poeticdesires

the life and musings of a kinky slut

Frustrated

I hated my job tonight.

The short version is that someone else fucked up but I get the blame for the screw up.

I thought I did everything right tonight. Even with the pop up issues. Even with the running back to the warehouse for more equipment, rushing to finish everything on time. I thought I got it right.

And then I learned I didn’t because of one small lapse.

The worst was the condescension in the voice of the persons pointing out my error. I kept myself from crying. I didn’t want to give the air of loathing surrounding me the joy of seeing my pain. I gathered up my equipment and got out of there as quick as I could.

I keep playing the decision over and over in mind. If I had just… If only I’d… Why didn’t he just…

You can drive yourself mad with What Ifs.

Now I’m just left with fatigue and frustration. At my job. At the gentleman who didn’t do his. At the women who treated me like an ill-informed fresh-off-the-boat oh-aren’t-you-so-cute-but-you’re-wrong-and-I’m-gonna-take-the-time-to-point-out-your-wrong-wrongness idiot.

I hated tonight. When I signed out, even with the large amount of hours for which I’ll get paid, I was mad. Mad because I know I’ll have to keep doing this for the foreseeable future. It will be at the very least two years of community college and a few years of medical school where I’ll need this job to get by.

I appreciate that I have this job, knowing there are so many others who don’t. But sometimes this job feels like an abusive relationship I just can’t get out of. I know it pays my bills. I know it keeps a roof over my head and food on my table. I am grateful for that, really. But when do you say, “Enough is enough?”

Will it have to be like my serving days? Nightmares about customers. Getting yelled at and cursed out to my face. Finding a corner to cry in, only to come back to work to finish my shift. I don’t want that.

I nearly cried tonight. Because of my job.

So I will probably get a complaint lodged against me because of the incident. That will make two in my last two gigs.

I got a phone call from my boss during Frolicon stating I had been doing a good job, but could I not talk about my personal life. Apparently someone had complained about me talking about my extracurricular activities. That is a whole other can of worms I do not want to open right now before I pass out to a hopefully blissful sleep. But I have to say, the mere fact that I tolerate shitty misogynistic comments by guys all the time yet I am reprimanded for talking about my life. Hypocrisy much?

Its nights like tonight that remind me this is not the sum total of my life. I don’t live to work; I work to live.

This is not what I will be doing ten years from now. This is not my future. This job does not define me.

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Ever

~erotica~

Ever let your mind wander…

Ever ride public transportation, look at the people around you, and ponder what they’re thinking about? Their shitty day? What they have planned for their night? The person sitting next to them? The person they want next to them? You?

Ever catch eyes with someone and question what they meant by their glance? Was it on purpose? By accident? Were they imagining you as they would have you, right there, on the dirty floor, not caring who watched? Were they envisioning you naked, waiting, wanting them? Were you their fantasy, attainable or ever elusive?

Ever notice some random looking at you? Checking you out. Up and down. As you stand and they sit. As you’re reading or looking out the window. As you’re far away from that bus or train, but they are there, right there, imagining who knows what about you.

Ever think about just going for it? Meeting their stare. Making your way over to them. Trying to look sexy as you avoid bumping into people or seats. Not taking your eyes off them. Looming above them. Or sitting close to them. And asking, flat out, “What are you thinking about?”

Ever have the balls to make the offer? Will it be their place or yours? Now? Right now? Is it before or after work? Is it cold, both of you bundled up, but enough figure showing to know you’ll like what you see later? Is it warm, you both showing off the goods for any and everyone to see?

Ever been bold, daring? Guiding them up the stairs to your small apartment. Ignoring the looks of the neighbors as you pass in the hallway. Not caring that you weren’t expecting a guest. Dropping your coat by the door. Your bag by the couch. Leaving the windows unshielded. Offering them a drink, no matter the time. Handing them their liquor. Throwing yours back. Leaving the glass or bottle or can on the counter. Slowly unbuttoning your shirt. Or sliding off your strap. Or pulling fabric up off your torso. Looking at them as if to say, “What are you waiting for?”

