nothing new
reposted for jaqxun:
where credit is due: the art of being a dyke bottom. circa 2001.
Between you and I words are few and chosen carefully. Our exchanges are graphic and raw. Most things go unsaid, cliche would dictate it the language of love. I would argue it the language of absolute hunger, of want and want. Everything spoken trails off into your finger tips, their knowing, the way I am drawn out only for you into a run on sentence of desperate need. Between my legs ink runs.
I have exhausted dozens of lovers searching of someone else who can fuck me right and I have come up empty. This is how I am bound to you and cannot escape; this is the thesis of my sweet resignation. The days between you increase in heaviness until I am crawling towards you. I overcame booze, opiates, methamphetamines, but you are my favorite fix and I am powerless to lay off.
You sleep around and I am in no position to care, but the sight of your touch, even your glance on another woman makes me fierce. Across the room at a party you say you are mingling, but you are touching her shoulder and flashing your bedroom eyes at her, you are flirting. Without tying up my previous conversation, I am at you side, irate. Carefully chosen words: “Where do your hands belong?” At once you comply, cupping my left tit in one hand and sliding the other between my legs. I try to remain stern, but the heel of your hand works the focus out of me. People walk by, knowing better about us by now. When we are touching there is nothing else. Not only do we not care if you watch, we are oblivious to it. Your hand relents and my spine relaxes. You glance over my shoulder at the house.
Inside, my broken record vow, I will not be under you again, dissolves as you creep behind me in bed and hold on. Sometimes I marvel at the physical closeness we are able to attain and I outline you with my mind, all of you pressed into my back. Your gorgeous breasts, often bound with an ace bandage by day, relax against me and are full. You are undoubtedly lean and the tensing of your stomach, your thighs, your forearms is the precursor to the tensing of my breath as it is caught. I beg you silently: Shake it loose.
You spread massage across my back. Maybe every sexual encounter we have ever shared begins this way, the small size of your hands no testament to their strength. My stomach against the mattress, I absorb your touch and wait, the flint cracking in my cunt. There is a particular place on the side of my torso that could be tattooed with the word ignition. You work everywhere but there, an ebb and flow bringing your hands closer and then further away, leaving only a broken promise and your warm breath in their wake. I writhe, my lip all but bleeding between my teeth and the pillow clutched in white knuckles. Certainly this is calculated. The minute I am ready to whip around and hit you for release you dig your mouth into my side and I only see fire.
Now on my back, my wrists overlap above my head. In the beginning you tied them there, but now I am trained. You work your muscled thigh between my legs while your mouth alternately teases and devours my breasts, your pierced and practiced tongue darting across my nipples like so many fishes. When my hands stray to the dark fringe of your hair you relocate them abruptly, and eventually I am clawing madly above my head, searching for something to grasp, afraid already that I will be swallowed if I do not brace myself. My gasps turn to moans as you sink your teeth into my belly and pull, creating testimony in black and blue; you are aware of my penchant for pain. Fucking could be your trade for all the seriousness in your eyes, the focused dedication to the unbelievable lay. As a rule you do not get caught up in the moment and you never lose control, but I notice a quickness in your breath and am driven mad by your slip up: you are excited.
My legs bend at the knee and drop open in anticipation, my heels scrape up and down the mattress until the sheets surrender to the floor. In a choppy whisper I say, “My heart is beating in my cunt”. You press the palm of your hand against my pubic hair, red as the fire beneath it, and wait for my reaction as though it is a test, a measurement of my desperation. You want to know how close I am to the edge. My pelvis thrusts wildly upward and I grind and grind against your hand while you suck on my inner thigh. Your other hand is under me, pressed firmly against my ass, riding the very rhythm you have created.
Slowly, slowly, you lower your face. First it is your breath I feel, and my pitch rises. I am screaming out abandonment in expletives interspersed with your name: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Damn. Shit. Tyler. Tyler. Fuck Me. I arch towards your face and hear you sigh my name just before plunging your mouth between my legs. Helpless to stop them, my hands migrate to your head and press you deeper into me. You work me inside and out feverently, and I can feel the stainless of your tongue piercing at my clit. You thrust two fingers into me, then three, then four, you are relentless, fucking me harder and faster than I think I can handle, I am screaming, whether in pain or pleasure I don’t know anymore. I rise further and further off the bed to meet you, wondering if you can break me open, wondering if you can free me from myself. I do not come, I never do, it’s not the point. You fuck me until I am literally exhausted, until I am purged.
You pull a blood streaked hand from me slowly and I wince. You caress my raw cunt with a gentle tongue, laying a towel between my legs; I have told you the sign of a decent fuck is blood. You slide off the bed to locate a blanket to wrap me in as I am shaking and barely able to breathe. You kiss my neck tenderly, smooth my hair, outline my quivering mouth with your fingertip. Eventually I steady, my exhale evens. You slip a cigarette between my lips and flick a lighter to it with your other hand, and for several minutes we lay wordless, side by side. I am coming down. Your leg is over mine. I cannot move. You extinguish my smoke when I am through. Eyes on the ceiling, I say, “Nobody else fucks me right”. “I know,” you reply, and I fall asleep quickly. You will not be here when I awake.
where credit is due: the art of being a dyke bottom. circa 2001.
