you could break me
moments like this
you could destroy me
take my heart taut
between your teeth
rip like a cord
like a manuscript
pages of me fluttering
over a cliff
down a hill
in the wind
tumbling
Blog
fashion crisis
Update on the mini-clothes crisis: no problem. All is under control.I went to H&M over lunch and all feels so much better. Maybe that was my problem, I just had nothing to wear.
Trying on some of their clothes really made me realize how ratty mine are (this green shirt I’m wearing must be retired. MUST.) So I ended up buying two shirts & a sweater (oh I love H&M). The sweater is very simple, black, zip-up with a slight collar. I’ll be wearing it tonight for the reading.
One of the button-downs is a very bright red-orange color, a little more bold than I usually wear but it looked goooood. I’ll be wearing that at the queer women’s reading thing I’m doing tomorrow night. The other shirt is a bit more dressy, black with silver pinstripes, paired with a silver tie for the party on Friday. Aww yeah.
Now, if only my suit fits. I think it might be a bit too small. I used to be smaller. I suppose if the suit doesn’t fit I’ll go with black slacks and a black suitcoat … but with a black shirt, that’s three different shades of black and they might not be the same. Fashion crisis!
I love that I’m a men’s size small. After all these years of having to go to multiple stores to find my size, of searching for clothing lines that even create my size, I was just looking clothes for the wrong type of body. Someone really shoulda told me that sooner.
naked on the internet interviews
Public Service Announcement:Hey you! Are you female? Do you look at porn or sex writing or sex blogs online? Audacia Ray wants to interview you for her upcoming book Naked on the Internet.
She needs: Women who use webcams for fun and/or profit, especially as part of one-on-one chat with friends and lovers, as a member of a cam network, or as a supplement to a website. Women who have researched health topics on the internet or participated in online communities about health, especially with regards to the topics of abortion, transgender/transsexuality issues, and disability. Women who have used internet-enabled sex toys (call em cyberdildonics or teledildonics if you like) – stuff you can operate from a distance over the internet.
I know a couple of you regular readers who would qualify here … (Kimi, and Maddie, that means you).
We now return you to your regularly scheduled Sugarbutch Chronicles.
sugasm #57
Thanks to the Sugasm editors for picking a Sugarbutch Chronicles entry as the editors’ choice. This is my second top Sugasm feature! I am in some good company, too, I tell ya.
This Week’s Picks
The Other Side of Hotwifery (http://junohenry.wordpress.com/)
The Blender (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)
Meeting in a Car – part one (http://emergingontheotherside.blogspot.com/)
Welcome to Googlestan! Google Purges Adult Content from Search Results
(http://sugarbank.com/)Editors’ Choice
Desire so overwhelming I could do anything (http://sugarbutch.blogspot.com)
More Sugasm — Join the Sugasm
thirteen and a half times
in the last hour
I only thought about you
thirteen
and a half
timestwice I thought of your legs your thighs clad in jeans or skirted fabric swirling or stockings (god) the way your knees touch when you’re driving the way your ankles curl when you walk – but then I stopped thinking of your legs your thighs the curve of the back of your knee ’cause my attention slips quickly quietly to the s of your spine down your backside – and I get easily distracted there, so I try not to think of your lovely, long legs
three times I thought of your luminous smile, the way your cheek feels like silk, like velvet, like ice cream melting when you’ve just come in from the cold night air
once I thought about twirling you on the dancefloor, leading you in inside-turns and outside-turns, in the sugarpush and the skid-pass and the charleston, circling around each other until we come back into a closed basic and I can kiss you as I hold you close and dip you low
twice I thought about the curve of your hips, the bone of your pelvis and how it fits next to mine like puzzle pieces like the cap of a pen clicks onto the barrel
once I thought of that look you gave me across the room, from the couch, which said, take me and i’m yours and i love you and i wish you were inside me right now and i still feel you everywhere (or maybe that’s what my look said) and I wanted to jump, dive, claw, climb out of my chair over to you, push everyone out of the way so I could taste you, put my hands on your skin, hear to you gasp, breathe into my ear, hold you close
once I thought of the way your fingertips feel on my neck, casual, the way you leave them there while we sit in a circle of friends
twice I thought of that way you laugh when you’re nervous, gentle and slow, while your eyes dance, searching for recognition, searching for someone to see you
once I visualized you in a rocking chair, homemade hippie afgan wrapped around your shoulders, cradling a baby, looking up at me with a look that said, look what we did, or we should do this too, or I’m an aunt, or isn’t this amazing, or awe – I’m not sure what it was, but you looked at me and saw me and I wanted to lasso the moon for you, wanted to sing buffalo gals won’t you come out tonight, I want to see that look again & again, what could I possibly do to get you to look at me like that, I would do anything
then I thought of all the things I’ve said to you, all the ways I want to tell you I adore you, I desire you, I want to know you, want to hold you, want to watch you grow and hold my hands like a stirrup you can step into, hands on my shoulders, so you’ll be able to reach the windowsill two floors up – and that was maybe more about me but half about you too, cause you’re holding your own and you’re holding me and we match blend mix together like a potent chemical combination, combustible, barely contained
thirteen
and a half
times
isn’t very many
considering how many hours
your magic
your trilling, smoky voice
your sweet smile
your raw insights
have taken flight, making nests
inside my canopies
settling in
hour after hour
after hour
Inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt “in the last hour.”Update: featured on the Fleshbot Sex Blog Roundup 08 December. (Thanks Jefferson!)
sex blog roundup: eat it up
thanks, Chelsea Girl! Sugarbutch Chronicles was featured at fleshbot for the 2nd time, with the post craving something sweet:
After minute after exquisite minute of my lips crushed against hers, sometimes desperately crawling into each other’s mouths, bones and muscles meeting, sometimes the gentlest paintbrush touch of only the top most layer of skin, we detangled. I let my arms rise from her body as if they were steam. Felt the echo of her touches. Her fingertips everywhere. Body against mine pressing at every angle. Her leg stretched out, knee over my lap.
