altruistic entanglement

In brief: Z, of The Naked Truth (According to Z) is in a bit of trouble. If you’re not familiar with her, I urge you to take a quick peek at her site, look around, read a little bit. I understand it is ridiculously difficult to “jump in” and get to know someone’s writing - but in this case, it’s very much worth it. She’s a talented writer, a poetic mind, and a very sharp witted observer of things sexual and not.

However, we all fall down and scrape our knees on some rough spots. To help her out, she and I have created an Amazon PayPage for donations (so ignore my name or email if you see it, although I will field questions and help out if I can). Every little bit, even as small as one dollar, helps.

So please visit her site. Click on the link with the iconic Amazon smiley-face arrow in the top right corner. Don’t mind the crappy formatting (and rather large font) on the ensuing page. And donate.

Please.  Thank you.

before I forget - the six word memoir, kind of

So… I got tagged.

Initially, I found my(antisocial)self teetering on the edge of two disparate actions: one, not write six words about myself and hate it, and two, to write six words about myself and hate it. Pretty grim, right?

As a general rule, I don’t like to follow trends - so memes fit in that category - and so I was repulsed by it. Okay, an elaboration: I’m actually quite surprised and elated to be selected. It’s kind of like being picked to be on a team (maybe for dodgeball, or something playground-related). And at the same time, it’s a bit overwhelming. Maybe it’s the current state of my writing. Or more accurately, the lack thereof.

* * * * * *

Six words - kind of ironic, in the overly obvious numerical sense, I know. I was struggling with it. Struggling with it because even though I just told you above that I was teetering on the edge of not writing it, I really couldn’t not - what a challenge! Six words to encapsulate an entire person?

“Constraints,” she wrote to me, “inspire creativity, 6ix.”

She does that, by the way - a strange quirk to writing down my (pseudo)name. I like it.

* * * * * *

A trade was suggested, actually. And here’s where it gets complicated. I’d write six words for her, and she’d write six words for me.

Admission: this makes it therefore not a memoir.

Admission: I’m actually very happy to pervert the rules.

I started writing. Pen to paper (whatever was readily available, really) and brain set to focus, I let my hand move. Words started to flow, in every direction, zigging and zagging across the page. Overlapping, intertwining. It really wasn’t very bad, even though it was pretty difficult.

In the end, though, after having my thoughts influenced by someone more poetic than me, I came up with six words for her.

* * * * * *

I’m unsure of her process. She admitted being shy to share her six words with me - and I felt the same pangs. I’m glad we overcame that anxiety. And while I’ve only been given a glimpse into how she selected these six words for me…

Racing cryptically along paradoxically winding straightaways.

… I do know why she picked them.

And for right now, I’m not ready to let those thoughts escape my mind and fall onto the page.  No, the memories, the thoughts, the fantasy, the sentiment - they are all too close, too tangled - and shake as much as I try, they won’t come out.

So I’m sorry - you get six words - and not a whole lot else.  This is precisely the reason I’m not good at this whole thing.

sugasm #124

It’s finally getting warmer out, and I’m sure the extra daylight is helping (although it is strange to be so far off from the rest of the world, chronologically).  I’m feeling better, not finding myself cowering from one bout of illness to another, so that’s also good.

Penny and I have made the top three again, so thanks to everyone!

This Week’s Picks

In Which Penny Enjoys Her Bath
“In the bathroom, I flipped on the heater and shed my clothes.”

Immersed in water and fantasy.  Really, does it get much better than this?

Just passing through
“I twitched under her stare.”

Perhaps this post will turn up again… maybe here.  Maybe not.

Kegal exercises on wet Monday afternoon
“Do you know what it’s like, to be buggered?”

What is it that they say?  Exercise strengthens mind, body, and… libido?

Mr. Sugasm Himself
WP/PHP Guru?

Editor’s Choice
More Traveling…

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

administrivial

Well, maybe, it’s more like adminis(not so)trivial.

One thing - I’ve taken down the blogroll (the thing with all the links to other people’s sites on the side).

Relax! It’s not that I’m permanently removing it… no, more like I have this burning desire to reorganize and prune it down to a manageable list of pertinent links. I think, to a degree, I’m living in strange paradoxes determined by the current state of my work at the office. For example, just a few weeks ago I found myself lost in a tightly constricted web of flowcharts. I did, at one point, call this “flowchart hell.” It is a real place, and I was sent there to languish in the land where imagination does not exist. More recently, I find myself stuck in lists, access lists, audit lists… the list of lists can go on, but I don’t want it to.