Ever get exactly what you want when you want it from a person you’ve just met? Their hands all over your body. Their tongue tracing the lines of your flesh. Kisses. Bites. Caresses. Sucking. Fucking. Never using names. Letting yourself go. Letting yourself be as nasty, carnal, ferocious, all-in as you’ve always dreamed.

Ever cum and not know what name to scream, who to thank, for your pleasure?

Ever just not give a fuck?

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Dick

~ erotica ~

There were many words he could’ve used to describe it. Phallus was a strong choice, but to him it seemed too clinic. Shaft held gravitas but didn’t match his style.

Instead he loved to call it his cock.

“You like it when my cock is jammed up inside you like that? My cockhead hitting your cervix. Pounding all up in your pussy.”
“You want my cock in your mouth.  You wanna suck this cock, swallow it down your throat.”
“My cock is already hard for you, baby. Come on and get up on this cock.”

He strutted when he used the word. Stood up straighter. Got a little harder whenever he uttered it. Cock worked well for him.

But, for me, I loved to call it his dick. There was just something about the way those four letters played on my tongue, pushed through my teeth, and spat out of my mouth.

“Fuck, I want your dick inside me. Pounding me. I miss it when you’re dick isn’t in my pussy.”
“Please let me suck your dick. I want your dick in my mouth. I want to lick and suck your dick all night.”
“I can feel how hard your dick is. Your dick is happy to see me.”

When he let me play with it, when I was feeling whimsical and he was in a fun mood, I’d get eye to eye with his dick and whisper to it.

“That’s a fun dick, isn’t it. I think this dick likes it when I squeeze it, caress it. You like that, dick? You like it when I lick, right dick?  This dick loves my lips, my mouth on it. You’re my dick, aren’t you? Your dick wants only me.”

He’d smile, pat me on my head, and say, “Yeah babe, my cock is all yours.” 

I’d smile back and say, “Yay! Dick all for me.”

Then my mouth would be on it, bobbing up and down, licking and sucking. His eyes would roll back. He’d start moaning. I’d reach down and rub my clit, pussy already wet and wanting. And neither of us cared who said what about anything.

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Cute

I am sick and tired of one word I hear all the time: cute.

People often use that word to describe me. People, during first introductions, will use it. People who have never known each other will utter the exact same sentence to compliment my looks.

“You are cute.”

I get it. I totally get it. The smile. The curls. The school girl outfits. The cheeks. The dimples. Especially the dimples.

I’m not saying I’m not cute. That would be a denial of a basic fact. That is not why I’m writing this.

It’s just.

I know one might be happy to be called such a sweet description. There are far worse things a person could be called. But sometimes that word makes me want to bash my head up against a wall.

I hear it all the time. ALL THE TIME.

No one has, or of yet, called me that word during sex. (If they had, our fun would’ve ended far too soon.) But for a person who is so sexual, for a footloose and fancy free slut like me, cute can feel less than apt.

Why not sexy? Or provocative? Or enchanting?

Why not engaging? Or just plain hot?

Cute seems so small, almost dismissive, in comparison to just about any other compliment when it comes to looks.

Curvaceous. Cunning. Coy.

I could just as easily be called any of the descriptors I’ve used thus far. Yet, it is cute I always get.

Cute makes its way into conversation as offhand comments, out of context interjections, never falling from my lips.

Once someone who I found to be drop dead sexy called me cute during our initial flirtation. In that instance, I didn’t fault them. Nor did their words take away from the fact I wanted them to do any and everything to me. Still, it was a slight sting to the moment, a paper cut on the edge of an unforgettable encounter.

There have been times when cute was far away, not existing in my world. The one moment I keep going back to was about a year ago. As the Gent and I were fucking, he looked down on me, I looked up at him, and he called me beautiful.  As he drove his cock in and out of me, I believed him. For those precious breaths, I felt special. I felt sexy and gorgeous and irresistible. I felt beautiful. But those moments are too few and far between.

