Thinking of You

I was just thinking of you while I came. You remember the day we had gone swimming when I held you down. You were such a mess from choking. It was lovely.

She’s an ex. We ended badly, not as friends. I had deleted her number, never expected to hear from her again. I don’t know why she sent it. Nostalgia maybe, or as a thank-you. Maybe she wanted to taunt me with what I was missing, or maybe she was just sharing something wanton and wonderful.

I didn’t ask. I didn’t tell her how it made me feel–strutting proud, important, and aroused, with only a touch of bitterness. I didn’t say anything before deleting her from my phone again. Maybe that was the wrong call. It takes courage (or at least bravado) to send a message like that. If I’d sent it, I know the silence would sting.

I’ve left a great many messages unsent. Some I regret not sending, even after years. The “I’m sorry”s and the “thank you”s make up some–it took far too long to learn that those should never go unsaid. But mostly, it was fear. What if I said something vulnerable, something that boiled down to “I’m thinking of you,” and the answer were “why should I care?” What if, ultimately, no one does?

I’ve disappeared from entire social circles, moved states, and changed numbers more than once. Only one friend has ever tracked me down. It is not hard to disengage, when I don’t feel valued. Not feeling particularly valuable makes not feeling valued an easy default. Of course, disengaging means not showing others they are valued too. It can be an isolating cycle.

It’s not one I’m willing to break out of. Sometimes the thought of building intimacy is just as frightening as the thought that it isn’t possible. Fear of either leads to holding intimate thoughts close.

These are a few texts left unsent, presented without context. They won’t ever reach the people for whom they were written. I think that’s probably all right.

The orange trees are blooming. The way you tasted and the way your beard felt when we kissed still hits me every time I smell them.

2005

Remember when you said I could be your Jewish wife? I never thanked you. I know it was a joke, but I go back to that every time I’m afraid it’s not okay to want more than one.

2008

It’s 2:03 on a Monday night. I’m awake. I know you’re awake. The last thing I want is to text you. The only thing I want is to text you.

2013

I hate my skin without bruises. I miss running hands over them, feeling the kind of shabby and well-used that makes one real.

2014

e [lust] #61

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Photo courtesy of Maria opens up

Welcome to Elust #61

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~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Bloggers, please
I Touch Myself
Stunt Porn / People Porn

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Is sex unsexy? A ‘His & Hers’ post
Van Gogh, an erotic author and a selfie…

 

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

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His Desires

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Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Anorgasmia in women
One Week On
chatterbox
Safe Craigslist Hookups
Online Dating: How to Talk to People
Stealth Sex Toys-Stash Management
Last Longer In Bed For Men Naturally

Erotic Non-Fiction

Spicing Up Sex Life
Gasp, Shake, Thank You
Again and Again
Fapping to My Photos and Stories
Did you miss me?
Desire….What happens when you can’t succumb?
Off Balance
On the Sofa
The Solace of My Body
Self Given
Orgasms & Ice Cream
Skid Marks

Sex News,Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Nasty
Jacky au royaume des filles
What makes a sex writer?
Dubrovnik whore as metaphor 4 Balkan politics
Am I Pretty or Ugly?

Erotic Fiction

Lonely observations
Fucking and Being Fucked
The Churning Black, Part 4
A Return to Purpose
Bang on Target!
Polished
Please
My Night With Lilith

Writing About Writing

Words That Shouldn’t Be In Erotica
Transhumanist Erotica: Jacked In

Blogging

Just One Look

Thoughts and Advice on Kink and Fetish

The Hotness Of Cockteasing A Guy In Chastity
My eyes are over here
Submissive Men 101 Facts
Emotional Masochism
The time I made him make me safeword

Poetry

Frame Game – A Lusty Limerick

Events

Diana J Torres- Vagaculation Workshop

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Off Balance

I’m trying not to fall.

