We talk and write a lot on the Interwebs about desire being a thing of the mind, about the brain being the most important sexual organ, about "sapiosexuality" even. We write smut that borders poetry and sonnets dripping with filthy name calling, but sonnets nevertheless. We do text-only sexting and go on and on and on about seductive words and the elusive mental connection that trumps, or transcends, or oh-so-perfectly expresses the carnal.
And it's all very true. And yet. Some days it's not about the sexual magic, or the words, or the connection, or the intensity of the dynamic, or a mindblowing-orgasm-as-glorious-oblivion. Some days it's as carnal, as of-the-body as it gets.
Some days it's about the hungry cunt and nothing else really matters at all. The insistent sensation - not even an emotion, never mind a feeling or thought - a heavy fullness, a tension in the lower belly and breasts, as if your pants have suddenly shrunk even though you know they haven't. Erect clit and blood-flushed labia, slick and slippery dampness, swollen, tingly lips impossible not to lick or touch, dilated pupils that make you squint in a bright light.
It gets more insistent, and more physical, a constant reminder of the basic and base want; desire as a need for release more than anything else. All of the skin warm and sensitive and wanting, whole body a mirror for that hungry cunt.
And when you get it, it's not about sharing or giving. The orgasm less of a overwhelming wave of ecstatic pleasure than a powerful spasm of release, strong but brief, intense but focused.
Any fantasy will be abrupt, disjointed and utilitarian, and if there is another flesh-and-blood body there, conveniently placed to be grabbed and used, it will be a mere tool, a flesh-and-blood plaything, a cock a better model of a dildo, fingers and mouth intelligent toys for satisfying that need,
Some days it's about nothing else but that hungry cunt.
God, yes. There are days and then there are DAYS.
ReplyDeleteI have to have a mental/emotional connection with a person for sex to work for me, but just because the connection is there doesn't mean that sex between us is all cerebral. Lord no. When I'm feeling too much in my body, there's nothing "too much" about feeling *him* in my body. ;)
Your writing is always so beautiful, SkinShallow. (I wish I knew a better name with which to address you.)
ReplyDeleteI don't know how else to share anything with you so I hope posting this short piece I wrote inspired partly by your own stories is acceptable as a comment:
Do you know the magic words? The words you can never speak? The words whose understanding is their lack of use and whose use destroys their meaning?
You have your words. And I have mine.
I'd been left to face the corner, given strict instructions not to move an inch. She'd know, after all. My forehead met the bottom edge of an upper cabinet, leaving a slight indentation I'd either fail to repeat or whose severity would be noticeably dampened if I stepped away. Such a small thing but what, I thought, as the pressure of the wood against my skull mounted, is life but a consequence of angles? Of trajectories, collisions, imprints? What can we know of anything that doesn't, ultimately, leave its destined mark?
I heard her steps begin to echo from above. They were faint at first. Spaced-out. Hesitating. Uncertain. The tell-tale gait of someone in the midst of making a decision. It was all so delicate: It was like I was inside the rhythms of her brain because of the immobility of my body, as a distant quake ripples water kept calm in a glass. And yet I knew, of course I knew, that whatever she was deliberating upon was located in my own mind - a secret of hers that was yet, somehow, fully mine. That the melody being played within her was geared towards the ringing chord where what I deserved, what I desired, and what I could take, joined.
The music progressed. Her approach quickened. She became an arrow. I, the target growing in precise time to her steady and determined pace until her intention was as sure as a point meeting an infinite plane - I was everything she could never fail to touch; she was everything I could never come to avoid - and...
"Turn." It was like I'd been broken out of stone.
"Let me see, honey." She tipped herself up to inspect the unwavering line down the right side of my face.
"Good boy." Her fingers caressed my cheek. "You've been well-appetized." She giggled. "I expected nothing less."
My breath became short. My hands cold. And yet beneath both, I felt a churning warmth. Magma flowing under the still earth. It melted my heart.
She smiled and lowered her eyes. Futher communication became needless.
I stripped and sunk to my hands and knees. And accepted all I was worth.
Do you know the magic words? The words you can never speak? The words whose understanding is their lack of use and whose use destroys their meaning?
You have your words. And I have mine.
This is very beautiful, thank you. I like the framing with the repeated sentence, and I do love the shivering implication of "accepted all I was worth".
Delete*
We get tempted, though, don't we? To say the words whose substance disappears on saying, to pull the veil that turns out to be the skin, to not so much test others as to test the world, and ourselves, to do things just because they can be done, just to see what happens if, to stare in ecstatic awe at a demolition. No?
I'm deeply heartened by your compliments. I really do think you're one of the best writers of erotica I've ever read. Though maybe I'm biased just a bit by my tastes, haha.
ReplyDeleteAnd:
Oh, of course. Temptation is the ratchet of obedience. Anyone worth submitting to knows that the art of the thing is to make rebellion self-punishing. Or is that too harshly phrased?
Perhaps it's rather that our craving for destruction is a hunger for occluded order, a refusal to accept fragility as ever being final. "Show me what can't be broken and we'll know what never to strike." Yet everything breaks. The sacred doesn't conserve itself. The sacred might be defined as that which won't remain absent our caretaking.
How sublime, then, are those moments of transgression in which we find that, even while rid of all faith, we were held.