I can’t run away from the word. I can’t deny its existence, much like one can’t deny the face staring back at them in the mirror. I see it everyday. I see why people use that word to describe me. It is appropriate. It is a part of who I am, and how the world perceives me, whether I like it or not.

It is a four letter word I’ve learned to live with, though if I never hear it again it will be too soon.

Fuck it, I’m cute.

However, I would love it if the world saw, and knew, I was more than just that little word.

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DGG #4: Pedestrian Affairs

A tired poetic (yup, I just referred to myself in the third person; deal with it) recounts her time at Catalyst Con East.

 

listen to ‘004_DGG Pedestrain Affairs’ on Audioboo

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Baby Bootblack

I had more than my fair share of memorable moments and lesseons learned from this past Winter Fire, but one in particular has stuck with me: I will always schedule myself for the last bootblacking shift of an event.

The last two hours of my chair time at DO:WF were hectic, and challenging, and I would not trade them for the world. I can’t even tell you how many people sat in my chair. Person after person put their leather in my hands.

I was nervous at first, but when I saw the long list of people waiting, and it dawned on me the limited amount of time we had, I found myself dropping into a zone I had not felt before.

Fast forward to this past weekend at Frolicon. I scheduled myself for eight hours of blacking, two four hour shifts over the two days, one of which included the last shift of the event. My chair time was not as hectic as it had been in February, but it was still something altogether amazing.

Just a year ago, I was a novice bootblack. I sat and watched as Elegant worked, taking pointers from her wealth of experience. Previous to that event, I had only blacked for friends, never publicly. Elegant offered up her kit to me, and a new friend sat for me to black his boots. He took pictures I later posted to my Fet.

This past weekend could not have felt more different from last year. I was confident. I felt sure of my skills. No more nerves. No more fear. I sat in my chair and waited to perform my service.

As the last shift ended, after I’d had a couple dozen people cycle in and out of my care, I felt great. I packed up my supplies with a smile.

But my new found confidence was not the only reason for my happiness. As the last bootblack finished work on her last piece of leather, others gathered in the area. Her friends blocked the view right beside my stand. A person served as a table, holding boots to be gifted.

When the last bootblack finished, her friends parted. Her mentor spoke words for and about her. There were hugs and tears and cheers. The last bootblack was gifted a shiny pair of boots of her own, showing her progress in her craft, her care, her dedication to her work, all that she had learned over 14 months of instruction.

As her mentor laced up the new boots with pretty pink chord, I stood on the side of the circle, seeing all the faces of her friends. In that moment, I felt something stir inside me.

I wanted that, the community, the fidelity, the shared comradery of this group of folks in leather.

I am not where she is, nor have I had the training she’s had. Still, I am a bootblack (though maybe just a baby bootblack). Each time I sit down and work, I am learning. I am grateful for my haphazard training, for the many voices who’ve guided me along the way this past year and a half, and for those who will teach me more as I grow in my craft.

And I hope, one day, I too will have that moment of a gift of leather.

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Atrophy

Since I adopted a new writing goal for this blog, I’ve found myself wondering if I made the right decision. Since I am not expected to have new content everyday, I’ve given myself an easy out, settling for less than my potentional.

In fact, I’ve not been good about posting every other day like I planned, often throwing in bursts of entries, catching up with my long lapses. (See the three entries tonight, for example.)

As I’ve grown as a writer, starting around age 7 until now, I’ve seen a haphazard pattern. I’ll write, jotting down a burst of ideas. I’ll get some short stories out or a novella or poetry. I’ll journal almost every day. I’ll have this huge ocean of ideas I have to bring forth. And when I do, I feel awesome. I am the shit.

But then I drift. I let life get in the way. I allow all the things that make me busy to pop up and pull me away from pen and paper or my computer. I take a break, but it isn’t a conscious break.

I always came back to writing, eventually. I always found myself one day compelled to scribble out pages on a thought or a story that was kicking around in my mind.

