poeticdesires

Hair, Down There? December 8, 2013

I hadn’t heard about No Shave November til there was random mention of it on my Twitter feed a few days into the month. A few of the people I followed were participating for various reason.

Since it was only (I think) the 3rd, I thought about what body hair meant to me. Should I try the challenge?

I viewed shaving less in a feminine light and more in a basic grooming practice scope. I don’t like the feel of my legs with hair, nor do I enjoy the scratchy tickle of my underarms with hair. I shave those areas as much for myself as for the people I wish to see me naked.

But my pubic hair…

When I pondered my relationship with my pubic hair, much came to mind.

I recalled a passing line in Story Of O mentioning how Sir Stephen pulled O towards him by grabbing her nether locks. O later silently lamented, worrying how Sir Stephen would react after she was required to shave her pubic hair.

In How To Be A Woman, Caitlin Moran describes how her pubic hair is a small bush that, when patted, has a bit of a bounce to it.

I once had a conversation with my Ex while we were in the middle of our relationship. He didn’t want me to shave my crotch anymore, at least not every day as I had been. He didn’t like the look if it so bare, but was perfectly fine with a little stubble.

For a time, shortly after college, I tried plucking my pubic hairs. It hurt so badly, yet I often removed at least a third of the hairs before I fell back on shaving the rest. I didn’t realize I was a pain slut at the time, but it is one of those instances I look back on and realize kink for me was less chosen and more just a part of my brain.

With those and other thoughts meandering in my mind, I tried it. For the month of November, I did not shave my pubic hair. This was a semi-significant change for me. I attended two separate events where I knew I would play with people who knew my grooming habits, or at least had seen my cunt relatively enough to possibly notice the difference.

I made this decision with some trepidation. How would the people sticking their fists and dicks into my pussy react? Would they find it unappealing? Not care? Or, indeed, find it hot? Would anyone mention it? Could this one grooming choice spark a conversation on sexuality, or maybe open up a new way avenue for our sex?

Much to my surprise, my grooming choice was met with nothing. Nothing changed about my scenes or the sex. No mention by anyone was made of my choice. I almost wonder if anyone noticed. I was fisted and fucked, having a grand ole time, with no difference in our interactions.

What I did find, much to my surprise, was how much I liked not shaving my pussy. During masturbation, I liked gripping the hairs and pulling my lips. I liked the feel of playing with the hair, twisting the strands. My pubic hair has gotten quite long, about a half inch at its most lengthy.

Having spent the month of November with a furry pussy, experienced getting fucked and fisted, as well as pleasing myself with my pubic hair, I’m left with a few thoughts to ponder. But the one that’s stuck in my mind, the one that’s the reason for the this post, makes me cock my head to the side and give a small smirk.

Maybe I will keep my hair down there.

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e[lust] #52 November 18, 2013

Photo courtesy of Secretly Sensuous

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Monday Evening Fun November 12, 2013

~ erotica ~

“Hi.”

He’d just gotten home from work, his three piece suite wrinkled from his long day.

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. The short skirt of my strapless dress barely covered my ass. My heels accentuated my rump even more so.

I leaned up against the wall, glancing at him over my shoulder, a perfect view of my rear for his pleasure. His eyes fell on my ass as I had hoped.

He looked tired. I knew he must’ve had a rough day; Mondays usually were.

“Missed you while you were at work.”

I purred my words, then swayed my ass to an imaginary beat.

He put down his briefcase, not acknowledging my show, but his eyes never left my rump.

I continued to pop my hips, moving my ass back and forth, back and forth.

He took off his jacket, drapped it over his desk chair, his stare fixed on my rear. His vest joined his jacket.

I decided to be bolder. I bent my knees, eased myself down towards the floor. His eyes followed my ass. Low to the ground, I began popping my ass up and down.

I watched as he loosed his tie, unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled up his shirt sleeves.

“Did you miss me while you were at work?”

He looked up at my face, making eye contact for the first time.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

In a heartbeat, he had me. He grabbed my hair and pulled me to standing. I bobbled a bit, grabbing his arm. He brought my face to his. My eyes would not look away from his gaze.

He took my previous place against the wall, leaning back and looking at me, his pet.