what i mean is
when i say i feel the
echo
of you
what i mean is
i feel you
in my skin
in my mouth
for hours
after
echo
of you
what i mean is
i feel you
in my skin
in my mouth
for hours
after
reverberating
when i say you are my
favorite
lover
what i mean is
i have never felt this
electricity
elasticity
strings of energy
between us
pulsing
when i say i’m
already
yours
what i mean is
i don’t want anyone else
i don’t want you
to want anyone else
i want to leave
my mark on you
suck on your skin
a little too long
bite your
tender
shoulder
a little too hard
when i say i
love
you
what i mean is
my heart is the bird’s nest
in which i live
and i am ready
to take flight
i am ready
to give my heart away
i believe deeply
in the tools
of relationships
and i want to use
everything i have
to figure out
everything you have
to watch your heart soar
to hold you up sometimes
to let you in
what i mean is
i want to help you
be the very best you
you can be
because i feel
more like myself
my best, highest self
around you
because i make
so much more sense
when i am with you
everything i am
has built to this moment
to this connection
everything i’ve learned
is so i can survive
thrive
succeed
in this
with you
for as long
as we possibly can
together
together
four questions
- What’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done for someone else?
- What’s the most romantic thing someone else ever did for you?
- What’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever done for someone else?
- What’s the sexiest thing someone else ever did for you?
Bonus: I’m updating my sexmix cd/playlist. What are the sexiest songs to which to seduce, make out, and have sex?
what I haven’t told you I believe about love
that I love freely and with dangerous abandonthat I fall in love at least twelve times a day – sometimes with the same person, sometimes each one is different
that love is a choice and must continue to be chosen in order to sustain
that love and sex are not for procreation or recreation, but for concentration – because there are just too many people in the world*
that divinity is within us, and accessed through practices of loving
that I am at my best when I am naked laughing with you
that I am trusting, sometimes to a fault
that I am fiercely loyal
that I believe in romance like a religion and will gladly offer prayer every time I see the edges of you blur a little bit
that sex play is always of the highest priority, and I will always be late, sleep in, and skip obligations for it
that I have never seen anything more gorgeous than you are right now**
that I live in my heart, nestled down into each chamber with a different story to tell and a different wisdom to hear
that I love too hard too fast too soon, but that is the only way I know how to fall
that most of us have unlearned the innate impulse of how to let the soft animals of our bodies love what they love***
that nothing is forever, but if we can bend together to time’s winds, we can weather anything
that I don’t really know what I’m doing or how any of this works, but I think I’m pretty neat, and I trust my strengths and virtues and vices to carry me through all of these paths that I am walking
that love is never permanent, but it changes me every single fucking beautiful time
references/quotes:
* the film “opposite of sex”
** poet andrea gibson
*** poet mary oliver
a note to her I have yet to send
Did you see the sunset tonight?
It cried your name. Or perhaps that was me. Or perhaps that was the book that I’m reading, which seems to make references to you every couple paragraphs. Or perhaps that’s just me, again, because I can’t seem to quite get the timbre, the resonance of your voice off of my fingertips – though the smell of your skin does seem to be fading from my black tee shirt which I don’t want to remove.
distracting myself III
Her mouth is warm, wet, tightly closed around this penis that is increasingly feeling like part of me. I know the ridges of the roof of her mouth, I know the way her inner lips and tongue are the texture of avocado, so creamy and smooth, not sweet but succulent, smelting. I know the edges of her teeth, the one on the top that is not quite perfectly aligned but makes her smile extra cute. I can almost feel these details through the cyberskin of my cock. The ridge of her mouth on the ridge of the head. Her teeth covered or barely grazing the edge. Sucking. Pulling liquid from deep inside me with the pull of her mouth. Swallowing me.She’s making little noises in her throat as though she’s famished and eating a gourmet meal bite by bite. Strawberries and champagne. Brie and havarti and muenster and gorgonzola. Olives.
I could let this go on, really. Her mouth on my cock. My cock in her mouth. Her hand still on the shaft. She’s kneeling now, feet under her, heel pressed against her own cunt and rocking back and forth as I slide insider her, in and out, in and out. This could go on, just like this, but it won’t. Not tonight.
I tear at her hair, hard, throwing her off balance. I pull her skull back with my fist and push with my hips, guiding her movement. She scrambles, hands reaching, eyes wide, not quite able to get a grip on the floor with her stockinged feet, sliding, until her back hits the wall and I press my hips to her face again. Bring one hand to the wall above her and begin thrusting. She squirms, gasps, cries out a little when my cock goes too deep, pressing her body against the wall and twisting her legs into some sort of half-sitting position after they get caught beneath her body.
Her other hand finds her slit between her legs, wet and slick, clit hard, muscles inside already pulsing. She looks to see if I notice. I do, but my only movement is coming hard from my hips and I let her continue for now. I am glad she enjoys this. She may as well be comfortable now.
And she is, almost. Not quite comfortable, because I’m still inside her mouth on top of her in this vulnerable pose that gives her no room for movement. She can only take my cock however deep I give it to her.
This is when things for me can get dangerous. I will get off from a good blowjob, and she knows it. As desire builds and my brain clears of all clutter, such power mounts in my body that my cock could be steel, the thrust of my hips could be powered by a generator. I can get scared here. I find my eyes rolling back, my body opening, my energy so pointed: I fear I will do something harmful. Want overrides thought and I could hurt her, accidentally, by giving in to this desire, by letting go.
She knows this happens for me. We’ve spoken of it. She has come to expect it at times when my passion builds strong and intense. She’s looking up at me trying to catch my eyes. Holds eye contact for a moment, urging me. Go on. Do it.
distracting myself II
She does. Tenderly, her lips on the pink silicone. Tenderly, her mouth sucking her teeth, keeping her lips closed. Looking up at me under her eyelashes, movement restricted by my hand in her hair, breasts thrust forward, nipples peaked. Kissing the edges of it gratefully, moist cock against her mouth. Her lips brush its ridges, the head of it, the veins running down the shaft.“Please,” she says, “please.” Whispering, barely.