But those breaks scare me a little. At times I worry that my brain atrophies, losing some of the magic I once had, making it that much harder to re-commit myself to my work.

Like I said, I always come back. The urge, the need, is never far away. I can’t not write. I just have to.

These past few months, giving myself the space for a partial break on this blog, has felt less than good. I have less pressure, no more constant deadline, but I also feel lazy, like I’m not really pushing myself.

And then I went to Frolicon.

I’m back now, having had some geeky kinky fun. While I was there, my time was split between two loves: writing and bootblacking (on which I’ll focus my thoughts tomorrow).

As I saw familiar faces, heard familiar voices, and listened to familiar thoughts on the state of writing, one obvious notion slapped me hard: I could be up there. I could be one of the people on that panel. I could be doing this. Why am I not committing, really committing, to my writing?

On one particular panel, there were two writers who within the past year had their first works published. From the time I walked away from last Frolicon to the time I returned to the gathering, they had changed their literay lives. Have I?

Now, home and full of writerly thoughts, I see a need to push myself more, to do more, to be that much more motivated to my work, committed to the efforts it takes to make my writing that much better. And I’m left with an obvious yet poignant thought.

I can do this.

To that end, I’m adding another writing goal for myself for this year.

I will submit at least one work per month for the rest of the year for publication. I already submitted a short story last month, and I know of two more calls out for submissions due by the end of April and the end of May.

No more laziness. Time to kick it up again.

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Friends

~ a poem ~



I wish we were still friends.

The way you kissed me wasn’t enough.
Even though, with the first brush of your lips,
my eyes closed.
My arms raised, wrapped around you.
Your fingers found my hair.
My knees buckled.
My body relaxed into your arms.
There existed no other world except your lips.
My lips.
Our kiss.
Even though I lost myself in your embrace,
your kisses weren’t enough.

The way you touched me wasn’t enough.
Even with your grip on my waist.
Your nails in my flesh.
The sway of my hips
reacting to your fingertips.
My gasps from your bites on my neck.
My moans from your flicks on my clit.
Your tongue. Your licks.
Even though I still yearn
for your hands on my body,
your touch wasn’t enough.

The way we fucked wasn’t enough.
Even though you felt so right inside me.
More right than any other has.
Your hips tilting,
driving your cock into me.
Your body pressed
against my flesh.
The way you made me cum.
And cum.
And cum.
The way you tortured me,
such sweet misery,
with your fucks.
Still, it wasn’t enough.

We weren’t just friends.
Whether you’ll admit it or not,
we were lovers.
But you didn’t love me,
not really.
I couldn’t be your friend any longer.
Because I could feel myself
starting to love you.
So there was no way
we could be
just friends.

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Heard

~ a story ~

I said it as we were leaving. The office was almost deserted. It was a Friday. A payday, no less. And it was Judy’s birthday. Everyone loved Judy’s parties.

So they all ran home to get ready. To put on their small dresses and tight shirts. To don clothes not appropriate for work.

But I had a project due on Monday. And I wanted to sleep in on Sunday. And Judy’s punch had too much kick for my taste.

You were still here, though I didn’t know why. Your project had gone well. Your presentation was praised by the partners, and there was talk of a possible promotion for you. You could coast for at least the next month, if not more. You had, after all, slaved away for half a year. Yet you were still here.

When I had gotten my outline to a workable fashion. When my slide show ran without fault. When the graphics were set and the last fact checked. When I was ready to go home, open a bottle of wine, and try to not allow myself to go to Judy’s party. When I turned off my light, grabbed my bag, and saw you about to go as well.

“Good night, Joseph.”

I gave you the coy smile. The twinkle in the eye smile. I gave you the cute that I normally held onto until a first date.

But we’ve never gone out on a date. Every time I spoke to you, the chorus in my head screamed, “Ask for my number.”

But you never did.

Still, I said it, plain as day, in three little words.

But you didn’t kiss me. You didn’t throw me down to the floor, or splay me across the conference room table, or drop to your knees while I rested against a cubicle wall.

