the erotiterrorist hates sex blogs

Shon Richards, of Erotiterrorist, has written a post for TWOH and it makes me giddy with honesty.

on increasing numbers

Lately, I find myself crushed by numbers.

I returned to find an overwhelming number of unread posts in Google Reader (my reader of choice). Even now, I’m weeks behind on several of the blogs, news pages, and other websites that I read. Of course a few have floated their way to the top, and I’m up to date. But others, I feel so hopelessly behind.

Emails too, I found, had accumulated. For those people I haven’t responded to - patience, please. I’m whittling my way through these numbers upon numbers… you won’t be forgotten.

I was pleased - very pleasantly so - to be featured in a post by the wonderfully diverse and visually stimulating Sexoteric Blog.  I’m honored, really.  Thank you.

Another aside (perhaps from a mind un-ready to let certain things be written), Liz Wired had written a post for TWOH (that’s “typing with one hand”) - however, it has since been deleted. Contributors there have full control of their posts, of course, and it must have been her decision to delete it. Further investigation finds that her blog, too, has changed - gone. A singular post remains.

Her old posts remain in Google Reader, thanks to its cache, small stubs left and un-linkable, un-readable. A shame for the written word, for it persists long after we are all gone.

uncomfortabler

Well…

The weight of her upper body condensed and pressing down on my chest; her fingernails pressing into my chest as she balanced herself with one hand on me, the other running through her hair, pulling it back and away from her face as she breathed heavily.

We’d tangled ourselves into a mess on the bed, arriving home after a night spent in the company of friends - a “couple’s night out” at that friendly restaurant just a cab ride away. Conversation light and shallow, nothing at all negative, but at the same time, unsubstantial, unsatisfying. Cocktails for the ladies, beers for the men. And of course, with the night winding down, the fragmentation occurring, the gossip between the women playing in a higher tone above the gruff and stoic discussion of sports between the men.

All of this - she was content. Okay fine, more than content. A smile lit upon her lips with me in tow. “We can be a couple,” it said, loudly, to anyone who would listen by looking at her face. At the way our fingers interlocked as I led her, or she led me, out the restaurant, onto the street. As we sat in the cab, her head resting on my shoulder, hand stroking my chest carelessly.

It wasn’t lust pulling me down onto the bed, my shirt half-unbuttoned.

It wasn’t lust kissing me on the lips, breath hard and loud.

She rolled on top of me, her hips pinning mine, hands deftly unbuttoning the rest of my shirt. I pulled her skirt upward, the fabric lifting up and over her spread thighs. Tugging at my undershirt with her fingers, she took a sharp breath as my hands squeezed her hips. She let her body fall forward, one hand landing squarely on my chest with her body weight balanced on it. Yes, we’re at the beginning again.

The hand in her hair now dropped and crossed her body, her face concealed. She pulled at her wrap top, revealing her bra, pulling the blouse off her shoulders and struggling to toss it off the bed. I reached up and squeezed gently, feeling the hard nipple through the pink lacy padding. Her weight on my hips started to cause discomfort. I didn’t mind - the heat starting to soak through the front of my pants, dribbling down deeper with each second.

Allowing herself to fall forward, the mess of hair interfering, we kissed. Her body leaning over mine, my hands quickly at my belt, pants, blindly pulling it apart, grunting quietly, wriggling my way out. Dogged determination got it down and around my knees, my boxer shorts thinly hiding my hardness. She leaned back and off me, to steal a breath, her hips landing again, her panty-covered-pussy suddenly pressing on top of my cock. With her hair covering her face, I couldn’t see her eyes widen or shut or wince.

Weight pressing on my chest. Fingernails digging in through the white cotton undershirt. My hands at my boxers, cock now burst free through the open fly; at her panties, thumb pressing into fabric circling around her clit, then pulling the thin material to the side.

Hot-wet-tight in one thrust.

I can’t say I slipped in, the panties pushed aside not giving me much room. In fact, cutting into the side of my cock with an artificial tightness. My face grimacing as she rocked back and forth, as I pushed my hips up and down - unable to synchronize - unrhythmic - out of tune.

Difficulty in pressing inward, but persevering, jamming my cock into her pussy. Feeling the spongy ridges and textures of her insides, the friction propelling us both further and faster into breathlessness. My hands chaotically pulling at her bra, a strap falling off her shoulder and down her arm, a breast pulled free, a nipple between fingers.

“I love you, [six]!” she spat, the half-exhaled words without control as she began to shake. “Tell me you love m- eeeeaaaah” she cried, each word dragging and crawling itself out.

In a strained sit-up, I bit the skin where her neck meets her shoulder. I managed a muffled sound - a half “mmmph” and grabbled her back with my hands, pulling her body as close as possible to mine, the shuddering of her orgasm rippling through her, my own now coming hard and fast, erupting with a gasp of my own.

