Nights like this.
Leaning back on his chest, his fingers tracing lines up and down my arms. His hands in my hair, rubbing the tension out of my neck. Me, sleepy, floating, warm. He’d trace my lips for hours, his fingers light over the mouth I didn’t open. Both of us patiently stubborn. His fingers slipping between my lips slowly, gently, tracing my teeth while my breath quickened. Eventually his hand wrapped around my lower jaw, no words, open. One finger after another pushed into my mouth, over my tongue, the back of my throat. Thrusting in and out, fucking my mouth, my legs falling open, wet, wanting him to fuck me there.
I remember him moving me, positioning me roughly, his body warm held over mine, one hand over my mouth, the other hand grabbing at my chest, pinching one nipple then the other between his fingers. I remember sinking, melting into sheets, into mattress. I remember the shock of teeth clenched hard around tender skin. The instant blue bloom of bruise between my breasts, over nipples. I remember biting down hard on the thumb pushed to the back of my throat. I remember sighing, writhing, bucking hips, I remember yes.
Then, lying still as he straddled me, his hand wrapped around his hard, thick cock, his fingers tracing those marks, my eyes on his, hot thick strands of cum over my breasts, adding to the marks his teeth made, the bruises. I remember the set of his jaw, the flicker of muscle in his cheek, his fingers drawing circles in his cum, on my skin, fingertips held up to my mouth. Mouth already no words open, a quiet way to beg. The taste of cum on my tongue, the wet on my chin and between my legs. The kiss goodnight on my forehead. Falling asleep aching need.
I don’t miss him often.
There’s been others. You see.
Photograph by Claude Fauville
..
I’ve never been able to write stories, make up people, places, times.
You write stories because you have no one to tell.
I can’t unknow what I know.
I haven’t remembered desire. The rush swell opening. Soft limbs, half closed eyes, heart beating so hard I choke on my own want.
A simple, blind, unthinking need to bend, to give, to say only yes, to ask, to plead, to show.
I haven’t remembered.
This lack, this without.
I don’t know what this death of desire means. I don’t know what it means not to want.
This loss, this lessening, this absence, my own silence.
He passes me his wine glass and as I bring it to my mouth, he asks me to say cunt. I roll my eyes, I’m so far past this, it’s such an obvious seduction. I smile and do as he asks. He takes his glass from my hand and tells me that he likes that word, women who like that word, women like me. I grind my cigarette underfoot and walk back inside. When I catch my heel and trip, he steadies me, his hand wrapped around my wrist. He doesn’t hold me for long, and when I look up at him, the smallest wet.
The next morning in bed, I scroll through my dashboard. There’s a link to a video and I click without thinking, without want. I watch as he fucks her against a wall, I’m lying flat on my front, on my elbows, my face resting on my hands. I don’t feel anything, don’t recognise desire, until I’m shuddering hard, coming in waves, coming and coming without having touched or pressed or chosen anything.
Coming the way you taught me, the way you wrote, the way you write still. Coming with tears hot, streaming down my cheeks, tears for everything I lost and everything I’ve gained.
The best story you ever wrote was me. You write it still. You can’t unknow what you know.
“I like to think of myself as at least attempting to find a way through life that suits me alone,” he told her. And with some relief, she realized that his conversation had been free of cliche and that unlike other men who insist on their individuality, he wore his erudition lightly, as if ready to throw it off in a moment. (But only after she’d thrown off a garment or two.) No one she’d ever fucked had, in the moment of truth, been capable of remaining himself, after all.
She replied with an ambiguous nod, as if permitting him his fantasy of singularity, as if she had never found herself in this position before, with other men who, though using different words and often displaying less breadth of vocabulary, were playing at the same role. Whether or not he meant it was at this point beside the point. She took consolation in this, in recognizing what it meant to be a man and this woman in a situation in which sex was nearly inevitable. And she knew that she held the upper hand: even as she inwardly cringed at this knowledge, at its triteness, she knew it to be true. Not always, but it was obvious now. He was too firmly entrenched in an idea of himself to not want to (or need to) get lost in her, even if it was destined (or doomed, she admitted to herself) for just one night. Men like this are always looking for a way out of themselves.
