Monthly Archives: May 2014


There is no argument among the members of the jury:  I fucked up.

My mistake, a boundary somewhere on the path, blown past in my haste to understand. Sometimes, I rush to communicate and it backfires on me.

I am guilty.

Guilty of showing my insecurity.  Guilty of applying pressure, something I promised never to do.  Guilty of lashing out and not taking time to choose my words with care.

Guilty. As. Charged.

But the punishment Your Honor, was too severe.

The harsh degree of punishment did not befit the crime.

And in the face of these blows, I throw my hands up in defense and silently scream:  This doesn’t fit my crime!!!

I can’t change the judgment.  I can’t defend against this.  I can’t undo the crime itself.  I can’t get through to you.






I have moved on already.  Multiple times and in a variety of positions.  I have felt the tingling of emotion trying to blossom in my chest. And then I think of you.

And our friendship.

And our victory laps untaken.

And the dreams we confessed to each other.

And the sins we committed.

And the parting.

And the distance.

And my crime.

And the sheer void you left behind.

And the punishment that is still hurting.

And how it never fit the crime.

I pull back hard on the reigns of my heart.  I pull into myself like a snail recoiling from unexpected touch. I push that tiny blossom down under a weighty cloak of boundless cynicism.

I could try to argue.  But it would be pointless.  In the end I have to accept my punishment.  In the end, I have to submit to the Judge and Jury.  In the end, it is just another end – I’ve survived enough of them to know I’ll get through this one too.

But you were to ask me, Your Honor, how I feel about my life sentence I would raise my voice and say: “THIS PUNISHMENT SUCKS!”

And it did not fit the crime.




Filed under Erotica, Poetry, Tasty Morsels, Tender

From the Vagina Vault: My Man

Originally published on February 19, 2013, this piece is as relevant today as it was the day I wrote it.  (And no, I haven’t found him yet.)

My Man

Are you my man?

Are you the one who can harness this flame?

Can you dance me to the end of love

And back again?

Do you have the strength

To hold me together when I shatter?

Do you see my beauty

Even with my imperfections?

When you look into my eyes

Do you see the Angel-courtesan within?

Can you feel the heat from the glow of her red halo?

Will you give heart and soul to me

Without fear or reservation?

Cherish our bond above any other?

Can you unleash the beast within

Brave the teeth and claws, the animal desire

And revel in the fact you’ll never tame her?

Are you strong enough to handle my love?

When I unleash it with both barrels?

Will you sanctify me

Pleasure me

Satisfy me

Forgive me

As I will You?

Don’t stand on my doorstep roses in hand,

Making honeyed promises you’ll never keep.

Don’t promise me forever.

Or say you’ll never hurt me.

For if you truly love me

You will hurt me.

And forever is just a myth.

Instead promise me that

You will love me in this moment

With everything you are.

Promise me that when you hurt me

You will nurse that hurt until it’s gone.

Promise me that you will treat

The gift of my love

With diligent reverence.

Show me you will give these things to me

And let me give them to you.

Now that you know what that question really means

Let me ask it again:

Are you my man?

Copyright 2014 CJ Riordan

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Filed under Erotica

Toy Shopping

I saunter up and down the aisles, searching for just the right one.  So many salacious options.  So many deviant choices.  But which one is right…for you?

Should it restrain? Vibrate? Grip? Punish? Fill? Tease? Flog? Penetrate?

Do I want it to leave marks? Do I want it to make you cum fast or slow?

Do I want it to make the streams of sweat run down both our bodies, or just yours?

Do I want to participate or watch?

I run my finger across my lips as I contemplate my options.  I do like variety, so maybe I need more than one?

I smile as I think of your reaction.  When you sit across from me in the funky little coffee shop on Alder Street and look bemusedly at the innocuous package I place in front of you.  I will watch you open it, my tongue tracing my lips like a hungry wolf.

Will you smile? Blush?Will your cock twitch in your jeans as you anticipate what I will do to you with your gift? Will you want to skip our evening plans and go straight home or will you have the self control to ride the waves of anticipation?

Will you let me insert it? Will you let me tease your most intimate places? Will you vocalize your pleasure or try and hide how good it feels?

Or will you throw open the cage door and unleash the animal? Grip my head, say dirty things to me, beg me for more? Beg me to go deeper, harder, faster?

As I walk the aisles with these thoughts swirling like a gossamer curtain around my mind, I can feel the slickness forming between my thighs.

I smile, clench my body as I picture holding you fast inside me and just squeezing you – squeeze and release, squeeze and release, until you can’t stand it any longer and your hands dig into the muscles of my ass as you thrust up into me.

The moisture is seeping into my panties now.

My eyes alight on it then.  The package is in my hands before I even realize I have reached for it.  I flip the box over and read the back as images of your response to this toy come unbidden into my mind.  I don’t even know it, but I’m smiling.  That grin.  The one you always tell me means mischief.

The best kind of mischief.

The kind you love.

The mischief you crave.

I walk to the register with my selection; my grin widening as I hear my own voice in my head:

“Open it, Sweetheart.”

