radio silence

If you’re reading this post, there’s probably been a prolonged period of silence - no posts, no emails, no chats - from me.

I had known, for a while now, that there would be volatility in my life, and well, call it paranoia, or maybe a compulsion to be prepared, but I have had this post written and scheduled to have it published a week or so into the future - and as that date came nearer, I’d keep pushing the date back further and further. If I couldn’t get to a computer, then the post wouldn’t continue the slow forced march onward into time, and would finally be published/posted.

It’s an interesting idea, then, this post from the past, yet not really part of the present or future. I think the best way I can describe it is like a time capsule. Or is it a letter lost in the mail, arriving long after it was written? I’m not sure, really.

Looking back on some of this, I sit with my head in my hands and with a small sense of wonder. I had never imagined, in the beginning, eyes poring over other writers’ blogs and articles, that I’d have grown the courage to place my thoughts into words, and then take the leap of placing these words where they could be seen and read. For a private person, this is a big step.

And even though we try to persuade ourselves that the writing is for ourselves, that the audience doesn’t matter - these are thin white lies that stand as feeble protection from the otherwise sheer joy of communicating ideas, thoughts, dreams, wishes, hopes, fears, pains, and pleasures. There are so many writers that I’ve come to respect, admire, and to be humbled by.

I cannot express that enough.

At this time, I can’t tell you how I am. I can’t, now, tell you where I am, or what has happened to me. That’s another strange thing about a post written in the past to be published in a future I’m not quite a part of. So, enough about me; I hope you are well. I hope this post finds you, dear reader, wherever you are, in a state much much better than mine.

And I hope, too, that this is not the end. No, I’m hopeful, in my absence and speaking to you from the not so distant past, that this isn’t a permanent run of radio silence but instead a short and brief signal loss - and that if the dials are set just right, the knob turned slowly between index finger and thumb, the silence will give way to static, the white noise then giving way to a clear and audible tone.

I hope it’ll be me, saying hello, in the not too distant future.

this was jeopardy

Dinner wasn’t yet a concern, the two of us on the couch, a long day only now starting to fade.

She sat next to me, still in her gym clothes, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, the errant hairs (a little disheveled and twisted with dried-up sweat) that escaped telling of her cardio-heavy workout on the treadmill, bike, elliptical - her t-shirt with its sleeves rolled up over her shoulders - her nylon stretchy short shorts - the ankle socks still on her feet, as her sneakers were kicked off by the door. I do my exercising in the morning (reaching the gym around five), but I, too, showed signs of wear - my shirt half pulled out of my trousers, half unbuttoned, tie half unknotted, body half reclined on the couch.

The television flashed white, then black, then blue with gold as the theme music fired up. The familiar words sounded and I allowed myself to smile - it was my favorite game show (ever) - “This… is… Jeopardy!”

She must have noticed.

“I remember, only a little bit,” she said, turning to face me, her head leaning back and resting on the couch, “that we had this in Germany.” The announcer was introducing today’s contestants. “It was fun - I haven’t really watched it here.”

A full smile now. “It’s my favorite,” I admitted. “I try and get all the answers right.” The announcer was now introducing Alex Trebek who - really, by now - needs no introduction.

“Are you that good?” she asks, the sides of her mouth curling up a little bit.

“They’re about to start,” I motion with a nod, the categories appearing on the screen after the tonal boops and beeps of the board place the dollar amounts of the questions on the board. As always, knowing the categories are vital to the correct answers (or questions, as the silly archaic eccentricity has persisted). I paid attention, and so did she, giving a “hmm” every now and then.

The game started, and I quickly fired off the first category’s answers. Of course it’s easier at home, not in front of a studio audience, being filmed for national television, and having to fight off two other intelligent people. She sat in silence, watching the television, watching me. The next category was started, and I continued rattling off answers. A contestant hopped over to another category before the current one was exhausted - the slightest irk elicited verbally from me - but I continued to answer. I oddly remember this category - it was about song lyrics from the 80’s. The category was finished, and the game hopped back, finishing out the half-started category… quotes I believe it was. It was where I hit the first stumbling block, a question I didn’t know. My mouth partially opened, and I’m glad I didn’t say anything. And then, quickly, another. Then, the first commercial break.