There was a mirror behind the bar opposite them. As he talked, she watched him in it, wondering if his earnestness was conveyed more… well, earnestly, in the mirror, as if distance and the infinitely slight delay—imperceptible to the human eye but perhaps perceptible through the body—somehow leant the movements of his jaw and his words more weight. Do things accumulate density as they move through space? She knew this to be anecdotally true and thought of his hips pulling away from her ass as his cock nearly slipped from her cunt. And the plunge back in, full of his weight.
He was still talking, she was still smiling. She encouraged him when he trailed off, but he was perceptive enough to realize that the game was over. She’d won and had permitted him her share of the spoils. Despite their still nearly full drinks (a third round), she signaled the bartender and paid. He accepted this without even an obligatory gesture toward his hip pocket.
(To be continued…)
(photo via 3x2x1)
(Source: les-belles-donzelles)
You glance across at his canvases, stacked against walls and on easels, the paint is viscous, tumultuous, raw; among the portraits are some other ones, secret ones, bodies, just bits, never a face; men and women, their genitals in stark, cold, medical close-up. You look and look at those ones and then something cold touches you, playfully and you start; the paintbrush, it parts your lips, you yelp in shock, it brushes your clit, plays along the entrance of your secret interior, then slithers across your mouth and your taste the tang of it, of you. And he dips the brush inside, gentle but insistent and you gag and he stops, it goes back to your clit and your stomach flips and despite yourself you’re suddenly opening your legs wider, wider, surrendering, arching your back and gasping, suddenly, and there is a great warmth, a tingling, something is taking over you, you are becoming someone else.
With My Body, Nikki Gemmell
I want your mouth on my nipples through fabric in the same way that I want my mouth on your cock through fabric. I want to feel the warmth of your mouth through my t-shirt. I want my nipples between your fingers, another gasp, more slick. I want to feel the mark of your fingers and your teeth the next day in the raw of my skin. I want the touch of fabric against my nipples to cause my eyes to close, for the day before to play like a set of still images before my eyes, to make me throb and crave and want all over again. So that I’m slick and pliant and undone before I’m with you again. I could squeeze my legs together and run a finger over my cunt and come right now but I don’t.
I need to feel you flex and drip inside me. I need me convulsing on you, my cunt spread around your cock, me taking all of you. My face pressed against your chest, my lips against your skin, telling you how much I love this, this wrecking, this fucking, telling you yes, over and over, telling you until the words run out and all there is is me shaking beneath you, waiting to feel you break inside me, to feel you painting there, so that I can snap clean in the burn of you.
photograph by Juri Maric
(via pornstock)
“I like you. I’d like to know you. And, of course, fuck you.”
He had his cock pressed so tightly into my thigh that it almost hurt. I had forgotten how hard young men can get. I eased back some and felt the emptiness, the phantom ache of that pain. Without thought, my hips arched up to meet him again.
I wanted to feel the rough weave of his trousers on my bare vulva. To rub my cunt over his thigh and his cock. My leg snaked around his as I lowered myself over the thick, hard line of him and rocked back and forth, lightly. I felt his breath part my hair just before he whispered in my ear, ‘Your pussy is marking me.”
My face grew hot. All of that wetness and want slipping out from inside me. It unnerved me. He bit my ear lobe gently. “I can smell you. You’re perfect and ripe.”
Even with his words, his breath on me, it still wouldn’t be true to say that I felt wanton or that I didn’t care about his age. My chest beat too fast and hollow. I wasn’t prepared for where we were, in this alcove between rooms, in this museum where I’d gone for the day to escape the closeness of people. To seal myself off in thought. After his words, I couldn’t look him in the eye. I stared down, to where my foot mashed the crease of his pant cuff over his green suede Adidas.
“Nice trainers,” I said, nervously. I could hear the slight edge in my voice. He reached under my skirt and trailed his fingers lightly down the damp slit of my ass. Then he grabbed a handful of my flesh and yanked me closer. It felt like his cock could sever my leg at the hip. I let out a quiet gasp.
“Don’t make me tell you that I don’t care when you were born,” he said. One lithe finger slid easily between the open lips of my pussy. The wet, swollen flesh parted as he sunk in deeper and a long, low groan escaped from his body. We were so close, it felt as if the sound had come from me. From my lips. From my mouth. From deep inside my cunt. I felt the ache inside me swell and my legs gave way beneath me.
