If You Look At The Big Picture

A naturalized progression

Begging --> Fingering --> Oral --> Making love --> Each to our separate bathrooms to wash away the shame.

Nights vulnerability...

The night, in my opinion is beautifully and wonderfully vulnerable. It is like a woman, spread out, waiting to be devoured. As a woman, spread out and waiting to be devoured, every whisper is like a shout, and every touch is intensified that even the most feather like touch will leave you gasping and aching for more, arching and pleading for some kind of connection. Night is honest in its utter silence and reserve. Even though the world is dark, you have to open your eyes and be focused, and let your eyes adjust to the majesty. As the creatures of the night come out to prowl, there is a presence, allowing for the hunt, the vulnerability of spirit, allowing truth to be set free. Freedom comes at 2 AM, when happiness is abound, and feet ache from wandering aimlessly, that they take you to refuge in the comfort of home where Morpheus wraps his arms around you, welcoming you to heaven. The day comes, a respite for night, until vulnerability is upon us again, promising passion, love, and honesty.

Chameleon

I'm different faces for different people, and at the end of the day my personalities are exhausted.

Classic beauty

Marilyn Monroe photographed by Richard Avedon, 1957.

Hahaha

Lover

Lover Skin upon skin lies beautiful pleasure, To be devoured and released with ones breath. Cries and pleas whispered in sensitive ears, As the Heart explodes in pleasure. The pleasure is in the beauty of passion As it rolls off the writhing body. The chest rises and falls with every gasp, As the heart dies a little death. But it still trembles from head to toe. Lover stares down at the golden beauty, Smiling with pleasure and total hunger. A kiss is a just a kiss, and a Sigh is just a sigh as time goes on. Skin upon skin lies beautiful exstasy, As love comes together in passion.

Secrets of the girl...

One day, a lonely little girl knelt down to the ground, and stroked the roots of a growing tree. Ever strong it was that she was comforted by its silence.

Everyday she went to this tree and whispered to it, telling it all her secrets, knowing well her words would be locked away.

Years pass, but ever true, the tree was her north, and she could not stay away. The tree was big, as if every secret she told it watered it with life.

Ever beautiful this tree was, the leaves never falling, despite the change of season, longing for the girls presence. The tree was alive, yearning for the girls whispered words.

One day, the little girl, who now is ready to leave the earth as an old soul visits the tree one last time, with its beautiful strength and never falling leaves, strokes the roots one last time, and whispers her final goodbye.

The tree, feeling her spirit pass, sheds its own tears of loss, and it’s leaves fall away, floating into the sky, releasing all the secrets throughout the years. One by one, the leaves fall, and the final whisper was the first whisper of that lonely girl long ago: “Don’t leave me.”

This one night

Short Story:

I turned into someone else, someone that I hated and envied all at once. I stared at him, knowing he was my undoing, all at once afraid and in love with him. His years of grip on me was tight and strong, but my more logical side breathed for freedom from his chains.

He had told me that I was his, that I belonged to him, that every kiss, be it forced or done in silent surrender, was his branding of me. His touch was like fire now, pain so intense that I wanted more, just to have a feeling of no longer feeling empty. Sometimes, the slighted touch would make me whimper, wanting more, needing more, needing him.

Every night he is like a warrior, he being the sword, and I, his scabbard. No longer do I resist, it has been years since I’ve last resisted, but with stillness in need and thought, comes the realization of freedom, of it being so close in grasp that I can taste it. The more I succumb to him, the more logical side of me knows that what I’m starting to love; him, his grasp of me, my willingness to stay, my acceptance of everything, is wrong and deviant.

So tonight, here I stand, with my own sword in hand; a chefs knife, from under my pillow, I straddle him, moving against him like butter, he awakes, both his desire and his eyes open to me above him; him staring at my slightly mad eyes. I kiss him, putting all my sorrow, all my love, all my years wasted in his silent threats, and take my revenge.

When I remove myself from his final hold on me, his blood dripping down my chest, I look at him. With every beat of my own heart, I remember everything he’s done to me. I wipe his blood from me, and I remember wiping blood from my own wounds, from the tears shed. I dress myself and remember when he would cut away my clothes with knives, or sheer force of will. Finally, I walk out the door, the door that I was pushed though, time and time again, the door that I walked through willingly, holding hands with him.

The air tastes sweet; new. I am still left empty.

Post coitus has me all shivering and wanting.

The Silence Within

Sometimes I have to force myself to smile, or speak when all I want to do is be expressionless and quiet.  My natural inclination is to take everything in and process it, while remaining stoic.  Sometimes it's painful to have expression.