He used his grip on my hair to pull me into him. My hands found the wall for balance, but I didn’t need it. My cheek rested on his right shoulder. His right leg was against my crotch.

His free hand reached down. My skirt was already half up. He pulled it the rest of the way, revealing my ass for his view.

He gripped my right cheek, grinding my crotch against his leg. I couldn’t help but sigh. He squeezed my flesh, then rubbed my ass.

This was my favorite part, the anticipation. Waiting for the first strike. Knowing what was coming. I felt as my wetness soaked his slacks.

The first smack was hard, the sound echoing through the room. I gasped. Most often he started with a few warm-up hits. He hit again, then gripped my flesh. My body responded, writhing against his leg.

I decided to push a little more. My hands slipped down the wall, onto his lower back, then onto his ass. He smacked me again. And again. With each hit, I ground against his leg, gripped his ass, and pulled myself more onto him.

My breathing increased. Gasps no longer escaped my lips. My sounds turned to moans as the tension in me grew. Again and again, with each new hit, I panted my pleasure.

He started grinding into me, writhing against my leg. I could hear his pleasure build in his exertion. His cock grew hard. We both built towards crescendos.

I started cursing, then begging him to let me cum. He bent my head back, looked into eyes, a wry smile on his face. He never stopped his cadence of hits.

“On the fifth hit, all of which I will count, you can cum. You know they will be the hardest. I don’t make anything easy. Easy is too boring for us.”

I returned his grin.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Hit. “One.

Hit. “Two.

Hit. “Three.

Hit. “Four.”

He stopped.

His hand let go of my hair.

He stood up straight, brought his leg out from my crotch. He walked towards his closet, picked up his jacket and vest, and hung both up.

“I. I.”

He looked back at me, his wry smile even bigger. He pulled off his tie, hung it up too.

“What?” he said. I stood there, dumbfounded and disappointed.

I walked to my side of the bed as he continued to undress. By the time I sat, he was down to his undershirt, boxers, and black socks, each disrobed article put away in the process.

I turned away from him, kicked off my heels next to my end table, and pouted.

He bounded across the bed. His grip in my hair turned my body and pushed my face into our sheets.

Hit. “Five.”

His cock entered me less than a breath after his final count left his lips.

I came with him inside me, fucking me hard, the start of our Monday evening fun.

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Hate Fuck November 7, 2013

I don’t want to get back together with my Ex. I DON’T want to get back together with my Ex. But there was this moment recently.

About a week ago, I had an early morning gig. The Sun wasn’t even up before I had to start work. And, me being me, I arrived early. My Ex was there already, too. He drove the truck with the equipment.

I saw him in the truck, walked over, and asked if I could hop in. It was cold and I wanted shelter from the chill. He didn’t mind my presence.

Since it was so early, and I was still sleepy, I lounged back and closed my eyes. I started blabbering, as I sometimes do when I’m fatigued.

“Ssh, you’re suppose to be sleeping,” he said. I quieted myself.

I could feel his arm as he outstretched it on the back of the seat. His arm wasn’t behind me at all, just elongated out.

Then, for some reason, my mind flashed on a series of images. His hand on my chin, turning my face. His lips to mine, kissing me. My crawling into his lap. More kissing.

Someone pounded on my Ex’s window. We both jostled awake. It was the lead for the gig. Random thoughts ended.

I don’t want to get back with my Ex, yet that fantasy still emerged during my tired state.

The last time my Ex and I had sex was in the early afternoon on a weekday. He had borrowed my car for work. His job has roughly regular hours and that particular day I didn’t have a gig.

I had taken a shower and then proceeded to lounge across the bed still in my robe. He came into the apartment and into the bedroom. I wasn’t expecting him. It was maybe 2pm.

He knelt down, opened up my robe, and began to eat me out. This was kind of a big deal. During our entire relationship I was never comfortable giving him head, so I often didn’t want it in return. In my brain, it didn’t seem fair. But I’d already broken up with him, so I no longer gave a shit.

As I writhed with his face between my legs, I no longer held back. All pretense of him being my dominant, of him being in charge, was gone.

“Take off your pants,” I said.