My hand is still in her hair. Her head is beginning to do that blow-job bob movement and my hips are responding accordingly, straining at being held back. My ass is flexing which makes my hips begin to thrust. She is parting her lips, but barely, touching only the tip of her tongue to my cock.
I try to keep my eyes open, to watch this creature before me and the way her mouth moves, the way her eyes look, remembering the way her lips pinch cylindrical with my dick deep in her throat.
“Please what?” I say. Oh I’m mean sometimes. I want to hear her say it.
“Please,” she says again, softening, hearing the growl in my voice. She swallows, placing her lips back onto just the tip, circling, touching it with the point of her tongue. “Please, may I use my hands?”
That’s not what I wanted her to say, but she’s got those big eyes staring up at me, and she asked so nicely. “Yes,” I say. Breathe out. Go ahead.
She does. Shakes her hands and shoulders free from the locked position behind her and readjusts herself on her knees. Circles the base of my cock near my pubic bone and presses into my clit the way she knows I like to feel it. She’s an expert here. She invented this game. It’s hard for me to stay ahead.
“Ohh, that’s good,” I say, involuntarily, groaning and leaning back into her fingers sliding up and down the shaft.
“Yeah?” she manages to mumble, still kissing, not opening her mouth more than a clit’s width.
“Ohh yeah.” I say.
“I want to drink you in,” she says between kisses, fingers still supple and circling me, “take you onto my tongue. Swallow you, just like this.”
Fuck. I tighten my grip on the back of her head, on her hair, and press her lips apart with my strapon. I can feel her jaw open as I press inside; she moans in surprise, and closes her eyes.
distracting myself
Embraced, one hand on the small of her back, fingertips gently on the skin between her shirt and skirt, one hand under her hair, at the back of her neck, touching, wispy, softly. My mouth at her neck. Her jawline. My lips to her earlobe.I whisper: “Get on your knees.”
Her body shudders. Softens, supple against me. She sinks to her knees – willingly, eagerly. Looks up at me with her wide eyes. Lips already parted.
I touch my waistband with my fingers and begin to unbutton, unzip. She moves her hands to assist. I hit them away, almost gently.
“Behind your back,” I say, tone low, consonants hard and deep.
Her chest moves as she breathes in. Moves her arms behind her. Grasps one wrist with the other hand. Keeps looking up at me, her chin level.
My belt clinks as I unbuckle it, metal against metal. I shift my hips to pull the split in my jeans apart. Push down the navy blue briefs and pull out my pink packing strapon, cyberskin, bendable. I wrap my fingers around it and flex it into its long, slightly curved shape. Squeeze gently, feeling the give of the material, the lip under the head of it, the ridges on the shaft. I let my head dip back, eyes closed, pressing the cock against my pubic bone, against my clit.
She’s watching me. Mouth parted, lips full and red. Eyes shifting from my fingers on the tip of my cock to my face.
She is three inches away from me. Two. I put my right hand out, palm up, next to her mouth. “Lube,” I say.
She looks at me like she doesn’t know what I mean, then lowers her eyes to my hand, presses her lips together, and spits saliva onto my fingers. I rub my four fingers with my thumb, spreading and evening the viscus liquid, and take my cock in my hand again, sliding smoothly up and down the shaft of it, my thumb swirling against the head.
She is amused. Watching me, smiling. As though she knows that isn’t enough. She’s gathering saliva, pooling at the bottom of her mouth, feeling it with her tongue and waiting. She knows she’ll get her chance.
I take her head in my left hand, cup the back of her skull like a grip on ball, a game piece. I take a tiny step toward her, my feet barely moving, slightly apart, hips forward. I let the pink dick rub against her cheek briefly, just a feather, and say, “Kiss it.”
Her eyes show a little fear, a little nervousness, but mostly excitement. Turned on and wanting. She makes a move to open her mouth wide and turn her head slightly, but I catch her by the hair and she can’t.
“No. Just your lips. Kiss it.”
Sugasm #50
My post Let go, just let go is the editor’s choice for this week’s Sugasm, “the best of the sex blogs this week by the bloggers who blog them.” Thanks!
This Week’s Picks
Dear Diary – Part One (http://wetbeyondbelief.blogspot.com)
The Lure of Darkness (http://www.easilyaroused.co.uk)
Flash (http://gentlygently.blogspot.com)Mr. Sugasm Himself
50 Simultaneous Bloggasms… (http://sugarbank.com)Editors’ Choice
Let go, just let go (http://sugarbutch.blogspot.com)
birds or boxing
Lately, I’ve been obsessed with birds. Flight patterns. Migration. Wings. Traveling by air. The topography of a bird like the wrist, the bard of the wing, the crown, the mandible, the tarsus, the axillers.Everywhere I go bird references occur. I sat next to a girl wearing the same shoes as me and she says “we’ve inherited our sorting habits from a flock of birds.” I bought a journal made from a 1941 copy of A Field Guide to Western Birds. One night I was out, there was a pigeon family nested on the terrace. My best friend sent me a starling necklace. I very much want a small flock of birds tattooed on my shoulder. I have a ‘flight mix’ full of songs about flying, wings, birds, butterflies, the sky, clouds, rising, flying.
I’ve been flying high for miles. Months. Examining the ground below me for a pattern, a map, direction.But it’s no longer time for flight.
It’s time to fight.
keeping my desire in check
She and I spoke last night. Not Callie, not the ex girlfriend, but the girl I’ve known for eight years whom I went to visit this past weekend. As we talked she was lying on her couch, one arm over her head, one leg over the back of the couch, and I know exactly how that looks. Exactly how her living room is configured.“I can’t stop thinking about your skin,” I said. “About you, naked on your couch.”
“You want me naked on my couch?” she asked.
“Yes.”
And then she was. She said, “You’ve got my hands and my mind wandering.”
We talked about the things we didn’t get to do. Her mouth on my cock. (Why didn’t we do that?!) I wanted to have her in every room in her house, though that would’ve taken some coordinating. I wanted to get my cock out more, and she wanted to ask me to get my cock out more, but got shy and didn’t. I wish she would have. She wishes she would have. Why didn’t we do that? I wish I would’ve been more bold about it.