It’s one of three things on my mind, and by far the least of them. It’s an afterthought, an annoyance, but I don’t dare forget it for a second. Her face (all gasps and fluttering eyelids), my fingers inside her, and pleaseGod don’t let me fall.

It’s a studio apartment but fourteen feet from her front door to her bed is about twelve feet too far. For a moment she’s a glorious whirl of limbs, letting her hoodie flow to the floor like water while she closes the door. My body is less graceful. I kiss her hard. I’m moving forward, bending her back. A step back brings her up against the wall. She stops. I keep pressing forward.

I’m six feet tall in these shoes, maybe more. She might be 5’2″, if she stood on a phone book. I’m standing straight, looking down at her looking up at me. She half-climbs the sheetrock to bring her face to mine, raising herself on tiptoe with the chair rail gripped in both hands. She starts to wrap herself around me, but I pin her leg against the wall with my knee. We’re balanced on one of my stilettos and the toe of one of her sneakers. It’s a miracle we’re still standing, let alone pushing, kissing, pawing like this.

My mouth is on her throat, all teeth and heat and moans. I’m bent over her like a vampire in a classic film, and just as pale in reflected streetlight. My hands are on her: holding her neck and jaw in place, grazing her thigh under her skirt. She arches her back, pushes off of the wall. I feel my ankle start to turn don’t let me fall, manage to push her back.

“Are you going to touch me or not?”

“Hell, darlin’, this ain’t touching?”

“I mean: are you going to use your fingers or…” she looks away.

“I don’t know. Are you going to ask nicely?”

“If I wanted nice you’re not the girl I’d have brought home.”

I can’t help grinning at that. I’m all leather and spikes from hair to heels. She has a point. I slide my hand up her leg. There’s a moment of surprise when I feel pubic hair–she’s the first (only) girl I’ve been with who wasn’t shaved–before I slide two fingers into her. I move my hand slowly, gently, watching her face. She’s biting her lip, eyes darting to mine and away again. I’m frustrating her on purpose, waiting for her to say something. I’m trying not to laugh don’t dare laugh if I laugh I will fall.

“You’re such a tease.” I love that she makes eye contact.

“This is teasing? What, you want me to fist you, right here?

“Ngh.” She shivers, clenches around my fingers. “If you’re offering.”

I laugh. She doesn’t. “Got lube in the top drawer.” She nods at a dresser a few feet to the left.

“You wouldn’t rather–” I gesture at the bed.

“No. Right here.”

I drag her closer to the dresser anyway. I don’t want to stop touching her while I rummage for the bottle, and I suspect I’ll want something solid in reach to keep my balance. I withdraw a moment to remove my ring and start lubricating. “You’ve done this before?” She nods. “Okay.”

I move slowly, carefully. She gasps, and I pause. “Too much?”

“No, don’t stop.” She’s moaning and writhing and it seems like she’s being supported more by my wrist and her tenuous grasp on the chair rail than the floor. I am grateful to have the dresser to catch myself on. The world collapses. Nothing else exists, only her face, my fingers inside her, and trying not to fall.

There’s a rhythm to this. Slowly, gently, easing into her. She starts talking, frantic and high, swinging from English to Spanish and back again. She’s somehow scrambled one foot on top of the chair rail. She’s on point, back arched like a ballerina. She shakes, gasps. Her muscles clench down hard and I don’t try to move. Then again. Me, slow and gentle. Her, frantic. And again. And again.

“Fuck, I don’t even know how many times I came already, it’s all blurring together.”

“Do you need me to stop?”

A laugh. A volley of Spanish (which I do not speak). Then “Don’t you dare.”

I smile. Somehow we don’t fall, somehow my hand fits inside her, somehow my mouth can reach down to her throat in this position. I’m murmuring in her ear when I can pull my mouth off of her skin. She whispers back between gasps and moans.

“My turn. You have to let me–ngh.” She’s back to Spanish for a sentence or two. “My turn.”

“Are you kidding? You can still form sentences in two languages; I am nowhere close to done with you.”