“What?” He hadn’t quite heard me, being occupied and all.

“Take off your pants so you can fuck me.”

He immediately dropped trou.

As he fucked me, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about his pleasure, didn’t care about what he wanted.

At a certain point, I had a vibrator against my clit while he fucked me bent over the bed. I remember cuming and not screaming. I wanted the orgasm just for me. I didn’t want him to know I’d cum, didn’t want him to feel pride or any joy at my sexual pleasure.

Our last fuck was a hate fuck, at least on my part.

Occasionally I felt bad for the way I acted towards him in the end. He became highly emotional, more emotional than in the entirety of our relationship. I didn’t respond to his sad stares, his pouty behavior, his occasional temper tantrum.

No, I did not want to cuddle in the early morning. No, I did not want to be around him or his mother while in our apartment.

He called me cold. I wasn’t cold. I just didn’t care.

When I remember why I broke up with him, and why I don’t want to get back together with him, I no longer feel guilty about being something other than the girl who forgave him for so much.

In the end, I ended our relationship because I needed someone other than him. And that still holds true today, random fantasy or not.

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New Rule November 5, 2013

OKC boy texted me a video on Saturday. He was lying in bed, t-shirt on, but naked from the waist down. His cock was in full view. He lazed back on his bed watching porn while masturbating.

I watched the video, noting how I was somewhat turned on, yet also somewhat turned off.

The thought that came to mind as the video ended: I need a break.

I didn’t respond to the video.

Later that day, he texted, ‘Did you get that?’ I didn’t text back.

I promised myself, as I crashed from a long day of work Saturday night, that I wouldn’t do the shitty thing. I wouldn’t just ignore him. I wouldn’t do The Fade Away. I would be adult about it. I would talk to him.

On Sunday, he messaged me again.

‘Busy?’

‘No. What’s up?’

‘Did you get the video?’

‘Are you in a place where you can talk on your phone?’

‘Yes.’

I called him. After the pleasantries, I baby-stepped my way to my concerns.

I prefaced my explanation, noting that I needed to explain how my brain worked, and then I’d talked about what I needed, and then I’d ask how he felt about it.

I reminded him how, from the beginning, he said he just wanted to be friends who fucked. Also I spoke about how I had said I would be open to more than that, if he wanted. But, until he says anything different, we would just be friends who fucked.

Then I spoke about how, the more I interact with him, the more I like him. The more feelings that one would have for someone who is more than just a friend keep emerging, growing.

To me, it is obvious that I like him more than he likes me, and that’s okay because we’ve established the parameters of our interactions. I can keep my feelings in check if we stay within our script.

However, when looking back on all of our texting, it has almost always been initiated by him and it almost always revolved around sex. I told him how I felt uncomfortable with this. The implication in my mind was that he only wanted me for sex, and that made me feel shitty. Where was the friend part of the equation?

Henceforth, I proposed a new rule: I wanted a texting timeout. He could send one sexy text per day, to which I would respond, and that would be it. One text; one response. If he sent more, I would not answer.

Then it was his time to talk.

He reaffirmed his desire to be my friend. He enjoyed our sex, but wanted to point out how much he liked me as a person. He cited our time at Ren Faire as one instance where he felt we were cool together.

He made a counter offer: one sexy conversation and one non-sexy conversation per week. I felt that was fair, and agreed.

We went on to talk for another fifteen minutes about our lives, sans-sexy stuff. He spoke about his new job, settling into his new locale. I spoke about school and how well it’s been going. The conversation was pleasant. I then bid him adieu to go for a run on my roommate’s treadmill.

He texted me this morning.

‘Good morning.’

I didn’t respond.

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Fuck You November 3, 2013

~ a poem ~

I thought it was you out of the corner of my eye.
I thought you were walking up to me, a smile on your face, a whitty line ready to fall from your lips.
I thought I’d turn to you, bewildered, yet hiding my pleasure at your presense.
I thought I’d try to hold myself back from flirting, but knew I wouldn’t be able to resist.
I thought…

I miss you against me.
I miss the smell of you.
The way, when we fucked, we laughed and played.
Yet, at times you pushed me, made me take more than I thought I could.
God, I loved our fucking.
I miss you inside me.
I miss you inside me.

