X is for … XXXX
THERE’S nothing like a kiss to get the juices flowing.
Ah, that second when lips lock and tongues tour.
How you long for it.
That meeting of mouths … the breath of another melting into yours, what bliss it is.
Your hearts beat as one, tralala. They pound into each other, your breasts squash flat against her chest.
It’s the start of surrender, this kiss, it shows mutual attraction, it’s the kick-off to a climax.
It confirms a fascination.
Of course, it is also the beginning of the end, for all relationships, love affairs, liaisons, they all end in grief – if there is some emotion in the mix.
It’s either a break-up or death. Either way, it’s going to end.
This means a kiss usually heralds heartache — usually but not always.
That thought though is not on your mind, not when you latch onto her lips, as if they were the juiciest plum on the planet.
Nibble nosh suck tease.
Your tongue thinks it’s on a Contiki Expedition it explores so much, so quickly.
Oh, the smell of her, that pulse throbbing in her neck.
Her sighs, the sounds you love, your ears are full of them. You hear nothing else.
Is there a world out there?
Your mouth is on her neck. She throws back her head, murmuring.
Murmuring!
You glance at her face. Thank God, her eyes are closed.
You get serious and fumble with the buttons on her blouse.
Buttons breast, buttons breast.
She leans forward and takes your head in her hands.
Kiss me again, she says. Kiss me.
Oh, how you dive into the quiet words a river on her lips.
A breath of butterflies it floats between you.
Your bodies slam together, the dance of desire
The murmurs, her murmurs, turn into quickstep panting.
Your bodies swim in sweat.
You’ve ripped off each other’s clothes, your nakedness has met.
And yet your lips linger, lust. They work together, music in concert with hers.
This moment, this joyous jive, it is forever. There’s no day outside no night no anything.
At last, the nipple, your hands on a mission to the mound.
Hers, oh where are hers?
They’re in a circle round your neck, your back your everything.
They touch you.
Her hair splayed behind her, her face so tender, it’s so close to yours so touchable so reachable.
Stroke tickle hug.
She can’t let you go. She won’t, she smiles eyes big beads brown you drown in them.
And still you kiss, and kiss again.
It’s moist and warm and intimate.
It’s moist and warm and very intimate.
But you’re not ready. No, not yet.
(ends)
Category: lesbian; women
The Traveller by Afrodykie
V is for … Va-Va-Voom
IT was going to be for Vanilla, but everybody knows what vanilla sex is …
It’s the standard rumpy pumpy — no nips, slap-spanking or salacious sucking — and certainly no dressing up to give a dressing down.
Vanilla is missionary all the way (yawn) and a quick shower afterwards.
Sies!
There’ll never be a silk scarf in sight, never mind a fishnet stocking.
Nor suspenders in any shape or form! My word, no!
Aren’t they for whores? And dear, you and me, nibbling ear lobes is as far as we go, that’s deviation.
Pass the butter, please.
What? Your name’s Marjee? Ha ha. Short for margarine, coz you spread so easily?
Darling, no … that’s crude. Just now you’ll be hauling out the high heels, perhaps a mask or two.
Maybe you’ll tie me to the bed post and fetch the feather duster.
God forbid you tickle me with that.
I know you. You’ll tease me tease.
Yes, dear, that’s called erotic sexual denial.
Kinkeeeeee.
I’ll make you want it, want me, madly.
Laughs.
Top? Bottom. Sub. Dom? What’s that?
No, no, no lovie, it’s got nothing to do with my legs in the air and your backside pumping like a crazy piston.
It’s all about dominant-submissive, and it may be sexual or non-sexual.
I see. You in control, you tell me what to do.
Yes. Pass the marmalade, now. Tora!
Winks.
The point is: one of the pair submits, that’s a dom-sub relationship, and if there’s pain or humiliation then it starts melting into sado-masochism.
But there are no strings attached, sweetie, not like in bondage and discipline but let’s face it, BDSM, the whole bang shoot, it demands that one partner surrenders. It takes trust, and an imagination.
Yikes.
Nervously curls forefinger around cigarette and looks at partner quizzically.
Draws deeply, and blows smoke rings.
You mean like butch and femme?
No, love, really, that’s so 70s.
We’re stuck in a bit of a time-warp here, perpetuating these heterosexist roles. Don’t you think?
Just now you’ll want to get married!
Well, it’s worked so far … this hetero what did you say?
Maybe for you, but I’m getting bored, in bed too. Bed death. Ha ha. There’s nothing worse than this type of restraint … the proclivity to dwell on the familiar. I mean, when last was intimacy thrilling?
It tell you what, we get a movie or something, and some toys, and fantasise a bit. And you let go of that manly stuff, and just be sexual? Let’s titillate each other. Let’s go where we haven’t been.
Runs toes up partner’s leg underneath the breakfast table.
