poeticdesires

the life and musings of a kinky slut

1.15.17 My Fantasy Man

~ who I see when I’m cuming ~

I dreamed you up one day
to soothe my aching heart.
You are the man
who loves me,
charms me,
tames me,
and trains me.
You are the man
I want and need most.

I call you Daddy because
that’s what I want.
Protector, by my side,
though currently only in my mind.
Lover, the best I’ve ever had;
you know what I want
when I want it
even when I dare not admit it.

I imagine you most often
as the classic gay male leather Daddy.
You have their confidence,
their swagger,
yet you want me.
Lately, though, you’ve been in more dapper attire:
vest, pressed pants,
shined shoes, and a pocket watch.
The butler to my young mistress.

No matter how I envision you,
one thing stays the same.
The look in your eye:
knowing my secrets,
plotting devilish deeds,
caring for my needs,
craving me so,
but a hint of terror coloring all.

What will you dream up for me next?

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1.14.17 The Wannabe Busker

~ thoughts from a character ~

How many big stories can you tell? I’ve got lots. Comes from growing up the way I did, with the people I did, and living the life I do. I’m a special fucking snowflake.

Most of my stories are full of shit. They’re real, but consist mostly of all the craptastic ways life can throw a curve ball into your face. I’ve learned to duck real fast.

Most of those wild pitches have been people. It’s hard to really know a person, even if they’ve been in your life for years. Worse still is trying to predict how they’ll act on drugs, or when their devastated or threatened. Huge emotional swings, whether natural or chemically induced, make for tales banked for special occasions.

I sometimes wonder if I could live just off telling all my stories. Write a book, maybe. Or scratch out a sign on some cardboard. “Pay me $5 and I’ll tell you a tale that’ll blow your mind. And, it’s true.” It’s hard to pirate a whispered experience, but I’m sure someone’ll figure out how to soon.

I’m just glad I haven’t inflicted my luck or DNA on anyone yet. Lord knows, no kid deserves the family I’ve endured or the life I’ve muddled through. I like the idea of one of those pretty families, full of smiles and hugs and no debt. Their clean and fake and safe. But, until I start trusting people, I’ll stick to my dive bars, park benches, and quiet library corners.

Stop by some time, and I’ll tell you a doozy.

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1.13.17 Loss Of Control

~ a nightmare from my fucked up subconscious ~

[trigger warning for a depiction of kidnapping and rape]

I woke up cold, in a cave, wet, with sand on my extremities and my face. I wore a ripped long nightshirt and nothing else. I was dazed, disoriented, and confused.

My hands were cuffed and attached to a cable that was bolted to the wall. I guessed it was late afternoon from the bit of Sun seeping in. Waves brought water in up to my feet. It was the chill from what I guessed was the ocean that woke me up.

I tried pulling at the cable, but it would not budge from the rock. I couldn’t grind the cable loose with my teeth; it was made of metal, and the effort would only harm me. I panicked for a moment, fear rising.

And then they came in.

I didn’t know who had taken me, didn’t know how I’d gotten to this place. But as they filed in one-by-one, I began to remember the party, the booze, and the people I had trusted.

To my left was water and sand and rock. To my right, out of my reach, was a metal wall, a metal floor, and a metal door. When they entered, my dread only grew.

She was his slave by choice. She flitted about like some twisted fairy in a nighttime tale. He was her master by consent, standing stoically as she pranced about. Their friend eyed me up and down. He was followed by two more women I didn’t recognize. They both wore freakish grins. The group stared at me. I curled up into a ball, hugging my knees to my chest. I wanted to shield myself from their gazes, and from what I knew was coming.

“You’re ours now,” their friend said.

He approached, grabbed my arm, and unlocked the cuffs.

“And you’re mine first.”

I felt like I was going to collapse, and vomit, and die inside.

He dragged me through the metal door, down a hall, and into a small room. There was a large dirty sink on one side, a well-used washer/dryer combo opposite, and an old toilet in front of me.

“Clean up if you want.”

He didn’t bother closing the door behind him. He stared at me while he pulled down his pants. My guts twisted as I began to cry.

He turned me around, pushed me over the toilet, pulled my shirt up, and began to hurt me. He smeared blood and excrement from his dick onto my face, and laughed as I wailed uncontrollably.