I miss you.
I hate that I miss you.
Fuck you.

Fuck your perfect cock and the way you always knew how to make me cum.
Fuck your smile and the way you’d flash it every time I came over.
Fuck your body, your hot hot body; your perfect arms and perfect abs and perfect ass.
Fuck your success, your smarts, your almost-at-my-level intelligence.
Fuck your suits and polished shoes and pops of color.
Fuck your eyes, the way they drew me in, yet hid so much of you from me.

I miss you.
I could’ve loved you.
But fuck that.
And fuck you.

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Her & Him October 30, 2013

~ erotica ~

HER: I saw him from across the room.

HIM: I tried to not notice her gaze.

HER: I’d seen him play before.

HIM: I’d noticed her presence a few times.

HER: The women were always beautiful, always the most beautiful in the room.

HIM: I tried not to look at her. She was just so striking.

HER: But tonight he lurked as I often did. Standing on the fringes. And watching… me?

HIM: But tonight I didn’t want to ignore her, didn’t want to pretend to not see her. I wouldn’t look away.

HER: He moved towards me. I didn’t know what I would say.

HIM: I went towards her. Measured steps. My usual gait.

HER: He came closer. I didn’t know what to think.

HIM: A few footsteps from her skin. Her frame. I knew what I wanted, needed. Those eyes.

HER: His eyes were locked on me.

HIM: Her gaze. I wanted it to be mine, only mine, if only for a moment.

HER: He was a breath away; I couldn’t breathe.

HIM: My hand knew what I wanted before my mind could say. Fingertips on her neck. Pushing her back. Two steps and she was against the wall.

HER: And then the thud of flesh to wood. The exhale and surge of adrenalin. Feeling his breath on my skin.

HIM: Her eyes stayed with me. Her mouth open, begging me. Her neck, soft flesh under my touch.

HER: His body so close to mine. His heat a pulse away. His hand on my neck. And his lips, the mouth I wanted on mine.

HIM: I saw the flutter in her eyes.

HER: I felt the tingle in my muscles.

HIM: She slipped.

HER: I dropped a bit.

HIM: And then again.

HER: I held myself up as long as I could.

HIM: Her knees gave in. I held her against the wall.

HER: His hands surrounding my face. His knee in my crotch. And my body reacting without my will.

HIM: The heat of her. The smell. I wanted a taste.

HER: Even as I floated midair, held by him, my muscles came back, moving in the ways I wanted but had dared not say.

HIM: She wanted me. I felt it in her body. Felt it as her muscles regained themselves.

HER: I had nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. And, for once, I didn’t want to.

HIM: ‘Please’, she whispered.

HER: ‘Please’, I begged.

HIM: Please, for my kiss.

HER: Please, for his kiss.

HIM: I brought my face in close.

HER: His nose brushed my nostrils.

HIM: My cheek across her face.

HER: His stubble tickling my skin.

HIM: Breath against her mouth.

HER: His lips so near mine.

HIM: I grazed her lips.

HER: Please, oh god please.

HIM: But I stopped, stepped back. And then I…

HER: But then he stopped, stepped back. And then he…

HIM & HER: walked away.

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Reminder October 26, 2013

Sometimes it’s easy to forget. With time and space away from a situation, you can lose details, nuance to it all. Occasionally, though, life reminds you of what you’ve forgotten.

Because of random happenstance, I not only saw my Ex at work tonight, which occurs from time to time, but I actually had a decent conversation with him. And we worked together a bunch. And it was kinda fun.

Initially I sat with him and chatted as we waited to begin our load out. I joined him in his truck. He apologized for the smoke filled cab. I felt it wise to not mention how used to smoke filled rooms I’d become.

As we talked about nothing of particular import, but nonetheless found ourselves laughing, I looked over at him and remembered, Right. I actually liked you.

I had forgotten I liked hanging out with my Ex, before he became my Ex. I forgot we shared a dark and sometimes wry sense of humor. I forgot about the deep bass voice. The smile, when I could glean it. The dominant air about him. And the way I felt when I was around him. Safe. Cared for. Protected.