I guess I still get that twinge of “reproducing the gender/sexual binary,” “women fucking women isn’t about a cock, that’s exactly the point,” and “there’s plenty to do without it” …
Well, lesson learned. I know what I want. At least fifty percent of the time. Maybe seventy percent.
You would think I am pretty good at getting what I want. At asking for what I want, or setting it up. And I knew she wanted to feel my cock inside her, feel my weight on top of her. We’ve talked about this for years, literally. I remember calling her after I bought my very first strap-on. What year was that? 2000? So small, in retrospect, with a vinyl harness. Tsk tsk. I was so young back then. Now, I have half a dozen beautiful cocks of different sizes & shapes and three harnesses, though the one I usually use is a thin O-ring harness because it is very small, and therefore the easiest with which to pack. Plus, the jock-strap style of the thin straps hits my clit perfectly and can actually get me off while fucking, which is incredible. Incredible.
I get hard just thinking about it.
“I like that you know what my cocks look like,” I said. “Now when I tell you I’m putting on my red one, squeezing lube onto my fingers, and taking my cock in my hand, you know what that looks like.”
“Wouldn’t it have been nice,” she said, “if, when we’d gotten home from the battlefield, instead of just fingering me in the kitchen, you’d bent me over the counter and fucked me?”
“Um … yes.” Fuck.
“I’m getting up, I’m moving into the kitchen. ‘Cause now, you know what that looks like. And I can bend over the counter and imagine you fucking me.”
Oh god, this girl.
I cleared my throat. I will keep my desire in check. I will not lose control. “The counter seems a little high. Is it comfortable?”
“Not really. I’m on my tiptoes.”
“The kitchen table might be a better height. It’s glass though, it might be kind of chilly, or sharp on the edges.” I assessed every surface in her house for its fuckability.
She moved to the kitchen doorway. Told me she wants to remember how it felt when I lifted her hands over her head, pressed my hips into her into the door so she couldn’t move.
I told her, if I was there now, I wouldn’t let her linger in the doorway. I would push her onto the table a little too roughly.
She gasped as she laid herself on the tabletop. Her torso was bare, nipples against the cold glass.
“Is it the right height?” I asked. (It is. I already know it is.)
“Yes. Cold.” She whispered into the phone.
“Remember my mouth next to your ear?” I started. “Remember my fist in your hair? Remember how it feels to have me standing behind you, my hand pressing between your shoulderblades?”
I whispered, “I’m going to slide inside you … ”
Tangle my fingers in your hair and grab a fistful. Crane your neck just a little. Watch your mouth open and gasp and your breath fogs the glass, feeling the tip of my red cock against your pink pussy. I’d move the dick to curve down instead of up so it would hit still your clit from inside. Your cheek against the cold, smooth surface. Pushing your legs apart, hand between your thighs, pulling on your flesh, fingers on your outer labia so I can hold you open. Slide inside you slow. Gripping your hip with my right hand. Sliding my arm under you to cradle your waist as I keep sliding in and out, in and out, harder, a little harder, a little faster.I will lose myself in this position. I will lose control. I will not keep my desire in check, I will begin to slide inside faster, hips bucking against you in a rhythm and pattern coming from inside me, a fierceness I never remember I have. After a while it stops becoming even an in-out motion and just becomes me vibrating, grinding hard at every angle, every circular motion, feeling your muscles pull on my cock which pulls on the strap between my legs, rubs against my clit.
Like that. Yes.
And my thighs pressed together, clit straining to be touched, to be pressed against the base of my cock thrusting into you.
Yes, like that. Like that. Oh god.
“Are you touching your clit?” I asked. “While I fuck you? Remember what it felt like to have my cock inside you?”
She groaned. Gasped. Made all those little noises that I knew, that I’d heard next to my ear, whispered into my neck, that I’d pressed out from inside of her.
God I loved making her come. Every fucking time. Surprising, and so beautiful.
One of my favorite moments was at dinner, at her favorite Italian restaurant where I drank too much wine and got her to talk about theatre, about the show she did recently, about what she’s going to do next. She was so animated. Luminous. I just watched her from across the table, her eyes shining, skin glowing, hair tussled from all the sex.
She had excellent after-sex hair. All curvy and full of waves and body. Mine was horrible: typical boycut-number-four which goes flat and gets cowlicks if it isn’t carefully sculpted.
She said one of her favorite moments of the weekend was when we were at the rock show on Saturday night. It was hot inside, though cold outside, and she carried her thin jacket until I took it from her, folded it gently and draped it over my arm. Held it for her all night.
Later, back outside, I held it for her while she slid her arms into it. She said felt taken care of. Like a girl.
And I felt butch. Tough and indestructible and oh-so-honored that this beautiful creature would even consider letting me hold her jacket (let alone all the things that I was to do to her later that night). I wanted everyone to see that I had taken it from her, that I was holding it for her. I kept one hand on the small of her back, kept touching the hem of her shirt, feeling the knitted fabric between my fingers. Remembering how the folds of her labia felt just as soft.
She also said there was an alley outside that building that would’ve been a perfect place in which to fuck. Damn, if only I’d known.
It’s been hard to separate from her since I’ve returned home. But she knows I am in no place to give my heart away. She knows my limitations.
She’s reading this right now.
southern hospitality – part one
The first time, she said no one ever made her come from inside before. Over the next fourty hours, I did it somewhere between nine and thirteen more times, inside and out; we lost count, the nights melted together.Desire pooled between us and the contours of our bodies were gutters, runoffs, ditches in which it collected and flowed: the line where her thighs touch. In between her breasts. The undersides of my wrists. The place where my pink and red cocks (which are my favorites) press against my pubic bone.