Moving on, I had mentioned a project a little while back - and while it’s not yet completed, I feel like giving it a brief nod.  It’s a joint project between Z and myself - typing with one hand.

Do you like the title?  I do.  I think it’s neat-o.  Anyway, I’m a little embarrassed as it’s not quite ready yet.  So, I figure giving it some exposure is going to be a slap in the ass and have me scurry along and get writing.  We’ll see; as they say, “watch this space.”

just passing through

Tragic, almost, that the pasta was overcooked. Then again, it was the whole wheat kind (with the extra-chewy texture), so having it a bit more than al dente was fine with me - if this were regular semolina (which surely would have been of the extra-mushy texture by now), I’d have had to start over - but I happily proceeded onward with dinner. Chunky garden vegetable tomato sauce, a small salad of spinach greens and lettuce; a fine Italian-themed dinner for one; but there was certainly enough for unexpected company. Which is why the pasta was overcooked.

* * * * * *

Swiss Miss phoned me from just outside, voice tinny through the speakerphone.

“Let me in!” she mock-pleaded. “I want to see you.”

I left the door unlocked, barely ajar, and returned to the sauce, bubbling away, vegetables soaking in the rich, thick, tomato paste. Everything was on simmer, which was just fine for me - I was in no rush.

I hadn’t heard her enter, pushing the door open and slipping inside. I hadn’t heard the door shut, I had left the stereo playing. Her ballet flats (which she loved to wear) let her slip unnoticed on the hardwood floors, over the rug in the living room, and into the kitchen. She stood behind me for some period of time, unknown, as I watched the bubbling boiling water in the pasta pot, the bubbling simmering pasta sauce, and the bubbling thought bubbles in my mind.

“Oh this smells good,” her voice came from behind me, waking me from a sprawled mess of flowcharts and decision trees.

“You can always fix up store-bought sauce,” I said, stirring gently with a large wooden spoon, freshly chopped bits of mushrooms and peppers bobbing and bathed in the red briny sauce. She peered over my shoulder, surely on the tips of her toes, chin resting on me.

“Mmm,” she let loose, hands snaking around my torso. “I want a taste.”

I carefully lifted the wooden spoon out of the pot, bringing it to my lips to blow on it, cooling it as her head still rested on my shoulder. The steam still rose from the sauce on the spoon, but it was cool enough to taste. Carefully I shifted my arm, only viewing this complicated ballet of spoon to mouth from the corner of my eye. I caught a glimpse of her smirk, and maybe then, I wasn’t surprised to feel a dribble of warm sauce on my shoulder.

“Tsk tsk tsk!” she loudly exclaimed, pulling away from me, my head now able to turn, my neck able to twist, enough to see the twin blobs of sauce now sinking into my shirt.

I sighed, I think, as I really liked this shirt (cooking pasta and sauce in it, I should have expected some amount of mess - I do not wear an apron) and it pained me to have to 1) take it off, and 2) quickly pre-treat it.

Swiss Miss’ eyes were on me, large, lucid, cat-like, as I placed the spoon on the counter, picking up the towel, placing it under the faucet and dabbing at the stain. I adjusted the flames on the stove - barely a whisper of a flame left underneath both the sauce and the pasta. She followed me - eyes, footsteps - into the bedroom where I unbuttoned the rest of my shirt, carefully taking it off my shoulders. She sat on the edge of the bed as I walked around it to the closet, bending forward to pick up the detergent next to the laundry basket.

“Mmmm,” she sounded, pointing at my undershirt. Yes, the sauce had stained through both shirts. “Take it off,” she said.

I placed the button down shirt, cognizant of the stain, on the edge of the bed. I reached around my body and pulled the white cotton undershirt off too, leaving me in just my pants.

Her eyes seemed to gloss over and shine at me in the bedroom, the light from the hallway and kitchen casting a fading ray into the room. Daylight was disappearing outside the window, and it grew into a cast of cold and bluish gray.

