is one of those grey areas.  i want to really, really be myself.  trouble is, i’m still not sure who she is.  and i don’t want to upset anybody.  really – you’re all so nice.  and i’m not.  not at all.  sometimes i am.  but sometimes i’m naaaassstteeeeehhhh.  or even just nasty.  thoughtlessly cruel.  or just thoughtless, or…

oh, shit – i did it again, didn’t i?  sorry.

anywhoo…

i’m still kicking the idea around.  if i start the other blog, i…  well – i’m not sure if i’ll tell you about it or not.  but honestly?  it seems kinda stupid for me to have two blogs.  i’m generally WYSIWYG, and i know, just know, that if i start another blog, one of them will fall by the wayside.  i’m not one of Dame Nature’s multitaskers…

it all depends how prepared i am to alienate people, i guess.  this needs pondering further.  any thoughts or opinions are always welcome.