I didn’t get to fuck her strapped on as much as I’d have liked to (which would have been every time). I get shy about my cock sometimes. So much wanting. It’s embarassing to want something so much. Plus, there’s that moment, if I haven’t pre-planned by packing, that I have to get up, disrobe, pull on the harness, slip on the dildo, suit her up in a condom, and then come back to the open wanting girl watching me, waiting. And when I get back to bed I feel like I have to start all over again with foreplay instead of just stickin it in, which is my impulse.
On Saturday, I did pre-plan, and packed after my morning shower. We walked the dog walked around a civil war battleground while I hid my pink packing cock. The tourists stared at me (so obvious) and I stared at her. Watched her body move. Left my hands in my pockets most of the time to conceal the bulge. Did she know I was packing all day? Did she know when we walked off the path into the woods onto the rocks that we could have fucked right there, that I was envisioning her on her knees, sucking my cock through the zipper of my jeans?
I’m not sure when she discovered I was packing. After the walk I slid my fingers into her in the kitchen up against the counter and I think she felt it with her hands. Yes, I know she did. That was the third time I made her come and I knew then what she would do, how her body would fold and buckle, how her fingers on my wrist meant stop – but don’t pull out yet.
She just kept letting me take her, whenever I wanted, where ever I wanted, so I did. I wouldn’t usually be so bold as to push her skirt up to her hips and finger her in the kitchen. I wouldn’t usually assume it was okay to fuck her in the middle of the day, twice, three times – I would think about it, I would wish I could, but she would give me a look that meant stop you’re being inappropriate and I would shirk off to my corner, obedient.
But we didn’t have much time. Barely over fourty hours together, and I wanted every minute to count.
And she didn’t do that. She didn’t turn me away. In fact, she just wanted me more every time I put my hands on her electric body. Conducted her like a gold-plated wire. Completed the circuit and she flowed into me every time I touched her.
Every time I kissed her: forget it. At first it would just be a kiss, just good morning or okay I’m going to take a shower now or thanks for making me that delicious pesto-tomato grilled cheese sandwich but then it became oh god and please do that more, again and if you don’t stop I’m going to take you right here right now. And of course she didn’t stop. So I did take her. When I wanted. Where I wanted. How I wanted.
I told her I would try to restrain myself. She said don’t.
I did fuck her with my strapon that day. I lose myself when I’m fucking that way, different than when I am using fingers or lips. I forget about her pleasure and concentrate on mine. Concentrate on the tight ring of her cunt around the ridge of my cock, how her muscles pull and press. I make noises I wouldn’t usually; instead of listening to what her body wants and the sounds her mouth makes, I’m only feeling the thrust into her. Groaning with the pressure building in my cunt. The way it feels when she squeezes.
Later, I had her from behind bent over the bed, fingers inside her – again my fingers inside, always I was slipping my fingers inside her, searching for something, for life, for that clitoral ridge, for her soft spot, pulling rubies from her cervix – left hand on the back of her head, in her hair, pushing her into the bedspread. Yeah. A little bit harder.
That may have been my favorite part of the day.
That, and later, when I went down on her for hours. That, and when I pressed her up against the door in the kitchen, kicked her legs apart, held her hands above her head. We were expecting guests but she said, memorize. Memorize this right now.
That was Saturday. I was only getting started.
in no particular order
things I would like to do with you
-
dress up. take you to your favorite restaurant and order for you. share a fancy bottle of wine. talk all night and take our time with a long, lovely meal. order a decadent dessert and two forks.
-
hold you while you sleep. your body curved in my arm against me. breathing in your dreams.
-
fuck you, and make love. perhaps at the same time. perhaps sometimes one right after the other. more than once. more than three times. your back against the wall, on the table, bent over the bed. legs wrapped around me as I come inside you. your head back neck exposed mouth open body open. fingers clasping my shoulderblades. gasping, both of us gasping, breathing in sync, hearts beating in sync.
-
make you breakfast. watch you stumble downstairs sleepy-eyed in the morning light, skin still lucent and luminous from the moon through the window way past midnight. make you pancakes. eggs. fresh orange juice. coffee. watch you wake and greet the world.
-
laugh with you. meet your friends. play with your dog. push you on a swingset. watch you fall asleep on my lap while watching a late film. carry you to bed and pull the covers around you.
-
maybe you’ll hold me while I cry. is that too much? I am currently a tsunami beneath the surface of glass. I worry about breaking the facade for fear of the gush of rushed emotions that will come. it may happen with orgasm regardless. this may be why I won’t be taken so much as I will take.
"a terrible New York story"
Alright, I have a question: what sucks more than losing a mattress off the top of a truck while driving over the Williamsburg bridge from Manhattan to Brooklyn?’Cause honestly, at the moment, I can’t think of anything.
… And the fucken mattress wasn’t even mine. It was my sister’s friend’s, who has been subletting her apartment and was going to put it into storage, but instead gave it to Bee on loan while she’s still out of town. The mattress was brand new. King size. And very, very nice.And it just slipped right off the top of the truck.
Yes it was tied down! Yes it was bungeed to the truck in multiple places. The friend driving the truck said he’d moved mattresses dozens of times, maybe he just got cocky, but it just didn’t make any sense, it was the same way he always moved them. Same truck. Same tie-down method.
The mattress was on first, then the boxspring, the bottom of which we punctured to loop bungees around the beams inside of it. The mattress somehow slipped out from between the boxspring and the truck, and the boxspring, still tied to the truck, dragged behind us for a few hundred yards (I would guess). So, we did rescue the boxspring. And structurally, it’s sound. But the netting on the bottom is destroyed.
Before we saw the mangled mattress, when we still thought we’d stop on the bridge and stuff it into the back of the truck, I said, “well, this is a good New York story!” We were laughing. Shocked. He said, “Yeah, but let’s make sure it has a happy ending … otherwise it’ll be a bad New York story!”
We noticed almost right away, but it was too late. We had to turn around, go back over to the Manhattan side of the bridge, and come back over, only to discover the mattress was no longer a mattress at all and was only fabric at the side of the bridge.
Holy crap.
I probably wouldn’t even believe it if I hadn’t have seen it.
