Monthly Archives: January 2014

Casting Off

The art of letting go.

Why is it that I find it so much easier to let go of the ledge and fall into the void they call love, and so goddamned difficult to let go of that swirling ghost ride when it is over?

It’s a good question.  One I do not have the answer to.

I had thoughts today. Dark, dangerous, impulsive thoughts.  Thoughts that, while they swirled through my mind in an angry I buzz, revealed to me the fact that I have still not let go.  I have not disengaged where I really need to most.  Where it matters most.

And I need to.

In boating, there is always one last rope that you must cast off before you are free of the dock.  My rope is still tethered to the dock, my boat bobbing in the water, waiting to ride the currents.  If only I could cast off that line, I could be free to begin the journey I am meant to travel.

It creates a sense of frustration, a feeling of impotent rage.  The struggling within myself to accept what is not going to change, to accept the things that have changed, and to accept that the twists and turns of fate have brought me here, to this point of being that feels so unfamiliar to me.  My life itself feels unfamiliar to me.  Like I have put brand new shoes on the wrong feet and I am running in a marathon, trying to figure out why I am struggling and everyone else is breezing past me.  The answer is so clear.  Let go.  Let go of the anger.  Let go of the pain.  Let go of the people who didn’t value me enough to stay present in my life.  Let go of the transients that were just passing through.  Just let fucking go.

Let go of the emotions that are stuffed down so deep inside my immune system is fighting against itself.  Let go of the hurt and the doubt.  Let go of the blackness that is swirling around me, sucking me into a vortex of darkness.  Let go of the guilt.  Let go of the blame.  Let go of the versions of myself that are not true to who I am.  Stop trying to be the fantasy and just be me.  Let go of the past so I can see the woman staring back at me in the mirror clearly.  Maybe for the first time in my life.

I need to swap those running shoes, grab that bitch of a rope and cast off.  Let this journey begin before my time runs out.

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Sexy Mood

I went to bed last night and before my foot even crossed the doorway to my bedroom, the first sexy thought hit me.  Really it was more of an urge.  An urge to touch.  An urge that, lately, has been uncomfortably absent from my life.

I knew within an instant I would fulfill it.  Fresh batteries were obtained, the kind that make Bessie (yes, that’s her name) really vibrate hard.  The kind I like to place upon a pillow and mount myself on.

Oh yes, I mounted.

I grabbed a towel, threw it around the rolled up pillow and skillfully whipped my breasts out from my t-shirt while still leaving the shirt on.  I just hugged the pillow with my thighs at first, fingers rolling across my nipples as I conjured up the image of male flesh beneath me.  I didn’t bother with a face, my mental image was focused further south.   Focused on the texture of the towel against my thighs, the lips of my pussy, my clit.

My fingers continued to play with my nipples, I began to work my hips back and forth as the strokes turned to pinches, then abrupt slaps across my nipple.  My hunger grew exponentially.

Bessie was turned on with a flick, skipping directly to the second speed.  I saved the third, because I knew when I would really need it and I didn’t want to ruin the orgasm I could already feel swelling up like the sea inside me.  I reached down, pulling my full lips apart to nestle Bessie in with a whoosh of breath against my clit.  I slid my fingers into my mouth, tasting myself and coating my fingers with saliva.  I rubbed my clit, causing the moisture to spread, desire to build, I pressed myself down hard into Bessie and gave a few short thrusts.  You like that? I asked the faceless man in my head.  How does that pussy feel baby? Does it feel good to have your cock inside me?”

I got progressively more filthy as my excitement grew, I leaned down over Bessie, really grinding myself into her.  Finally I yielded to the moist cries of my body and eased myself down slowly over Bessie. I impaled myself on her pink hardness, moaning as each delicious inch slid into me.

Now the thrusts of my hips served to drive Bessie deeper into me. I pushed her out with each rise so I could feel the thrill of being filled with my imaginary lover’s cock; his face watching my pleasure, mouth against my breast.  I don’t know any details about his face and it didn’t really matter.  He was a rock-hard, faceless fuck toy anyway.  My fuck toy.