“Are you sure you didn’t get any on your pants?” she asked, her fingertip hanging off the side of her mouth, between her teeth. I looked down, but honestly, couldn’t see. I guessed not, but instead told her that I didn’t know. “Well you can’t be too sure - take them off,” she ordered.

Boxer shorts. That’s all that was left on me, as I pulled off my socks as I lifted my feet out of the legs of the pants.

She sat fully clothed on the far edge of the bed, one leg folded underneath her, the other hanging off the side, body turned to face me. Her chest stuck out as she kept her back rod-straight. Her eyes seemed never to blink. Not even as she stared me down, telling me plainly, “Take that off too, [six].”

My hands went to the waistband and pulled down, letting gravity bring the shorts down to my ankles. I felt cold, almost, swirling across my chest, and then again, below my thighs. She watched me, unblinking eyes making the tiniest movements up and down. I knew where she was looking, or at least I thought I did. I twitched under her stare.

With steps I don’t remember taking, my knees bumped the edge of the bed.  Breathing was steady, slow, and difficult.  I allowed my eyes to follow hers, finding myself hard and protruding below.  More gaps - more missing memories - as my hand was on me, stroking, moving up and down in slow motion jabs.

She had stopped making eye contact with me, instead fixed on my hand, my movements, my cock, my arousal, my acceleration.  Faster now, quick strokes from base to tip, curving arcs formed by the swing of my forearm from my elbow.  My cock bobbed in tiny circles, emerging from my grip, head swollen, large, pressing into nothingness.  Air.  Her thoughts (or did she say something).  Maybe.

Did I stop breathing?  Were my eyes closed?  Where was I - what was I thinking about - who was I with?  Rapid-fire questions rattling off as fast now as they did then, as I continued to jerk and pull and tug in front of her, sitting there motionless and eyes wide.

With a gasp, I let loose a shudder.  I think.  Was there something in between I forgot about?  Like blacked out words in a confidential document, the relevant parts are partial and patchy.  I stroked faster and faster, groaning.  I’m vocal, sometimes too much, maybe - loudly and suddenly feeling the almost invisible push from within, and then, I feel like a sound should have joined mine, as I twitched and spurted and cum erupted up and out from me, landing into - was I holding my shirt - in front of her.  Gaps.  No, lots of gaps.

And then there was breathing again, air suddenly found within my lungs, my hand stopped - not that I remembered stopping.

“I…” she began, before exhaling loudly, “really liked watching that.”

“Are you staying for dinner?” I asked, thinking, then, that there would be enough pasta. Enough salad. I could find a bottle of wine somewhere, I think, maybe even dash across the street and down the block if I really had to - no, it is no trouble; stay.

“No,” she said, standing up, still facing me.  “I need to go meet someone now.”

Silent footsteps, out of the room, into the hallway, past the overcooked pasta, and out the door, and then, there was dinner for one.

loose lips, (mis)adventures in infamy

“So what do you do?”

She was half shouting, her voice drowned out in the cover band’s harsh guitars and sloppy vocals. The bartender used that to his advantage, doling out enough shots and pints to cover up the spills on stage. And so it was that I was sitting at the bar, looking onward as my friend did his very best at cornering his prey for the night (by “dancing”). I put on my best “wingman” face and tried to hold the attention of her two companions (they looked like law students) at the bar.

The one asking me the question, or more accurately, shouting it in my ear, had a somewhat short boyish-cut red hair atop lightly freckled skin - I would have to guess that she’s the type who wears “Kiss me, I’m Irish” shirts while drinking you under the table (and dreaming, because I am sure she’s been to see that band at the SPAC a few [too many] times). Sitting on the other side, somewhat facing me, a pale faced brunette whose tired eyes showed me that her interest was fast fading.

Let me tell you something - I’m a horrible wingman.

Something about the concept perhaps - an intentional distraction so another guy can “make his move” - or maybe it’s in the execution - really, maybe I can’t maintain feigned interest? Whatever it is, I end up being a terrible wingman. But my friend was desperate, he even admitted so.

And, so, I took a deep breath. It’s actually harder than it seems to describe what I do. And every time I tell it, it’s like I have to go through a song and dance.

“I’m in finance,” I tell them. It’s vague. It’s generic. It’s the truth, but really not an answer - as I could tell by the looks on their faces. I stood up, turning to face the bar, standing close, speaking to both of them - McKissy scooting over onto my vacated barstool, the two of them close (enough to whisper to each other) and listening to what I had to say. “But that’s boring. I don’t want to talk about work, because that’s not what I do.”