We didn’t really know what to do. It would’ve been so dangerous to stop in the middle and try to retrieve it, so we left it. I feel a little bad about that, but it was no longer anything remotely close to a mattress.
I am so grateful nobody got hurt.
But I can’t believe I somehow – accidentally! – destroyed a beautiful, new fluffy mattress. I have no idea how much it was worth, but we’ll have to replace it. Bee’s friend was too poor to stay in New York City and was saving up money at home for a while, which is why she was subletting.
[Every time I write “subletting” my hands try to write “submitting” instead. And as much as I’d like to pretend that’s all about sex it’s probably actually about writing and submitting pieces to magazines and such … ]And I can’t believe New York just drives right on – it didn’t cause a traffic jam, didn’t cause an accident, the poor mattress just got caught under the wheels and eventually pushed to the side.
What a week, oh my god, what a fucken week I’ve had. I haven’t even told you about the people who found my cell phone inviting me in for scotch & chocolate cake, or how I spent Sunday at the emergency room with my sister, and I only barely touched on the poet who saved my life on Monday. And I’m going down south on Friday to visit a girl. Oh my my, what a life, how did this become the one I am living?
So, it reminded me of Madeline’s mattress fund. My sister and I – and the friend who was helping me transport the mattress – are all quite broke these days. We don’t really know what to do. Any suggestions on how to replace it, and how to get a bed for Bee rather quickly?
the day after the explosion
Thanks, Chelsea Girl and Viviane. And all you new folks, welcome. More sex posts:
I fantasize about kissing you
… it could have
Break-up Aura
Want (A poem in progress)
An excerpt from something upcoming (this is a good one)And, in case you like the dyke drama & sex that’s happening here: Subscribe to this blog’s RSS feed with Feedburner
a kite who let go of the string
One last thing about letting go: I don’t do it. Especially not with someone new.
Sometimes I can lose myself in a good fuck, sliding inside a girl like there is some sort of salvation inside, if I could just get deep enough, but I don’t allow myself to be entered, not that deeply, not enough to give someone else salvation. Perhaps I’m not built that way. It too often feels like invasion.
So when fingers inside me found a place lodged thickly, took my cervix between swirls of fingerprints … I wasn’t really sure what to do with myself.
And she said let go … just let go.
And her voice sent me soaring, like a kite who let go of the string. I discovered what the blue sky felt like on my tail. Wrapped it around me.
Let go … just let go.
And my body bowed, enough to feel pulled tight, bone against muscles against skin. I often use the phrase “to the edge of my body” to describe what my consciousness does when I’m fucking. Like any physical activity – running, yoga – what I mean is that I am no longer balled up in the back of my mind but rather am just as conscious in my little toe as I am in my lips and my chest.
I get so lost in my head sometimes. Reuniting with my body feels heavenly. Holy. And through sex it feels sacred. To quote a favorite poet of mine, “this is the sweet glory reason for a body in the first place.”
It takes a lot of work for me to get off. Don’t get me wrong, I love it when someone goes down on me – in fact that is my favorite way to come. Well. That, and having a blow job. And while fucking a girl with a strap-on, which sometimes, I can actually do, if I get the angle right. But most of the time, I get tired of trying so hard and whomever is between my legs gets tired and I let it go before I actually get off.
When I am patient enough to let it happen, the intensity of orgasm is unparalleled. So unlike anything I can do for myself. Though I – like many of us, I imagine – am fairly skilled at getting myself off quickly, I have yet to master getting myself off thoroughly. Or thickly.
I don’t have the right phrase for it. It’s the difference between a single pulse-and-release of an orgasm and having my spine shudder and tear open, like I can feel every drop of water that made me, every molecule buzzing and humming and spinning around singing, opening …
Okay, without waxing poetic here, I’m not sure how to describe these two orgasms in my body.
One: A single pulse, sometimes lasting for a few seconds. Most often, a contraction and release that happens once, a tightening of my muscles originating in my cunt, a tensing throughout my body. Then it’s over, and my cunt is sensitive, clit so sensitive she doesn’t want to be touched. This is what happens when I lay down, read some erotica, jack off. Or when I don’t get much forplay. Or when I just don’t care.
Two: A slower build. Lots of mini-peaks of pleasure on my way up to The Big One. Like earthquake tremors. And when it finally happens I’m clenching everything: fists teeth thighs, not realizing I’m strangling this lovely person going down on me. Tightening and trying to remember to breathe, for ages, minutes even, my entire body coiled tight and pressing so hard against anything I can find – the headboard wall pillows mattress, pressing my arm over my eyes (I always do this, not sure why, I think it must be an impulse to be blindfolded, block out the light). And there is a plateau here where I could stay for moments, full minutes, as though my body was a string and the tongue on my clit is plucking it softly back and forth, vibrating. And I’m just shimmering.
This is the place I wish I could stay. Sometimes, I can.
My mouth is inevitably open here. Open in an OH, eyes squeezed shut, or not, trying frantically to watch, gain eye contact, see lips tongue electricity sparking from between my legs.
But then it all breaks, and I scream with the intensity, often yelling, crying out, noises bursting from me accidentally. What happens in that moment? I think there’s one more muscular contraction/vibration before the tension breaks and sometimes, there’s such release that I cry.
This is not to say that there aren’t orgasms in between, certainly there are.
This is not what happened on Saturday night, but it could have. I wasn’t really going to allow myself to get taken in that deeply that night. But this was the first time in years – four years, maybe five – that I have felt on the verge of one of those orgasms. Felt the possibility of that orgasm existing in my body again.
(Thank you for that.)
I am still getting used to feeling sexy again. I have always, since before I can remember, been so sexual, so experimental, that to have that absent in my life was like losing my life-force, losing my creative drive, losing my pulse.
Last night I saw a poet who reminded me why I am alive. Why I am here. Why I am interested in voices that bounce off of ceilings, in microphones, in ink scrawled on paper or backs of hands or napkins or any available surface.
Today, I am broken. Hit square in the chest with a rubber mallet, bruised plum-purple and crackling at the edges. Sore in my joints and stomach and neck. As though I ran a marathon yesterday. As though I had marathon sex all night.