******
We’d been standing in front of a Rothko, on the second floor of SFMOMA, but we were talking about Turner. There was something in that soft, orange light that reminded him of a painting back home, at the Tate, one that he’d visited often.
I could tell how much Turner meant to him. I liked this strangely poised man of a boy, with his tight, proper accent, and his smart, unaffected charm. I liked the way flashes of a loose, rangy confidence in him warred for effect with that modesty. And I wanted to like Turner, too. Or at least, I wanted to see Turner through the softness in his grey eyes. So I did what I always do.
“That’s the problem with nineteenth century painters,” I blurted out. “I can’t look at them and not see the prophecy. The train wreck of what’s to come.” He laughed and looked at me with something close to sympathy, but his eyes quickly moved back to the canvas in front of us.
“It’s not all train wreck,” he said. He was so earnest, that I felt like my words had sullied the air between us, ”And anyway, the trains, the storms, the light… there’s something rather tender and hopeful there, don’t you think?” He turned and frowned a little as he glanced across the room at the inky black circles and columns in Motherwell’s Elegy to the Spanish Republic, No. 57. “I’m not saying there’s any merited hope to come,” he added, looking back at me. “I’m just saying…it’s there, nonetheless. Just…sort of…resting inside the moment.” —-DQ
SFMoMA - Mark Rothko, No. 14, 1960 by Spiral Cage on Flickr.
I wonder about this desire to wait.
I wonder about this lack.
Absence and presence, sensation and emotion.
I remember the sound of footsteps and the lying still. Fingertips pulling at skin, the sensation of open, the emotion of full.
I tell myself I know these things.
I run my hand over his arm and ask him if he needs me to lead.
When I’m lying face down, and looking away, his hand closes over my thigh.
I sit up, turn to face him, his mouth finds mine.
The edges start to blur.
It’s so fast. This sinking.
He lies next to me, and I wrap myself around him. He traces his hand over my face, fingertips gentle over my lips, I don’t take my eyes from his, and then his hand rough pushing my face to the side and into the pillow. I moan out loud, whimper, as his mouth closes hard and firm over my nipple. He keeps pushing my face into the pillow, my skin clamped between his teeth. He asks me if I still think he needs me to lead. I want his fingers pushing inside me, but I don’t speak.
He pulls me up to face him. He’s smiling as he holds his thumb against my lips. I open my mouth, flick my tongue over his skin. He nods and smiles and smiles and smiles.
“It’s going to be so much fun to break you.”
He takes my hand in his, kisses the tattoo on my wrist soft.
My heart races. I don’t think of anything, except that it’s too soon to beg.
..
You want her, but it’s complicated. After a certain age, it’s always complicated. Or certainly feels that way. Every desire, sexual or otherwise, has gotten tangled up along the way—desires tangled with desires, faces tangled with remembered faces, bodies with remembered bodies—so that sometimes when you say you want her, you mean just this. You want this: a body bent but unknotted, straight lines and crisp shadows, a blanket smoothed by your hands or bodies together, and an uninterrupted view of your cock being slowly enveloped by her body.
And her hair? What of her tangled hair? Is it a taunting reminder? No, it’s the part of her you’re willing to accept as a necessary symbol of the beauty inherent in the imperfection of your desires.
(via ummmyesplease)
You don’t believe in love and fucking.
The first time he kisses you it’s out of anger, frustration, to shut you up. Your mouths come together and fit. When you moan around his tongue he takes your hair in his hands and pulls your head back hard, asks you a question you don’t answer.
His hands move under the hem of your skirt, your legs part.
Your fingers find the gaps between the buttons of his shirt.
You sit together in the rain, close.
He tells you the way you look at him feels like a touch. It’s not enough. He runs a finger over your lips and tells you he loves you. You feel the gush of wet soaking your underwear, your stockings, you moan against his neck. All you want is his cock, hard and thrusting inside you. You don’t particularly care where.
You hold hands.
You.
You don’t believe in love and fucking.
You tell yourself this over and over in your bed late at night when your hands go where his won’t.
..
Photograph: Mona Kuhn
(Source: therestisbullshit)