For the briefest of moments, there was temptation. For five seconds maybe, I wondered what it would be like to be with him again. I wouldn’t be the me of seven years ago, new and unknowning. Nor would I be the girl who four years ago somehow mustered the courage to end it.

I would be the now me. Poetic Desires me. Fully realized confident kinky submissive and service top me. The bootblack. The cigar slut. The fisting phenom and proud dirty pig.

Yet, even as I recalled the layers of our past, the same reasons why I left him remained. He and I want two very different lives. He is not as emotionally mature as I am, nor is he trying to be (that whole never calling me his girlfriend and never saying ‘I love you’ part still hurts like a bitch) . He said some kinda fucked up shit (for instance, refusing to fool around while I was on my period, calling it “crime scene sex”). And he did some kinda fucked up shit (namely the one big incident that made me end it all).

However things played out, though, I feel it is a disservice to myself to forget the good parts. I was with my Ex for three and a half years for a reason. He was intelligent, whitty, caring, and protective. He was kinky and I was searching. He was a big part of my journey. I need to honor that, even as his influence on my life has subsided.

The night ended with my Ex giving me a high five. I like to think it was his was way of saying, Yup, the situation is a little awkward, but I still like you too.

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How Will I Meet You? October 25, 2013

Will you be a fellow classmate, concentrated on learning, career oriented, yet we make a connection that lasts beyond school?

Will we pass each other at an event, a play party? Maybe a happy hour or a munch? Will we get to talking, flirting, and then our lives grow from there?

Will it be random? A Metro ride? A work encounter? The grocery store?

As I drove back from Atlanta this past Sunday, I was sad. This happens at the end of all my adventures. Once it is all over, I have to actively pull myself away from a place of caring and acceptance of who I am.

But, during my car ride, I realized another truth. Part of the reason it hurt so bad to leave Atlanta was because I wasn’t going home to someone.

No one warms my bed at night. I don’t have a lap to curl into, a person who listens to me bitch about my day. I don’t have a cheerleader, a co-conspirator, a life partner.

As I drove, staying awake through six hundred miles of road, I screamed out my frustration.

I want to meet my husband. I want to have him in my life. I want the arms to fall into, the breath on my neck, the eyes I call home.

So when is it going to happen, life? Have I already met him? Maybe someone I haven’t noticed yet?

When will I meet my husband? When will we start our lives together? Because this waiting shit sucks.

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Your Jacket October 22, 2013

You loaned it to me when I forgot my Zim hoodie. I wore it at night at Rope Camp, zippering up against the chill and guarding myself against the occasional sprinkle.

I donned it when I dropped you off at the airport. I half expected to give it to you off my back. And then I thought maybe, when you flew away having not asked for it, you had actually left it for me on purpose.

It came with me to Seattle. I fell in love with the city with it on my back. Three plastic spoons lived in the left pocket from the three different frozen yogurt places I partook of on my trip. Its cotton warmed me during my only night at Paradise. I draped it across my legs on the long plane rides home.

It came with me back to Ramblewood again, this time for Summer Camp. I was quiet, and thoughtful, and that was okay. My glittens joined the spoons.

I wore it the first day I was at ease going back to school, and every other school day since, except today. My stress ball lived in the right pocket. I got used to reaching for it, and then tossing it about as I waited for class to start.

When I got your first text asking if I knew where it was, I was a little disappointed. My having it was simply a laspe in memory.

When I received your more recent text, I was sadder still. My time with it ended sooner than I anticipated.

I took out the spoons, the glittens, and the stress ball when I washed it for the first time since you loaned it to me. The night before my Atlanta drive, it was an item on my to-do and pack lists.

I wore it one last time on the ride down. For seven hours it graced my arms, and then my hips when the car warmed up from the rising Sun.

It was a good luck charm; I wore it for each of my quizzes and exams, until today.

It was a snuggly comforting little piece of you for a while. When I lazed at home on the couch watching Netflix. Or warmed myself against a brisk evening tucked tight under my covers.

And, when I got one of the worst phone calls of my life, I wiped away snot and tears on the sleeves.

For a while, it was my favorite hoodie.

So yes, I liked your jacket.

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