But really, my heart is opening. Peeking out into the world again. And I’m so, so sad today, seeping a little, soggy and sore.
Because one of the things I realized at that party, making skin-to-skin connections, is that my life is interesting. I do interesting things with my time. And I really want to share that with someone – with people, with friends.
And that, even moreso perhaps than the number two orgasm, is what has been missing from my life and from this relationship that is still ending every day.
let go, just let go
I adore the sounds a girl makes when she’s being fisted. Gutteral, that’s why that word was invented, to describe the sounds from her mouth, her throat, her chest, her belly, her cunt. Such deep noises coming from the center of her.
It didn’t start as fisting. It started as me, strapped on, fucking her, her on her back, me above her, her knees bent, pulled back, held to her chest, calf on my shoulder. But there was some place in her I wasn’t reaching, she kept pressing against me to make my cock hit just the spot, my cock which was really her cock, her strap-on, because I did not come prepared. Her cock wasn’t very large. Slim and decent, sure, but nothing I would call thick.
I turned her onto her stomach. Hips bent over the edge of the bed, toes on the floor. Spread her open with one hand pressed her hips up into that perfect little spiral curve and slipped a finger inside. Two fingers. Just to find the angle, the placement, the mark where my cock would be going. Instead I found her open, so open, opening wider as my fingers moved deeper, three fingers, four, slid in so easily and still hadn’t filled her. I didn’t ask for her permission, didn’t tell her what I was doing, I assumed she could feel it and I tucked my thumb under, pushed inside. Easily. Slid in to my wrist.
And she was filled. With me, my fingers, my palm, my thumb, my wrist.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt a girl’s cunt open like that before. Lock-and-key open. Dark clouds parting to reveal blue sky open. There is a certain point in the … orgasm arc that they do tend to open deeper, pull my hand cock tongue in even further, but oh so rarely do I feel a girl making a space for my fist inside her.
What a feeling: my whole hand inside her body. This hand, the one I’m using to type. Such connection happens when I can feel every ripple of her body from inside. How her hips gyrate and buck. How her stomach contracts. The noises from her mouth that begin where my knuckles touch muscle and press.
I took her clit in my left hand and attempted, tried, cajoled, but I don’t think she came. She certainly had a release, of some sort, but I think she may have been generally too overstimulated. That’s just a theory. An observation.
Slid out of her slow. I didn’t want to let go of her for a long time after.
That was definitely my favorite part of Saturday night, though the caning, the candle wax, the rope binding, the orgasm that nearly made me cry, and the pigeon family nested on the balcony were also very notable.
I can still hear her whisper, in my ear next to my cheek, her skin so fucking smooth, “let go. just let go.”
postscript: about the apartment
ps, my new apartment is amazing. Bee and J. spent the last two days (while I was at work) building a loft for the smaller bedroom – the ceilings are so tall, it turned that room into three rooms. They discovered yesterday that we have a pretty amazing view of the Manhattan skyline from our roof, and since we’re on the top floor pretty much only we have access to it. Bee has great taste in furniture and appliances and such, she loves to eat good food (she is studying to be a nutritionist, after all) and we’re slowly getting things together. She’s really fun and excellent to be around, and even though we’ve never really known each other as adults, and haven’t lived together for 10 years, I think this is going to be a really wonderful place – for both of us.
for Ally, because she kept me up late last night
tongue
to the back of your knee
ankle
to the top of my shoulder
waiting
for that moment of permission
to slide inside
slide inside
palm
to the camber of your back
wrists
to the wall above your head
waiting
for the telling luminescence
in your eyes
your eyes
lips
to the fragility of your clavicle
teeth
to the tenders of your earlobe
waiting
for the pulse of your hips
waiting
for that ring of fire
waiting
for that shudder of muscle
to make you mine
make you mine
an excerpt from something upcoming
Her tongue on my clit. Soft, so soft, and exquisite. Circling rhythmically and I’m straining at every pore of my skin, willing every nerve ending to move between my legs to feel more.
Then, her fingers pulling at the piercing in my right inner labia, pinching the skin where the metal goes through, and her tongue, her tongue, I feel her tongue on my lips, from her fingers, moving up, pushing apart the slick folds of skin and finding that ridge under my clit where I could lay still poised on her tongue for hours if she let me.
It is not often that I allow myself to be exposed, taken. In fact, it is rare to fuck without my cock strapped on, my safety shield, usually impenetrable. But, tonight, Calley asked me to let her take me.
And now I can’t feel anything but her fingers sliding inside my cunt slowly, her long fingers, three, four, I could take her whole arm inside me, to the elbow, and her jaw is still hinged open with the tip, the length of her tongue on that spot, under my clit, sucking and moving back and forth and my eyes are rolling back, and there is nothing, no feeling at all, except her open mouth between my legs.
In a rare moment of disclosure, I told Calley over blue martinis that I’d once been full-body bound. Told her if I could have anything, it would be that again. Full-body binding and not even an orgasm, necessarily, just being wrapped held tight safe for a while.
“Oh,” she’d said. “If I had you full-body bound there is no way I would resist making your body … sing.”
“It’s hard, I’ve found,” I said, staying cool, staying calm, speaking logistically as if we were discussing a recent film or bicycle repair, “to have the right access with rope. Leaving the right places exposed is tricky.”
“Oh?” She says again. “I wasn’t thinking about using rope.”
… Excerpt from the upcoming story, with full knowledge that my anonymity is fragile and not very veiled. The story involves plastic wrap, hot wax, and an ice dildo. Posted simply because there needs to be more sex on this blog.
just wrap tongue over cunt
I just heard that a new story of mine was accepted into an erotica anthology due out in the spring … so having just ran across WordCounter, I combined the two.Here are the words most frequently used in my 7-page, 2,700-word story.
| Word | Frequency |
you cum like a girl
I’m being eaten alive
… by bugs. I have bugbites everywhere. Small raised dots all along the arches of my feet. Silent predators taking bite after bite of me and leaving me with small memories of the torture. Beneath my clothes my socks inside my shoes, quietly nagging me, reminding me of the discomfort, of their small triumph over my skin.