My thrusts went from long and smooth to hard and quick, abrupt, grasping fistfuls of blanket and at one point pressing my fists down into the mattress on either side of the pillow; effectively thrusting it up into my hungry body. I slid a finger behind me and teased my ass as I thrust.  I felt the animal unleash and I came with a shudder than ran from head to toe.  My body rigid, stock still as the sensations totally overwhelmed me.  I gasped, I cried out, and was grateful for my towel.  I like that sheet set.

I lay back with a laugh, enjoying the tingles.  I switched Bessie off, delightfully recoiling from the orgasm, already knowing I would soon go another round…

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So You Want A Taste…

…of my reality?

You sure about that? I mean, Pussy is playful.  CJ is studiously filthy.  Are you really sure, dear reader, that you want to see the next layer?

The part of me that is real?  As real as the soft skin of my body?  As real as the darkest fears in my heart? You want to see a glimpse of that girl?

Well…Ok.

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A New Direction?

As I string the words together, they feel hollow.  Even to my own ears.  I find myself writing and saving to draft, half completed, unable to bring myself to finish yet another post about sex.

Do I still like sex? Hell yes. Do I still crave it? Like my lungs crave air.  But there is an air of cynicism, a dark edge in my writing that feels unsexy to me.  My fingers seem to want to give that dark edge a voice.  To give the mic to someone other than the Pussy for a while.

Could it be I am moving into a state of mind that is something other than carnal?

If so, do I share it here?

Has the time come for me to move in a new direction?

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Insomniac’s Lament

The fog is gathering outside the bedroom window of my apartment.  A nearby traffic light splashes colors in sequence on my bedroom wall, red, green, yellow, red.  I should be sleeping but the oblivion of sleep is not mine to be had on this cold night.  I am being kept awake by the clanging of memories in my head.

Moments from a not-too-distant past come back to me, tiny snippets return home to nest in my mind.  The sound of your laugh. The feel of your long fingers as they touched my face.  I still sigh when I think of your touch.  The only person I have ever known who could make me feel fragile and beautiful, utterly revered, with simply a touch.

I find myself searching to recreate some of those moments.  A good meal, even better conversation and the story of my life spinning on the CD player.  Laughter and companionship.  Open wounds examined and analyzed,  carefully tended to and healed.  Freedom and expression.  Romance and redemption.  Rebirth.

I search in vain.

It is easy to go back in my mind, and paint over the painful parts.  To cover the awkward moments, ignore the signs and signals that you flashed along the way.  You left a bread-crumb trail for me to follow – and in my haste to reach you, in my rush to be by your side, I missed them all.

I see them now, thanks to the benefit of my old friend: 20/20 hindsight.  I hear the messages you carefully wove in your words; the cautions, the warnings that this was indeed a temporary state of bliss.  My foolish optimism knew no bounds and I hoped, I believed.  All the while, the realist in me knew that with each step, as it grew into something far beyond its humble beginnings, that it would not – it could not – last.

But when I close my eyes and rest my head on my pillow at night I can feel your hands on my face.  While it is the memory of your touch that haunts me, it is the friendship I miss the most.

You tried to tell me.  I just didn’t want to hear it.  There is no way this could have been a lasting thing.  Rebounds are like snowflakes – fragile, unique and never meant to stand the test of time.

 

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Anniversary

The anniversary.  A measure of the passage of time, a mark on the road of life that tells you to stop, look back, take stock, be thankful, set new goals.  I have reached my one year anniversary with WordPress – one year of blogging about the fantasies in my mind, the stories in my imagination, the seductions, and the life that I wanted to live, rather than the life I had been living.

A playful writing exercise that took many twists and turns – erupting in moments of sensual bliss, the line of reality and fantasy at times blurred until they were hopelessly indistinct; like a tangle of limbs and sex-scented sheets.

What a year it has been.

Along the way strangers became friends, friends became lovers, and lovers became strangers once again.  I find myself alone on the precipice of a future that waits for me to sketch its shape, fill in its textures, colors, and details.  Pieces are still missing, elements are still being missed, benchmarks are falling short, there is much work to do.  But as I mark the passage of the last year, I remember many moments, simple and profound, that touched me.  Moments that shaped my blog, moments I recorded disguised carefully as puppets of a different color.