The panties still cutting into the side of my cock, I pulled myself out and she rolled off me, falling asleep nestled under my arm. I closed my eyes, but didn’t fall asleep.

recalling your voice

I don’t need to think too hard.

It’s right at the surface - so that’s scary to realize; just how close it is.

Like in a dream, where (supposedly) if you try and read (a book, newspaper, text), it just won’t work (because the wrong side of the brain is active [or something like that] and so all you see are jumbled up fragments) - when I recall your voice, it’s not really that you say much of anything that makes sense.

But it does make sense.

Your voice speaks to me in strange pieces of words and sounds. Phonemes and diphthongs slide to me and they don’t make sense but your inflection does. While I cannot discern what it is that my brain tries to fit together, the tones of your voice speak to me in a wonderful landscape of rising and falling notes; the ups and downs riding along towards the horizon. Steady streams of sounds flowing together and bending softly like grass ruffled by the wind. Pauses where the air is still and the sound silent. Then, times when the sounds plod together and end in one rising note - a question. And then a stretched note followed by delightful jabs into the air - a response, your laughter.

Maybe there’s one clear word, and that then could be stretched to two. Your voice, saying my name(s).

I can hear that, loud and clear.

a brief yet weighty moment

My tongue falls flat on her; it spreading wide, stretching out and dragging itself across the pale smooth skin of her breast.

It’s salty.

I’m holding my weight with my arms, mainly, our bodies touching because they (still) crave the skin contact. But I keep my weight off of her - mindful not to press too firmly down. I’m surprised, then, to feel her arms lower on my back, drawing me in. She cooed that it was okay. That she wanted me to rest on her body, to do what we’ve said we’d do, and that’s to sink into each other, deeply and completely.

I exhaled as my body lay on top of hers, as if the escaping breath could lighten the load.

I cannot see her face, my head turned to the side with my mouth open and my tongue still lapping ever so slowly, but really, my eyes are closed. But I can hear the smiling in her voice.

It’s so nice.

I’m not sure how long we stayed like this, the bedsprings compressing under the combined weight of our bodies. It was some length of time, that there was yet another type of intimacy. With the level of closeness redefined, she slid down, or I slid up, and there was certainly a kiss on the lips, a look in the eyes, and we picked up right where we had left off.

the waking wounded

There’s a moment right before your eyes open:

It’s a strange slice of time, still dark yet mixing in with the last traces of the pictures in your mind. Like the early morning and twilight both sitting precariously on the fence between night and day, it’s dark and light at the same time, as if time could stop, think, and change its mind to go forward or back at will. It’s cloudy, confusing, and comforting. My senses stirring the real and the dream together; my body shifting ever so slightly, such that the sheets and blanket suddenly feel alien and warm.

Her body, curled up in mine. The naked skin of her back nestling against my bare chest. Her ass cupped gently by my hips, our legs folding neatly into each others’. My arm beneath her head. My other arm laid over her torso and softly holding her. That’s how I remember falling asleep - and let’s just for a moment, forget that we’d somehow found ourselves in a state of half-sleep-half-awake-sex during the night, our bodies willing themselves to join while our minds may not have consciously asked for it - and that’s how I remember waking up.

It fades away because my mind slowly swims upward, knowing that it’s only a memory. This bed was foreign, the sheets stiff and pressed - just like those in the oddly small hotel room at the end of the labyrinthine hallway - and that’s what triggered this seductive fantasy memory. That’s what made me suddenly wish to be back in there, to maybe open my eyes and find myself in another time, another place, and another life (maybe).

You see, when I was a child, I dreamt vividly. Other children were afraid of the dark. They were afraid of the monster under the bed, the boogeyman in the closet, and the other creatures out to get them. I welcomed such company. I was more afraid of falling asleep and dreaming. I believed that sometimes I’d wake up and find that the dream had become real. And that kind of half-dream-half-nightmare-half-life was something I struggled with. I never knew what life I’d wake up into.

So yes, in this moment right before waking, I suddenly was afraid again.

Where would I find myself? Everything was fading away like a Polaroid picture in reverse, going from clear captured moment to fuzzy washed colors and blurring into white. What was a dream, and what was real? The consequences would be sitting there ready to pounce as soon as I’d wake up.

I’ve learned that waking up, after finding this quiet, dark, and sad moment, is inevitable. It’s so fleeting, so tragically short, and it will always end. There’s no way to stay or to sink back down and rejoin those vivid dreams.

I started to notice the pain in my chest. Breathing was difficult, and I was later told it was due to several cracked ribs and the bruises left as visible reminders of those internal injuries. Muscles were sore and ached, the dull pains starting to peek around the corners of this fast fading last stand my subconsciousness was making. The quiet hum of the electronics crept in from the background and fluttered into my ears.

And like sand escaping through my fingers, the moment was gone, forever. And with a breath held, my eyes opened.