Drops shoulder of her blouse to reveal elegant clavicle and a throbbing pulse in her neck.
I want to give the orders.
Cocks head and blows kiss.
Naaah, love, c’mon … You’re being silly now. It’s just one of your silly ideas.
Smiles, and opens legs to steady herself. Partner leaves seat.
You going to do the dishes, love?
No baby, I’m going to do you. Now!
(ends)
The Traveller by Afrodykie
U is for … Unusual
EVERYTHING you are not used to is unusual.
It may be usual for someone else though, so technically, nothing is unusual.
It’s only your experience that makes something usual or unusual; your seeing, and being.
But this isn’t a philosophy lesson.
And you don’t want to think too much on a Wednesday morning in Eressos, Greece.
You prefer to imagine the summer’s silver growth on the olive trees, sleek leaves on thin branches, they bend and bob whip the sky. They bow to kiss – and miss — the stony earth.
The olives cling to them, they hold on to get fatter.
The figs too, they are swelling, bubbles of green fruit burgeoning; and your pear tree, the pears are robust in their ripening. They’re starting to blush so keen are they for a ravenous devouring; their curves voluptuous.
Oh that pear tree. That’s where you should’ve met her lips with yours.
The air bristled with potential and your heart raced.
But you had lead in your shoes, and courage sank into your soles.
She looked the other way, and drew her dogs about her.
Oh, how the crows cawed, raucous in their mocking, the doves dipped dangerous from the blue.
They laughed — what a fool are you hoo hoo.
The gravel’s stones crunched and footsteps kicked up dust, cloudy grit spiralled.
It stuck to your thick ankles, to your socks smothering your sweaty feet.
She sighed.
The sheep looked at you sideways.
They carried on chewing.
What did they know about desire, the future’s pyre burning bright, scalding.
What could they say about Attraction, that unruly tyke, the teasing scamp who makes a rogue of lust?
The rascal taunts you terrible. The night, the day – ardour coats your skin, your everything.
You’ve learnt a lot in these three months, a lot about yourself.
It’s not been easy, this learning, alone on a Greek island.
These lessons, a brutal and unyielding teacher, they’ve forced you.
They’ve called you to respond, no blanket of excuses could shield their chilling rout.
They’ve left you bare in the startling glare of clarity.
A focus so intense it lights a path. It dazzles you draws you.
It holds you close.
Your heart skips, joyous.
Pure essence illuminates your nakedness as you dance to the song of a dream.
(ends)
The Traveller by Afrodykie
R is for … Rock
SKALA Eressos, besos – calientes!
Hot kisses, yes, if you know where to find them.
No, silly, not under a rock … that’s not what this R is about.
Ok, this R is for … did you say, um … Rock?
More specifically, the Skala Women’s Rock Group at Little Buddha, as it’s named on Facebook.
It’s fun swimming with the wimmin at the harbour end of the beach, a Blue Flag beach, mind you.
Miss F and Miss T are there every single morning of the glorious summer, and part of spring and autumn too.
They get their little ducks ready steady go all in a row, and it’s splish splash to The Rock, a tiny island 314 metres off shore.
If it’s 10am, it must be swim time.
The daily dip is as much part of Skala’s lesbian culture as the appropriation of Sappho’s sexuality, and the tourism industry that has grown around it.
Yes, Sappho, the lyric poet — Plato named her the Tenth Muse, bless him —she was born in Eressos.
She died here too, but of course nobody knows if she swam to the rock.
Could she swim, with that stylus poised in front of her lip, and a writing tablet glued to her left hand?
She’d have been hamstrung, that’s for sure.
You can’t imagine her emulating the strapping lass who sliced through the sea in 4mins 10 and, on reaching The Rock, turned round to see hapless heads and arms bobbing in her wake.
Generally though, The Swim to The Rock is a social swim.
Miss F told you last year, as she paddled along next to a gasping and unfit you, that she and Miss T started The Swim to add to the spectrum of activities for the women in Skala.
Her swimming cap was turned up at the ears.
It is a chance to exercise, she said, have fun and to do something that doesn’t result in a hangover, a babalas as we say in RSA.
When you’re a first timer, and you’ve finished your swim, Miss T will line you up with the other swim virgins, and someone – everyone, goddamit, it’s the digital age – everyone will take a photograph.
You’re standing there dripping and Miss T lowers a medal over your wet head.
You bow to accept the Sappho Siren Award for Excellent Swimming, a laminated square of paper hanging on a piece of cotton.
There’s that picture of Sappho on it.
You got yours during the Sappho International Women’s Festival in September last year, and you don’t know if every new Rock Star gets one.
But you do recall the words of Miss F during your first swim.
When’s it going to end, you panted, treading water and catching your breath.
She smiled, and uttered words as sweet as a kiss: “As we say, this swim isn’t a race … it’s all about the journey we take, together.”
(ends)
afrodykie 