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: Romance
The Traveller by Afrodykie
W is for … WTF
SWEET words sour in the glare of truth. They shrivel and shrink blink and say goodbye.
You’ve learnt some things on your life’s journey, and boundaries are one of them.
You take responsibility for your well-being, and excise the rot, the putrid fetid stink that rattles nearly ruins your temperate world. You wring its pock-marked neck and dump it.
You don’t look back.
For three months you are the efficient and diligent architect of a personal hell, you construct your misery with fortitude.
Yes, you build this house of pain carefully, brick by brick. It’s an edifice a monument to lost emotion.
Sooner or later she will trust me. Sooner or later we’ll fuck. Sooner or later she won’t say nasty things to me. Sooner or later she’ll sink into my arms. Sooner or later, please, sooner or later she’ll be sweet.
You step deeper and deeper into the mire, needy, scared, longing gnaws you.
She throws out morsels, measly scraps to a pandering dog.
You gobble them, hungry for her, you’re starving for affection.
Your heart gapes, gasping. See me, please. Love me.
WTF?
You crumple at the feet of chaos, pathetic you lie prostrate, simpering at the altar of cruel manipulation (it was crass, unflinching). Worse, you speak in a trembling baby voice, and beg!
Don’t go. Wait. I’ll cook. Etc.
Oh, the torment. Oh, the victim, forever pleading, forever waiting, wondering, wanting.
She accuses you of vile behaviour, and trumpets it in town.
Sies! You screw up your face like a concertina. You’re ready to burst into a litany of squeaky sorrow.
My God, is this you.
You parry the shouting, the insults, the lies, the threats.
You grab the straws of dear docile moments.
And then whoosh, she explodes. Again. And again.
WTF?
You draw the coat of denial tightly around you.
Person upon person tells you, beware. Get out of there.
Friends shake their heads. They look at you with puzzlement pity in their eyes.
Your guts it sprawls rancid in a bloody pool of sick.
You nearly drown, flailing desperate to please, to be loved, to belong.
She’s not worth it, a friend says. She doesn’t deserve you, says another.
Do you know what she says about you?
Hope smiles one evening when you talk intimately, sincerely.
We’re fascinated by each other, we say. Warmth dances in our eyes.
And then wack, she gives you the silent treatment.
WTF?
It is the coup de grace.
Overnight, your heart steels.
It purges the pull to be with her, this brittle shell, this duplicitous and dangerous wretch.
No more!
Your scattered bits meld. You see you feel the shape of you.
At last, you are the captain of the ship, the SS Who I Am.
You hoist the sails of succour. You quickly dislodge the anchor the mainstay of woe.
You must, you must sail the sea of tranquillity, the bow speeding to the sunrise.
You must, you must leave the dark of cultish platitudes, their fire fanned by broken wings.
WTF?
Who cares if her hurting hides a gentle thoughtful beauty?
There’s no room for soul pirates not on this boat!
(ends)
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)
afrodykie 