I was annoyed - at the answers I didn’t know, first, then at myself. It had turned into a game, now. She turned to me as the commercials began to play.

“Aw, and you were doing so well too.”

“I know,” I said, not hiding the disappointment like a bad taste in my mouth. “I try and get as many right as I can,” I repeated.

The show had returned, and it was now a moment to pause and get to know the contestants.

“Well don’t let me stop you,” she said, our interests not at all on what humorous anecdotes the three intelligent people on stage had to say. We looked at each other, only listening to Alex Trebek’s voice for the questions and answers. The questions started and I too, again got off to a good start.

Swiss Miss folded her legs beneath her, and leaned in towards me. She sat up and invaded my space, her hands on her knees slipping to the couch cushions, then slipping further, resting against my thigh. Her body pitched forward as the category was finished out, it was something musical I think. I hadn’t missed one since the commercial break, and she now felt my breath on her face as I answered more questions, eyes bright as I got them all correct.

Her head slid to the side of mine, obscuring the television; it was okay, we weren’t watching, only listening. Her nose tucked in along my jaw and brushed my ear as I answered a question concerning bacteria, antibiotics, or both. Parted lips toyed with my skin as her hand lifted and deposited itself in my lap. Her tongue, hot and wet, slipped out and licked a line from my ear down my neck, my eyes shut and voice still stubbornly answering questions. There was a question about Texas I nearly stumbled on, saying the answer at the same time as the contestant.

She bit my neck for that one.

I gritted my teeth and heard the announcement of the first Daily Double. I knew that if I were on the show, I’d be gunning for a true Daily Double - okay maybe that’s just bravado. I was much braver now, her hand a combination of stroke and grab, tugging urgently at me. The question mattered more than the wager - I do remember I got it right and the contestant got it wrong.

She sucked hard on my collarbone, my neck crumbling and twitching.

There wasn’t much left, two more right answers and then the commercial break, the applause matching the look in her eyes as she plucked her lips off me, letting her body twist and slide down, her head resting on my lap and looking up, meeting my eyes. Her arms were contorted, her wrists bent and her fingers nimbly pulling apart my belt, tearing at the button on my pants, and pulling the zipper down.

Her hand reached in to find me more than half hard, my cock mashed up against my boxer shorts, already moist from the precum she’d coaxed out. She turned her head and opened her mouth, pulling me out and then sucking me in. Her neck twisted uncomfortably, one shoulder digging into my thigh, her waist seemingly contorted in awful fashion with her legs folded and angularly hanging off the edge of the couch.

I pulled at her shirt as best as I could, yanking the fabric pinned beneath her, revealing her sports bra clamped down on her chest. I pulled on that too, the taut cotton-elastic not willing to yield; I only pulled harder, ripping it up and towards me, pulling it so the band slowly revealed more of her chest to me, a waxing moon of white creamy skin dotted with two nipples coming into view.

It probably hurt her.

I pulled and she sucked harder, her tongue doggedly rubbing along the side of my cock, her head sideways with eye contact broken.

The commercial break was over, and the categories were being read as she lifted herself up, ripped both shirt and bra off. The desired effect was achieved, as I had no idea what the categories were - a handicap, but then again, she wouldn’t play fair anyway, I thought to myself, pulling my pants and boxers off my legs, pushing my socks off my feet, leaving my shirt and undershirt on, but that too would change more or less after the first few questions, her hands feeling their way underneath both layers of fabric as her mouth returned to my cock, her breasts pushing against my thigh and knee. The mess of shirts and tie were easily pulled over my head and flung across the room.

I kept answering (correctly), my eyes long lost the battle to watch the television (I told you, the categories headings were important) and instead settling on her head moving up and down, her hand gently scratching at my chest, the smooth skin of her back as she let her hips slide off the couch, her knees on the floor and her body soon between my legs. She would tilt her head to the side, angling her eyes upward to see where I was looking; I think she was trying to catch me watching the screen. Meeting my eyes, she only sucked harder. It was a reward.