I think this year will be more honest.  More reality, less fantasy.  Whether or not the sex continues to pour from my keyboard remains to be seen.  There are times lately, when sex is the last thing on my mind.  When all I can feel is the pain, the drive to push myself harder, the sting of my own whip as I punish myself for mistakes.

And yet there are also times when the desires and urges that drive me to write, to touch, to feel, to fuck, are so overwhelming there is no room for anything else in my existence.

Can solace be found in the skin of a stranger?  Can emotional needs be met from a distance? Can that razor’s edge be walked without being cut to ribbons? Time will tell.  And a year from now, upon the cusp of another anniversary, we will see if the Pussy and Heart have indeed learned to exist in harmony.

Until then my loyal readers and friends I remain,

Moistly yours,

CJ

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Morning Kiss – Part Two

“I want to lie down next to you.”

His words were like litmus paper.  In an instant my entire nervous system was on fire. I had a moment of gratitude that I took the time to make my bed that morning.  I stood from the couch, grabbed the glass of cold water that we were sharing, took his hand and led him to my bed.

It had been weeks since our last visit.  He had been traveling for work, our only contact the occasional carefully worded email that gave just a hint of the animal desire we were both feeling.

There was a moment of awkwardness.  The first man to set foot in my room with the intent of lying next to me in my bed.  Which side? We laughed at our nerves and quickly settled in, our mouths joining fast and exploring in that slow sensual way we had discovered on the couch.

His large hand explored the curve of my hip, running over me and down towards the length of my thigh. I knew he could feel the muscles beneath my pants, the lean strength of my legs.  I know the feel of it so well, having run my own hands over those same lines a thousand times before.  It got me hot as hell to know what he was feeling. I could feel his response pressing into me, his body’s hunger belied by the slow pace of his exploration.  I loved that.  The fact that we both held ourselves in check.  Keeping the pace slow and exploratory, without yielding to the impulses of our bodies.  Without giving in to the urge to rip clothing aside and mate like animals.

He spooned me, his hardness pressing into the curve of my ass as his mouth brushed the skin at my back.  “Your skin tastes so good,” he told me breathlessly, “I can’t get enough of it.”  His words made my pulse race and his lips all but guaranteed I’d need to change my panties before heading into the office that morning.

His hands were under my blouse and I quickly offered to remove it.  He didn’t take me up on it at first, but then changed his mind.  Off came the blouse and he pushed me gently to my stomach and straddled me carefully.  He caressed me from shoulders to ass, his finger tracing the line of my panties to the point where it disappeared between my legs.  He kissed every inch of my back, his mouth drawing patterns that left my skin singing with lust.  My need to feel that sweet caress on my breasts won out and I confessed it to him like a guilty sinner.

He removed my bra, turned me over and soon I was fighting the urge to mount him again.  His kisses were like a slow motion caress that formed an endless loop of sensation – bringing my nipples to stiff peaks that begged for his touch.

By now, I could feel the prodigious bulge in his pants brushing against me.  For the life of me, I don’t know how I resisted the urge to run my hand down the front of his jeans, to feel the outline of him and squeeze in the hopes of driving him past his breaking point.  I simultaneously loved and hated the restraint we were showing. It was the most exquisite torture.

For over an hour we lay there together, caressing and kissing.  Never removing more than our shirts.  At one point, we took a break.  It was the only thing that would keep us from fucking like starving fiends.  And we wanted to continue the torturous exploration; to keep the sweet anticipation building.

So we rested together, hands entwined, his heart thumping strong and steady beneath my ear.  How I love that sound.  As much as I love the moan a man makes when the head of his cock is nestled deep inside my throat.  Or the whimper when my tongue traces his ass.  Love the sound of a man’s heart.  Strong, steady, seemingly timeless. With my head resting against the curve of his shoulder, his arm around me and my lips against his skin, I felt safe.

It didn’t last long.  We regained our control and pushed the envelope again.  My tongue circling his nipples this time.  His sounds of pleasure in my ears spurring me on.

He held my breasts in his palms, marveling at the weight of them in his hands, reaching up with his mouth to suck at me and kiss my soft, scented skin.

We had trouble parting, deciding next time with a laugh that we would set an alarm so as not to lose track of time.

We were both late to work.  But we arrived smiling.

I am looking forward to our next visit…

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