And, of course, my bug bite salve is in my storage locker, along with everything else I own.
So all I can do is scratch the itch, and try not to break the skin.
who am I to talk of love?
One of my best friends in the world is getting married over Labor Day weekend and I’m heading back to the West Coast to be his best (wo)man next week. We are both performance poets, met in a performance poetry class in fact, and he has asked me to write something for the wedding ceremony.Right now, I feel like I am the worst person to give any sort of relationship/ committment/ marriage advice or poetic waxing to anyone in earshot, let alone at a wedding of someone I deeply care about. What do I know about making love stay, about sustaining a relationship, about falling in love? I feel like an amateur. I barely have any of this figured out.
I’m jealous of their relationship and committment sometimes. And I know them both well enough to know that I am going to learn so much – about relationships, life, love – from the way that they stay committed to each other.
So I don’t have to give relationship advice – or deep insights about love and marriage and commitment. Okay. But then, I guess my question is, what the hell do I say?
I’ve been a bit obsessed with theories of love in the past five-ish years. I have read and do own A Natural History of Love by Diane Ackerman and All About Love by bell hooks and If the Buddha Dated & If the Buddha Married by Charlotte Kasl and Against Love: A Polemic and any other books on love that I could get my hands on, really, including the occasionally cheesy self-help variety (which I actually read frequently).
I’m thinking I’ll start there. Perhaps I can pull some quotes or ideas into one coherent (short) piece and that’ll be enough. General observations about loving, nothing too specific.
I don’t know. I’m working on it.
reset: intentions
I’m bored of all this breakup stuff. Sugarbutch Chronicles was meant to be a sexblog, exploring desire and distance and kink and other fun stuff, most of it (probably) fiction. So I’ll do my best to get back to that.I know some of you who are reading this are friends of mine, following my breakup here, but, well, you’ll just have to ask me for the latest dramaupdates. I’m boring myself with all this heartbreak. This ‘persona’ of mine – Sinclair – is supposed to be a player, experimental, slutty. Let’s get back to that.
delivered, unintentionally
Today, I saved a little fuzzy yellow caterpillar in Rockefeller Center. It was be-boppin’ along on the (cement) stairs trying to climb the (cement) building next to the (cement) sidewalk just off of the road, in a high traffic place, going the opposite direction of what little (meticulously planted) foliage was nearby. So, I scooped it up and let it off on a leaf. Perhaps that will save it from being squashed by some tourist’s unsuspecting shoe.As I walked along the trees (wrapped in holiday lights) and shrubs and ivy growing along the edge of the Center, I noticed that there were dozens of birds foraging for food (read: grubs) in the same foliage planters.
I may have delivered the poor thing into the beak of the enemy.
flight and migration
A red balloon tattooed on the side of my lower right leg. Small, simple, looked like it was floating, maybe the string wrapped around my ankle a little bit. That’s what I visualized clearly yesterday, randomly. Perhaps a little shadow of a person holding the string on the back of my ankle. I have a few tattoo visions really, though I’m not sure if I’ll ever actually get one. Those with tattoos say they’re addictive.The other one I want right now is a (small) flock of (small) birds (starlings perhaps?) on my left shoulderblade, with one perched, not flying, more on the chest side of my left shoulder.
Apparently, I am being drawn to flight.
The ABCs of Intimacy
an article my mom forwarded to me this week. Thought you might like it too.
The ABCs of Intimacy – a toolkit for getting closer
by Nina Utne, page 56 of Nov-Dec 2004 issue
During nearly 24 years of marriage, my husband Eric and I have picked up a few relationship-saving practices. Though we learned them to help navigate our marriage, they are useful in any relationship.
The Art of Apology. An effective apology begins with a sincere ‘I’m sorry.” Don’t bother with excuses or explanations until you know your apology has registered.
The Re-Do. If you blunder into a delicate communication, request a re-do lest you dig yourself in any deeper. When you’re granting a re-do, let your hackles down and listen as if for the first time. (It’s also a good idea to offer the option of a re-do if someone is flailing too much to request one.)
Freeze-Frame. You may have heard the saying “Be still and know.” When you practice Freeze-Frame, a stress-prevention technique devised by the Institute of HeartMath ( www.heartmath.org), you simply stop so you can evaluate a situation more clearly, become still inside, and frame the moment. Then, focusing on the area around your heart, generate a positive feeling. Using your intuition, ask your heart for an answer to the stressful situation. Most importantly, listen to what your heart says.
The Faithfulness Verse. During a particularly low moment in our marriage, I issued a desperate silent plea for something, anything, that might lift us out of the mire. At that moment, a piece of paper that had been tacked to a bulletin board wafted to the floor. On it was Rudolf Steiner’s Faithfulness verse. It isn’t about sexual faithfulness, but about the dogged commitment to see what is best and highest in those around us. Eric and I said it out loud together every night for a year (sometimes even over the phone when one of us was out of town), and we still say it sometimes. I swear it works a potent alchemy. Here it is:
“Create for yourself a new indomitable perception of faithfulness. What is usually called faithfulness passes so quickly. Let this be your faithfulness: You will experience moments, fleeting moments, with the other person. The human being will appear to you then as if filled, irradiated with the archetype of his/her spirit. And then there may be, indeed will be, other moments, long periods of time when human beings are darkened. At such times, you will learn to say to yourself. ‘The spirit makes me strong. I remember the archetype, I saw it once. No illusion, no deception shall rob me of it.’ Always struggle for the image that you saw. This struggle is faithfulness. Striving thus for faithfulness you shall be close to one another as if endowed with the protective powers of angels.” -Rudolf Steiner.
Be Nice. Don’t underestimate the power of simply being kind. John Gottman, a psychology professor at the University of Washington, has developed an uncanny ability to predict which marriages will dissolve based solely on the number of kind and unkind interactions. His formula? When the ratio falls below five to one, sound the death knell.