I began to falter into the second category - classic television and shows I never heard of or knew only faintly. Her mouth left me and was replaced by her hand, sliding easily with the slickness of her spit, but a shitty consolation as I missed a question, another, got one right, and then fell silent at one I didn’t know at all.

She bit her lip and glared at me, my answers stumbling - but now correct, a fresh category. Her hand continued to move as I fired off more correct answers. She continued to tug at me, kneeling forward then up on her feet, climbing on top of me as her short-short-covered ass lay on my lap, my cock standing straight up in front of her pussy, her hand on it like a joystick, her thumb pressing down on its head.

I reached forward with my hand, she swatted it away as a category about finance (yes, I put that away easily) gave way to a category about Canada, and I answered with the wrong province. She only moved her chest towards me, her hand still guiding its way up and down on my cock, after I answered a question correctly, gently swaying herself in front of me.

The Daily Double rang as she leaned in close, whispering in my ear something that would normally make me laugh - “Fuck Canada.” It was instead an invitation to fuck her.

My hand reached to her pussy as she leaned in forward, her hand leaving my cock and both arms now wrapping around my neck. I forcefully pushed aside the nylon of her shorts and white cotton of her panties, her pussy wet and waiting, lowered onto my cock quickly. Twin gasps escaped our lips as she slid down, hips pushing into mine, her chest pressed against mine. She held herself steady and still, balancing on her knees while holding onto my neck and shoulders, breathing heavily against my skin, chewing on my ear, nails digging into my skin. I thrust upwards and inwards, mustering strength and grunting, working hard, teeth clenched and straining to hold on while sliding myself deep into her tightness.

We fell over, I don’t know who lost balance first but tumbling over onto our side and quickly - like a seized sailboat flipping back on keel - her body beneath mine and my mouth hungrily attacking what I could. Continuing to pump, continuing to move our hips in unison apart and together, the sounds of slapping skin muffled by her shorts, pressing against one side of my cock, making it all the more urgent, all the more hurried and stumbling. I held her tightly, my arms no longer holding me up, my weight on hers, my cock buried on the last rub all the way into her pussy as I came, my lower body jerking slightly as the couch obediently held our bodies.

The last category and even Final Jeopardy! disappeared from view and fell silent as she bucked violently against me, a half hushed yelp and breath interrupted. I stayed motionless, she squirmed and twisted beneath me, the fact that my cock was unable to go any deeper not stopping her motions. She was stubborn like that.

* * * * * *

Later, after we’d gone downstairs and returned from fetched a pair of salads from the cafe/deli around the block, I’d told her what the Final Jeopardy! answer was (”axis,” if anyone is interested). She glowered at me but then blinked it off her face.

“Fine, you win,” she surrendered, but like in Jeopardy! when there is a tie, both contestants get to play again.

caught (2/2)

She’d been drinking pretty hard.

She does hold her liquor well, and that’s partially due to her sorority days in college. She’d told me a few stories here and there, and while I’m not sure exactly all of them are true, one thing I know is that she did a lot of partying. A few of her sorority sisters were visiting; and perhaps to recapture some of that, she’d gone out.

And then there was a knock at my door, her voice, muffled behind it.

I had opened the door and she more or less fell on top of me, her arms wrapped around my neck and her body pressing in close. I could smell her perfume mixing in with the last traces of the drinks she’d gotten. There was a hint of gin, a trace of Bacardi. Splashes of a night spend shouting loudly at her friends in a crowded bar. No doubt she’d been eyed more than once, her tight jeans flaring over her strappy high-heeled shoes. She wore a brightly colored scarf as a belt, and another around her neck, her shoulders bared from her low scoop neck shirt, hanging just around the caps of her shoulders. I idly wondered about her time at the bars.

“Mmmm,” she said into my collar. “Hi.”

“[Bunny Slippers,]” I said, pulling her inside enough for me to shut the door. “Do you know what time it is?”

She pulled back, her eyes a little glazed over, lips glossy and forming a goofy smile. “Um… it’s [Bunny Slippers]-time!”