And then I woke up.

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1.12.17 My Sense Of You

~ a poem ~

You smell like oranges,
rinds ripped,
zest tingling,
bright and peppy and alive.

You taste like candy,
savory and sweet;
I wanna gobble you up.

You sound like sex,
but, then again, you always do,
whether it’s your moaning now
or the way you pronounce my name.

You feel like heaven
warm, inviting,
comforting.
Me against you;
you against me.

You look like home.

 

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1.11.17 I Miss You

~ a poem ~

Your hair is shorter.
I guess you got it cut this past weekend.
Before your bangs shaded your eyes.
Now I see them as you pass by.

You never look at me in the halls.
You don’t really look at anyone, actually,
but it feels like you’re intentionally not looking at me.

Your stride is quicker now.
I guess your heel no longer aches.
I’m sure coach and the team will be happy when your doc clears you.

I still have that book you like.
I miss when you’d read to me as we laid in the grass near the soccer field.
We never did finish it.

Mom keeps asking about you.
I think she’s holding out hope that we’ll get back together.
I avoid her questions.

Sam is planning this trip to the ocean.
We’re gonna drive out when it gets warm,
pack food and spend the day in the Sun.
I’m gonna bring that snorkel you gave me for my birthday.
I’ll finally get to use it.
Find some awesome shells under the waves.
I would’ve brought you one back, but, you know.

I’m good.
I guess you are too.
You never look at me,
or talk to me anymore,
but you look good,
so, yeah. Yeah.

Maybe later,
when things are better,
we’ll say hi in the halls,
or sign each others’ yearbooks,
or something.
Maybe.
Later.

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1.10.17 The End Is Coming

~ a meandering string of thoughts ~

My eyes watered many times during President Obama’s speech tonight, moments where I allowed the emotions and gravitas of his words to break through. I soon clamped those feelings back down out of a sense of self preservation. That’s how my head works.

The next four years are not going to be easy. For the past eight years, there has been a president who worked to make the lives of myself, my friends, and my family better. Our soon-to-be leader does not share those goals.

I don’t let people see me cry, but typing this by myself in my room is proving difficult with swimmy vision.

I don’t know what to say. In this moment, I can only feel.
Anger, towards the people who voted for him.
Fear, for what he and his ilk will rain down upon us all.
Anxiety, in anticipation of what the world will make of his ranting and ravings.
Apathy, as I watch this travesty unfold.
Resolve, that I must continue to live my life, no matter the trials and heartache.
Determination, that even if I should falter, I will get back up and push forward.

For eight years, there was a man who looked like my Dad in the White House. I can only be thankful for that significant fact. I lived through the Obama presidency.

Now, it is time to tolerate tradition and move forward.
Resist. Loudly.

~

As he turned to his wife
and his daughter,
and his eyes sparkled
from tears,
I saw what I want
both in my life and for my country:
love, appreciation, respect, and devotion.
Instead, we get Donald.
The gut punch
of November 8th
is a dull ache
that lingers throughout each day.
It will take at least four years
before the pain goes away.

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1.9.17 Spelling Out Goodbye

~ a poem ~

All I ask
Before you leave,
Calling it quits on us,
Divorcing our lives
Ever after, is please
Forgive me.
Grant me peace.
Help me to move on from you
In a way that will matter, that will last.
Just the words will do,
Kindness shown in this moment, a
Last gesture of love.
Mind you, I won’t believe you
No matter what you say.
Only say it anyway.
Perhaps, in time-
Quite a bit of time- I’ll
Remember your words,
See them, feel them, believe them,
Take them into my heart
Undoing the hurt we caused each other,
Vanishing the darkness
Weighing down on me. I’ll
Xerox a picture of a rose
Yellow, for joy and cheer, and hang it on my wall
Zeroing out the emotional debt owed between us.

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1.8.17 Drunk Blogging

I haven’t done this in a while. Yes, I am actually drunk. I killed a bottle of Moscato while watching the Golden Globes (#SoulGlobes #HiddenFences) and then Brooklyn 9-9 on Hulu. Brooklyn 9-9 is fucking hilarious and low key diverse. Also Rosa is hot. And Terry Crews is a walking wet dream.