Between you and I words are few and chosen carefully. Our exchanges are graphic and raw. Most things go unsaid, cliche would dictate it the language of love. I would argue it the language of absolute hunger, of want and want. Everything spoken trails off into your finger tips, their knowing, the way I am drawn out only for you into a run on sentence of desperate need. Between my legs ink runs.
I have exhausted dozens of lovers searching of someone else who can fuck me right and I have come up empty. This is how I am bound to you and cannot escape; this is the thesis of my sweet resignation. The days between you increase in heaviness until I am crawling towards you. I overcame booze, opiates, methamphetamines, but you are my favorite fix and I am powerless to lay off.
You sleep around and I am in no position to care, but the sight of your touch, even your glance on another woman makes me fierce. Across the room at a party you say you are mingling, but you are touching her shoulder and flashing your bedroom eyes at her, you are flirting. Without tying up my previous conversation, I am at you side, irate. Carefully chosen words: “Where do your hands belong?” At once you comply, cupping my left tit in one hand and sliding the other between my legs. I try to remain stern, but the heel of your hand works the focus out of me. People walk by, knowing better about us by now. When we are touching there is nothing else. Not only do we not care if you watch, we are oblivious to it. Your hand relents and my spine relaxes. You glance over my shoulder at the house.
Inside, my broken record vow, I will not be under you again, dissolves as you creep behind me in bed and hold on. Sometimes I marvel at the physical closeness we are able to attain and I outline you with my mind, all of you pressed into my back. Your gorgeous breasts, often bound with an ace bandage by day, relax against me and are full. You are undoubtedly lean and the tensing of your stomach, your thighs, your forearms is the precursor to the tensing of my breath as it is caught. I beg you silently: Shake it loose.
You spread massage across my back. Maybe every sexual encounter we have ever shared begins this way, the small size of your hands no testament to their strength. My stomach against the mattress, I absorb your touch and wait, the flint cracking in my cunt. There is a particular place on the side of my torso that could be tattooed with the word ignition. You work everywhere but there, an ebb and flow bringing your hands closer and then further away, leaving only a broken promise and your warm breath in their wake. I writhe, my lip all but bleeding between my teeth and the pillow clutched in white knuckles. Certainly this is calculated. The minute I am ready to whip around and hit you for release you dig your mouth into my side and I only see fire.
Now on my back, my wrists overlap above my head. In the beginning you tied them there, but now I am trained. You work your muscled thigh between my legs while your mouth alternately teases and devours my breasts, your pierced and practiced tongue darting across my nipples like so many fishes. When my hands stray to the dark fringe of your hair you relocate them abruptly, and eventually I am clawing madly above my head, searching for something to grasp, afraid already that I will be swallowed if I do not brace myself. My gasps turn to moans as you sink your teeth into my belly and pull, creating testimony in black and blue; you are aware of my penchant for pain. Fucking could be your trade for all the seriousness in your eyes, the focused dedication to the unbelievable lay. As a rule you do not get caught up in the moment and you never lose control, but I notice a quickness in your breath and am driven mad by your slip up: you are excited.
My legs bend at the knee and drop open in anticipation, my heels scrape up and down the mattress until the sheets surrender to the floor. In a choppy whisper I say, “My heart is beating in my cunt”. You press the palm of your hand against my pubic hair, red as the fire beneath it, and wait for my reaction as though it is a test, a measurement of my desperation. You want to know how close I am to the edge. My pelvis thrusts wildly upward and I grind and grind against your hand while you suck on my inner thigh. Your other hand is under me, pressed firmly against my ass, riding the very rhythm you have created.
Slowly, slowly, you lower your face. First it is your breath I feel, and my pitch rises. I am screaming out abandonment in expletives interspersed with your name: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Damn. Shit. Tyler. Tyler. Fuck Me. I arch towards your face and hear you sigh my name just before plunging your mouth between my legs. Helpless to stop them, my hands migrate to your head and press you deeper into me. You work me inside and out feverently, and I can feel the stainless of your tongue piercing at my clit. You thrust two fingers into me, then three, then four, you are relentless, fucking me harder and faster than I think I can handle, I am screaming, whether in pain or pleasure I don’t know anymore. I rise further and further off the bed to meet you, wondering if you can break me open, wondering if you can free me from myself. I do not come, I never do, it’s not the point. You fuck me until I am literally exhausted, until I am purged.
You pull a blood streaked hand from me slowly and I wince. You caress my raw cunt with a gentle tongue, laying a towel between my legs; I have told you the sign of a decent fuck is blood. You slide off the bed to locate a blanket to wrap me in as I am shaking and barely able to breathe. You kiss my neck tenderly, smooth my hair, outline my quivering mouth with your fingertip. Eventually I steady, my exhale evens. You slip a cigarette between my lips and flick a lighter to it with your other hand, and for several minutes we lay wordless, side by side. I am coming down. Your leg is over mine. I cannot move. You extinguish my smoke when I am through. Eyes on the ceiling, I say, “Nobody else fucks me right”. “I know,” you reply, and I fall asleep quickly. You will not be here when I awake.