Breaking her arms off of me, she took a few steps towards the couch. Turning on one foot rather ungracefully, she reached her arm out to me. Her finger wagged first, her face confused. I could see it starting to flush pink, then red. She’d shifted her hand, now her finger curled upwards, motioning to me.

She squared her shoulders to me, one moving upwards almost in time with an inaudible song, the beat dictating her body’s movements. Her shoulder curling inwards and upwards, her chest starting to push forward, her bottom lip slipping underneath her teeth into a gentle bite, her free hand pressing flat against the outside of her thigh. And yes, that finger, making rhythmic curling motions.

I was within arms’ reach and she grabbed at my shirt, pulling her the last step towards me more than she pulled me to her.  Her face up against mine, she placed her lips on me and kissed.  It was sloppy, wet, and I could now taste the fading alcohol in her mouth and tongue.  Sickly sweet, it bloomed in front of me, pressing its way in between sniffled breaths.

One way or another, we pulled ourselves to the couch.  And her hands quickly shed the scarf, tearing then at my clothes.  Her breath quickened, her eyes narrowed.  But her movements were clumsy, her fingers awkward and leaden, trying to pull apart buttons and undo zippers.  And she started talking.

“I wanted, mmf,” she started, before planting another kiss on me.  She kept talking.  “… To, um,” one hand pulling at my pants while with the other trying to pull her shirt upwards.  “… We’ve been kind of, um,” another dive at my face, my hands now helping her, slowly.  “… Yes, um, I wanted to know, aaah,” her hips pressing against mine. “… Uhhh, if you think of me as, oooh,” my hands making contact with the skin of her back, palms smoothing their way upwards to her bra clasp.  “…. [six,] um, if you, uhh,” her hands fumbling with her jeans.  “… if we were, mmm,” her lips again placed on mine.

It was chaotic.

Her hips grinding on top of mine, the couch becoming less and less comfortable, the words peppered in between the movements of her body and mine.  And then, suddenly - “Uh, give me a sec!”

She sprang up, wobbly, and dashed off to the bathroom.

I was in a state of partial dress, my shirt half open, my belt undone, my fly open, but the button of my pants not.  I got up, if only to rearrange myself.  Her purse lay on the floor by the door.  I walked over to it, and heard the faint buzz of her phone.  Picking it up, the phone buzzed again, and curiosity getting to the better of me, I reached in and checked the display.

It was from Dani.  And there was a line of text, a preview of the full message, as hinted by the ellipses at the end.  It read:

“Hey babe, hope u got there ok.  Did u ask…”

I placed the phone back in her bag, and the bag on the table by the door.  And I scratched my head.

caught (1/2)

I was too far away to hear anything, so I can only imagine - she swore under her breath, as I’ve seen her to do, clicking the mouse rapidly, her index finger furiously tapping away under the clicking that quickly blended into one continuous note. Her arm and wrist move in circles, the cursor on the screen unresponsive to the wild motions of the mouse scurrying across the desk. She sighed, I think, and placed her hands in front of her, the palms of her hands on the edge of the desk, pushing her chair and herself away, wheels moving softly over industrial carpet.

She slid off the chair, more or less, her knees held together, bare skin touching, her skirt (short and tight) only curling up a slight bit; it was a moment later that she was now kneeling, the heels of her feet separated from the soles of her pointy-toed-high-heeled shoes. Her back had arched, her grip now on the arms of the chair, the buttons of her blouse strained against the threads. From the right angle, you could have seen the white bra beneath the blouse. From the right angle you could have seen the pale skin peeking out from fabric pulled apart and barely held together.

A puff of breath out of the corner of her mouth hit the wisps of hair infringing on the corners of her face. The hair rode upwards and danced, lithe and curling atop the air until it floated its way back down. A futile exercise. She bent over now, hands and knees on the carpet, crawling towards the back, trying to reach the computer lying in the dust-bunnies and crumbs in the underworld forgotten by the light of the fluorescent bulbs above. She held her breath, the dust thickly caked in the furthest corners threatening her idly.