You strolled behind me as I made my way to the elevator, dreaming of your hands on my body.

Will you ever fuck me?

~

I heard it in your voice. The lilt, the plea. Heard the words you didn’t speak. Your invitation as you left for the evening.

I heard it when you congratulated me on my presentation last week. When you passed me the creamer from the refrigerator this morning. When you held the elevator door for me a few days ago. I hear it all the time.

In your looks each morning and each night. When you didn’t even know you were saying it, I bet. I’ve known what you’ve not said.

But you never heard it back.

Never noticed the way I brush your hand whenever you hand me the creamer. Never noticed the caress in my voice when I said “Good evening, Eloise.” The business card tucked into your jacket. Or that I stayed late many nights so I could see you before you went home.

But tonight, you will notice.

That coy smile. That cute lilt. It’s time to end our play, and start the real fun.

Tonight you will hear me, as I always hear you. You will say what you always say, but in the true words of your desire. And I will speak the words you long to hear.

In thirty steps, from your desk to the elevator, that will be the long walk til we both get what we want. When those elevator doors close, we will both speak what has only been said in veiled words.

Our desires will be heard.

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Fuck Me, Please

~ erotica ~



The first time I asked you to fuck me was when we first met. You had this bright look in your eyes, a wide smile, and you shook my hand firmly when we were introduced. I found that refreshing. You were treating me as an equal, even though I was the new girl in the office, fresh out of grad school, full of hopes and dreams of saving the world.

It was a Monday afternoon. Karen, the head of HR, was showing me around the office and introducing me to people. You were only the third person I’d met, besides Karen and my cubicle-mate. You made me feel welcome, accepted.

The next time I asked you to fuck me was the very next day. I showed up to work in my nicest suit, the most professional thing I owned, and the most expensive, with a skirt that hugged my thighs and a blouse that was silkier than my sheets. I felt very professional, very adult, walking in that day. But you made me feel like a young girl, my heart a flutter at the sight of you.

I was trying to recall everyone’s name, trying to remember faces from the tour Karen gave me. I stumbled often on my second day. But I remembered your name.

As I made my coffee in the break room, hoping the caffeine would kick start my brain, you came in to fill your water bottle. I looked over at you, said, “Good morning Brandon,” and you smiled back and said, “Good morning Julie.” I loved hearing you say my name.

I often imagine you whispering my name in my ear between kisses on my neck, my cheeks, your arms wrapped tight around me. You moaning my name into my ear as you first enter me. Screaming my name throughout the office as we cum while fucking on the floor under my cubicle.

We easily fell into a daily routine. Every morning I make my coffee, say “Good morning Brandon” to you as you fill your water bottle and say “Good morning Julie” to me, and silently, desperately, I ask you to “fuck me, please”. But you never hear me.

~

My favorite, and worst, part of my day are the same: saying “Good morning” to you.

Since the first day I met you, and saw a blind optimism, a hope that you could do more than anyone ever had before, I took joy in just the sight of your sweetness.

But my joy was laced with an edge of caution. Too often I’ve met girls like you, fresh from grad school, with hope that, day-by-day, grew dimmer. Most didn’t last past a year. I don’t want to see you falter, don’t want to see the glimmer in your eyes diminish.

Because a part of me wants your gaze, your joy, to be about me. I want your happiness to be given to me in a dark corner of the office, when everyone else is gone. Your blouse opened, skirt pushed up to your waist. I want to hear your hurried breathing with your back pushed against the cement wall of the lonely back stairwell, which no one ever uses. I want to kiss in your happiness, breathe in your hope, and give you back joy and ecstasy in kind. I want to be the reason you smile each morning.

Each morning, when I say “Good morning Julie”, and I see your belief that you are doing something right, something good, a part of me wonders, dare I say hopes, that one day your joy will be because of me.

All I ever wish is that one day you will look at me while making your coffee, with a smile on your face and in your eyes, say, “Good morning, Brandon” , but add a “fuck me, please” to our daily routine.

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