Casey Affleck is horrible. I hope he gets dragged through the mud like Nate Parker was. But he’s white, so we all know that won’t happen.

Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling are so pretty you want to punch them and then beg for their forgiveness while nursing their wounds and hope one day they like you a little.

Moonlight was robbed. Deadpool was robbed. Moana was robbed.

I drove enough for Uber this week to realistically pay for my bills for the month. I did a breakdown of my bills and divided by four and made that my goal for driving. I’m a nerd like that. Spreadsheets really are the shit.

It is really annoying how I am so good at getting myself off with my Hitachi but when it comes to actual fucking I need a dick on their A-game to get me there. Most of the dick in my life is not on it’s A-game. That shit annoys me to no end. Like, we’re done when you cum but motherfucker what about my nut. Chicks’ nuts matter. This ain’t no fucking Im’ma-Get-Mine-I-Hope-You-Get-Yours bullshit. Fuck, maybe I should just be Hitachi sexual unless I know the dick is top shelf quality with a proven track record of getting me off. I’m tired of sub-par fucking.

People say the weirdest shit when I’m driving Uber. Although it’s not weird per say. It’s the fact of them conversing in such a manner that would lead one to believe that I was deaf. Maybe you shouldn’t say racist shit about your coworkers or scream at someone on the phone. (This was actual screaming. They apologized once they hung up, but I was happy I was carrying my knife at the time.) Just saying. Rich white people rides are the worst. The high pitch lilting white chicks hurt my ears. The entitled older couples who pretend to be interested in me for like five minutes I can do without. My favorite rides are the people who don’t talk or the black/POC fam who actually connect with me as a person. I hate-love my side hustle.

I’m super scared about not getting into med school this year, even though I know that just means I have to try again in the spring. It’s my head being my head.

I sometimes wonder what my life would be like if I were 100 pounds lighter and wore makeup. Soon after that thought floats up, I also realize I would hate such a superficial me. But, then again, she’d probably already be married, baby on the way, in a thriving medical practice to boot. Or sugar daddied, which wouldn’t be a bad thing necessarily.

Some parts of my life are filled with luck, to the point that I feel guilty about it. And then some parts of my life are heaving piles of shit on fire. So, I guess it all balances out.

Should I audio record this one, too. Hmm…

Fuck it.

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1.7.17 Disconnected

~ a confession ~

You were once my best friend. I was jealous of you then, and I am jealous of you now, but not in the same way. Then I wanted your confidence, your presence. I wanted people to see me. Then I was your friend, not a person to be noticed. I was there, but not cared for or about. Now, I see your life and think, “What is the use of mine?” I think, “They have what I want. Will I ever get it?” I think, “Is my life even worth living?”

I know the dull ache of being lonely in a crowd, even when the room is filled with people you’ve known for years. But these people, at some point, stopped being my people. I’m not sure when it was exactly, but it happened. Their names, their faces, and the rudimentary parts of their lives are facts I’ve retained, but our lives are almost completely divorced from each other. They don’t know me anymore.

In my head, I’m screaming. I want quiet and noise, to be a part of the fun yet left alone. My brain struggles to find center, knows too much, wants to ignore it. So I ignore it, and stop myself from screaming at my friends.

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1.6.17 Recounting

~ erotica ~

One (the Meanie) liked pain, both giving and receiving. His favorite part was the sounds. Screams or moans, it didn’t matter. He wanted to hear reactions. He liked it when I begged for his cane, then shrieked from his blows. I liked the black and blue mementos of our evenings.

Two (the Tongue) loved licking, all over me and all over him. He never wanted to fuck in the conventional sense. Oral was his sex, especially 69. He’d let me grind my pussy on his face while pumping his cock in and out of my mouth. Once he ate my pussy up a wall. He was a strong bull of a man. I miss his mustache against my clit.

Three (the Butler) never took off his clothes. He liked me in pencil skirts, no panties, and the tallest heels I could manage. His attire was pristine without exception. I suspected he liked more than just pretty girls. When we fucked, it consistently started the same. I crawled to him on my hands and knees, then unzipped his pants. By the time we finished, his brow dripped sweat but no garment was out of place. I was always naked, and we both were exhausted. He was my favorite.

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