The change-up revived Bored Brunette’s interest in me. “So what do you do?” she shouted - trying to use the same inflection we’d been tossing back and forth like a hot potato.

“Oh, I couldn’t tell you,” I toyed, turning my head to the side and giving the slightest hint of a squint through narrowed eyes. “Besides, maybe you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try us,” McKissy said, huddling closer to Bored Brunette.

“Okay… I like to write,” I said, taking a quick sip of beer, letting it sink in just a little. “Nothing professional, but I consider myself a writer.”

McKissy took it and ran. “Oh so you’re a creative-type? Artsy? Hipster? Not just a suit and a tie?”

“Nope,” I answered, checking if I was wearing a tie. I was. “But I’m probably not what you think either.”

Bored Brunette rolled her eyes. “Uh huh, suuuuuure you’re not.” They giggled, and I let them. “So what do you write?”

I found the answer surprisingly easy to say.

“I write about sex.”

A delayed reaction almost, the two of them ducked their heads and ears turned towards me.

“Did you just say you write about sex?!”

“Yes,” I answered, and I’m sure it was more read off my lips than heard. “I write about stuff, things that happen to me, and write some fiction, a little bit of that here and there.” They sort of sat there, unsure of what to do, my answers unexpected and bordering on the cusp of being creeptastic. At least it wasn’t boring anymore. I spoke again. “So I guess you’re kind of confused?”

The band had stopped, or taken a break, or whatever. The background noise was flooding from conversation and yet the three of us found it easier to focus in on each other. Maybe it’s that we were finally all listening.

“Um,” Bored Brunette started. “Well yeah it’s just kind of weird - like how…”

“Well,” I gathered up what was I could, which is not much. “You know, you can just write about sex, like a man and a woman, and they can get together and fuck, but ultimately that’s not interesting. And it’s the same, everywhere. So that’s not what I write.” I think I was freaking them out. But I went on anyway.

“Okay, so a man and a woman, they kiss, make out, and then one thing leads to another and they’re in bed. But I don’t focus in on that, I write about how his hands grasp her shoulders. How the space between their bodies shrinks to a nothingness, their breath slowly phases into unison before they make the first move, their lips touching together and pressing softly before kissing. They could be naked, they could be clothed, but that doesn’t matter because it’s not about those details, it’s about how an exhaled breath feels against the skin on the neck, followed by lips, mouth, tongue, placing themselves against soft curves, working their way down from ear to collarbone, hips pressing together now, hands searching, finding things to hold, to grab, to caress. There are words you can use like ‘cock’ and ‘pussy’ but ultimately those aren’t the characters, they’re props, and the characters are the feelings and the sensations, the tangible and the stuff that you can’t describe too well. It’s about movement, motion, and maybe even things like love, but I really hate that word, so I try to avoid it.”

My beer was empty, so I reached in between them to place it on the counter.

“All of this is even before the actual sex part, which I mean, you can write a lot about… And it’s not like those cheesy romance novels - with Fabio on the cover - but it’s not like Sex and the City either - because I’m a guy and I’ll leave the shoes for the women to describe. But I’m just talking right now, not actually wri-”

“Hey guys!” A cheery voice broke in from the left, and we turned to see my friend and his target, returning to join us, standing just a little too closely together. “We’re going to, uh, head out over to Union Square, maybe go to [mumble, mumble].”

She could have said the name of any number of martini bars in that area - just a short cab ride away - but more importantly, that’s about where my friend’s apartment was. And maybe we all had code words or phrases or whatever, but it was a hint, maybe none too subtle.

“Okay, well, um,” McKissy turned to Bored Brunette. “I guess we’re going to… what do you want to do?”

I’m not sure if they’d wanted me to say something to them, about them, with them.

I turned to my friend and clapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, I’m going to head out, okay? I gotta get up early in the morning anyway. Take it easy.” I turned to the two at the bar. “Ladies, it was nice talking to you.” I offered my hand like a handshake, but it was more like I was going to kiss their hands, without the kiss, just a squeeze. It was the first time I had actually touched either of them.

I don’t know if I was supposed to get their phone numbers or something - I’m not good at this kind of thing.