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Filed under Erotica

A Puppy Off Her Leash

The packed sand stretched out low and flat along the horizon.  Tire tracks made lazy zig zags up and down the beach where vehicles had driven from one end to the other.  The ocean, moist and vocal as a woman in the throes of something deeply erotic, welcomed me home once more.

I hid my giddy excitement from my camping partner.  Like a puppy looking out the window of her master’s truck, I knew I’d be sprung from my iron cage soon – that I’d be free to chase the seagulls and grip sand between my toes.  I didn’t want to seem childish to him, so I bit my lip to keep my smile in check and forced myself to stop bouncing in my seat.  The smile he threw me called my bluff.  He could see my ardor, even if he could not discern the source.

It had been over a year since I had set foot on the ocean’s edge.  The last time, a mournful journey to relinquish the pain and sorrow of my divorce, was a trip that led me to a doorstep with wild daffodils clutched in my hand and wild notions in my head.  Now, having come full circle from that flower-strewn path that ended with its own form of sorrow, here I was once more, on the cusp of something new.

Why is it that a precipice of earth and salt water always seems to mark the beginning and end of my life’s chapters?

None of this mattered on that overcast Friday afternoon.  What mattered was the joy of the moment that stretched before me.  An overnight camp on the beach with a friend and the virtual guarantee of a relaxed evening of laughter and fun.  An evening of disconnecting from the electronic world and forging a connection of an earthier nature.

We parked the truck and set about putting up the camp.  It was a simple affair, the most complex step being the digging of a fire pit.  Once the fire was roaring and we were parked in our chairs with the first round of cold beers in our fists, my inner puppy began to whine.

While I was relaxed with my camping partner, I was not completely at home in his presence.  The walls that recent experiences had built up around me left me guarded – constantly vigilant about the words I chose, the expressions on my face, and how much, if anything, of my true thoughts I revealed.  I secretly wondered if I would be able to stop myself from playing in the water; a tradition so much a part of trips to the beach that I instinctively packed extra pants to wear while the first set dried.  And when that puppy whine began to build inside me, I stuffed it down with beer and reminded myself that 41 year old women did not frolic in the surf like careless canines.  Well okay, most 41 year old women don’t do that.

Or do they?

After a campfire dinner, a hazy sunset, a few more beers, and the addition of some whiskey that my fellow camper surprised me with, the puppy broke its leash.

I was staggering back over a sand dune, having successfully navigated peeing in the outdoors without hitting my feet or my pants, when I glanced up to get my bearings.  I was standing on the rise of sand dune that ran the length of the beach.  From my vantage point I could see the campfire, the dark outline of the truck, and the moonlight breaking through the cloud cover and shining on the water.  With a shrug I knew the battle was lost and I called out to my bewildered camping buddy as I hurried past the truck, “Back in a flash!”

The cold ocean water met me as I nearly ran into the surf.  As always, the waves of water at my feet called forth the waves of emotions locked deep inside me.  The chill of the salt water and sand brushing my legs was as welcome and familiar as my mother’s embrace.  I felt the tears before I could stop them and I whispered my usual greeting as the waves licked across me.  In that moment, the world fell away – the man with the truck who was waiting for me, the men who sought to claim me, the family and obligations that waited at home, the expectations and memories, the ghosts and the past that followed my every step vanished, washed clean by the Pacific.

As the water washed away the clutter of my life, what I wanted – what I needed – became abundantly clear.  This puppy needed to be unleashed.

I am not a woman who can be tethered.  I wear no collar and serve no master other than myself.  I am free to pursue what I want, how I want and I do not answer to anyone when it comes to what makes me happy.  I need no justifications.  I need no permission slips.  I am free and intend to remain that way.

I splashed a moment longer, thanking the sea for the magic of healing and cleansing this ritual always gave me.  I stopped for a moment, turning my head toward the orange glow of the campfire, contemplating the dark silhouette of  the truck whose cab housed my bedroom for the night.  I thought of him and smiled, blew one last kiss to my Mother, and headed up the beach to the warmth of the fire waiting to embrace me.

The water had washed away my reservations.  It had washed away my fear.  For one shimmering moment on a Friday night in May, the walls themselves had been swept away.  The puppy was free from her leash and running in the surf.



Filed under Erotica

Ghost Fucking

I am brimming with vital energy.  I laugh, make animated gestures, sigh, whisper, moan.  I give my body again and again like an offering being impaled upon an altar.  Upon many altars.

I am the very essence of life-force.  Stand close to me and you will feel my warm vitality envelope you.  Kiss me and you will taste it on my sweet lips.  Fuck me and you may savor the salty mist from the Fountain of Youth between my thighs.

I can make you feel alive.

I can give you sensations from shivers to spasms, from tingles to orgasms. I can elicit feelings from your body and your heart.

But you can’t do the same for me.

You can make me writhe and moan, cum and shudder, scream and thrust back against you like the dirtiest of whores.  But you can’t reach beyond my body to the sanctuary within.  You can’t reach the fire inside of me.

Someone once commented that it would be difficult to fuck and keep my heart from becoming entangled.

I disagree.

The answer is simple.  Love a ghost.  Fuck a man.


Filed under Erotica, Pussy's Jukebox