She straightened out her arm, now balancing only on her left hand and her knees. Then, stretching further, she reached out as far as she could, mindful of the dust and grime, her opposite knee lifting off the carpet. It was a precarious balancing act. Her back straightened and then hyper-extended, arching away underneath the fabric of her blouse. Her leg lifted higher and higher, skirt pulled apart, open, wide.

The power button was in reach, and her fingertip barely reached it as she was stretching as far as she could. She bit her lip. And stretched some more.

The screens went black, stunned almost by the sudden loss of power. They flickered only once more in the dying throes of pixels gone quiet. The computer itself stopped humming, if only for a moment, then lurching back to life. The fans whirring again. The harddrive noisily clicking and humming, droning away under the startup routines. “Windows XP,” the screen announced in a black background.

And her foot hit my leg. The shoe jostled off her hanging leg, the sigh of relief she had just expelled suddenly held in mid-air.

Slowly she crawled backwards, her butt wiggling its way out first, her head coming out from under the desk, her weight now on her knees as her feet nestled themselves under her butt; one foot naked, one foot heeled.

“Save me,” she said, looking up behind her wire-framed glasses, her lips parted just enough, my eyes continuing to roll off her face and bury themselves in the darkness of her cleavage. From here, I could see all the way down her shirt, to the white lace that hugged the curves of her breasts. “Save me from these spreadsheets.”

I kind of cocked my head to the side, and I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not an Excel expert,” I said, as I reached down to help her up and onto her feet. The shoe lay off to the side, and I knelt down, picking it up, and offering it to her foot.

“My prince,” I could barely hear her whisper.

“This isn’t a fairy tale,” I said, her foot now fully in the shoe, placed gently back on the carpet. I stood up, and nodded my head to the screen. “There you go,” the login prompt cheerfully reminding us that all communications and actions were being monitored and access was granted only to the appropriate individuals. I turned around and left her to her spreadsheets, the familiar grid of lines horizontal and vertical, the cells small and rectangular, capturing as much data as they could possibly hold.

uncomfortable

She’s not easy to please. No, I have to work at it, and work hard.

My muscles ache, and I’m forced to hold myself in strange positions - my legs pushing off the headboard, my arms holding just the left side of my body up - and hold my breath at times, my lungs burning as I starve myself of air.

Gasping, deep breaths, finally. Clinging on, finding hair matted and wet, soaked strands sticking to her face and neck. She bats away at it, in quick, jabbing futile movements. I watch it, amused, but really more focused on other things. Really, my mind is elsewhere.

And perhaps it was when she swung her body around, twirling beneath me, that I considered this moment replayed in the future, that I began to falter, the actions of my body derailed from the thoughts in my head. She didn’t matter anymore.

Hips pushed up higher, she grabbed a pillow and folded it in half, shoving it beneath her. Leverage, balance, whatever. I continued to move, pressing myself deep, pushing until I hit bottom. Wild eyes stared back at me, her neck craning over her left shoulder.

“Push it in my ass!” she spat, the gasps filling in the slender spaces between her words.

My hand was holding her right at her tailbone. My thumb positioned between the converging roundness of her ass cheeks, I let it slide further down, pressing harder at the same time.

She moaned her approval. She wiggled her butt. She spread her legs apart, her hips resting on the pillow.

My thumb met resistance, but it was brief. She cried out as it slid in, the pressure around it tight and unyielding. Coming more in waves, oscillating between snug and vice-like. Burying her face in the other pillow, she came. I felt wetness beneath me, soon, my finger released and feeling myself falling to her side.

Her legs unfurled and our bodies found themselves next to each other. She had brought the pillow back up, and we lay there, heads at the foot of the bed. It was late, we both had to get up in the morning, our bodies surrendering, my sweaty head laying on top of the drenched pillow. It was a discomforting way to drift off into sleep.

sugasm #127

I’m humbled again with a pick in the top three. Yet, a friend had written to me, “I think you have a winner this week.”

Does she know something I don’t? She probably does.

Thanks to everyone making Sugasm what it is.

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