Tag Archives: lovers

Shaving

You held the razor with confidence.  Confidence borne from muscle memory; the constant grooming ritual you have engaged in since you stood on the doorstep of manhood.

I watched from my seat on the toilet lid, my hair wet from the shower and still wrapped in a towel because my attention was fixed on watching you shave.

My eyes followed the razor’s path across your cheek, from your neckline over the curve of your jaw – a curve my fingers and lips have traced a hundred times.  Your jawbone peeked out from behind the foamy white shaving cream and my fingers longed to touch.

You turned to look at me and I felt the heat of embarrassment engulf me.  A red shame from the fact I got momentarily lost in a memory and you caught me.

I was remembering my father going through the same motions.  Feeling a familiar warmth inside me – only this time absent girlish innocence.  Where in the past I felt the warm safety of my father’s presence, now my skin tingled with liquid honey; the sensual heat that signaled yearning for my lover.

It was both really.  Staring at the lines of your naked body, hearing the scratching of the razor over your neck, I was both sensual woman and little girl.  Lover and baby.  My independent nature disapproving of the way my heart craved the sexually charged security of a daddy figure.  My secret desire peeking out from behind ribbons and bows.

You smiled at me, maybe even asked me what I was staring at.  I don’t remember now.  I just remember looking away, hiding my eyes and all the emotions they contained.  I busied my hands, pulling my hair out of the towel and drying my hair while sneaking furtive glances at you.

I could not hide for long.  My fascination with watching you rake the razor over your face took control of me.  The sheer intimacy of being there with you, of watching you stand naked in front of the mirror and shave your face consumed me.

You did not see the moisture shining in my eyes.  You were focused on your chore, something you likely viewed as a mundane task of manhood.  But to me it was a moment as intimate as any we have shared between the sheets.  It was tender, cozy, arousing and poignant.  It was indelible.  Burned into my memory forever – cleaning up after one of our messy outdoor adventures and stealing a cherished moment with the man I love.

I often wonder how many of those moments we have left.   As the days tick away and the choices, events and opportunities pass us by, I wonder if they will continue.

I hope yet I doubt.  I feel protected in one moment and utterly exposed in another.  I am a proud woman – yet sometimes I feel as though I must beg.  I ask myself why I keep fighting.  What is the reason I stay when you lie – when I feel insignificant and overlooked? Am I just another wet pussy in your bed or is there something about ME that fills you with longing too?

Why do I keep playing the hand when all the cards on the table seem to say I should fold?

And then I think about cherished moments like these.  I think about the times when I could feel your words even when you would not say them.  I try to tell myself it is not all a figment of my imagination.  That somewhere inside of you is an echoing refrain of the feelings inside of me.  I try to hold fast to my faith but it can be a slippery fish sometimes, especially in the cold absence of reassurance.  But that is the true test of faith, isn’t it?

So I hold on to what I can.  I hold on tight to the cherished moments.  I seek big faith in small moments.  Like watching you shave.

 

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Killingsworth

I drove south on the freeway today, my mind turning to you as I passed it.  The Killingsworth Exit.  The exit that once led me to your door.

There was a time when driving past that exit would require a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel to keep the tears at bay.  Now, there is no extraordinary grip required.  There was a time when the wounds were fresh, still bleeding freely and refusing to heal. They are but scars now.  The faint lines across my soul where it was once torn. 

There was a time when the mere act of passing the exit would send me reeling backward in time; back to stolen moments spent with you – laughing, sharing music, doing that anticipatory little dance in the kitchen before our mouths invariably met, melded and yielded all the sensual fruits we craved. 

They were stolen moments.  As surely as if we had snatched them from the shelf of the local convenience mart and furtively shoved them in our pockets, those days and nights together were purloined goods.  They were moments that never should have been ours in the first place.  Maybe that is why they felt so thrilling, tasted so unbelievably sweet.  Maybe that is why there was such an empty hole left behind when they were gone. 

I think about you from time to time.  When I do, I feel no anger or bitterness swelling up inside me.  I no longer feel the stabbing pain in my gut as the thought pierces me over and over:  Why?

Now, when my thoughts turn to you they are simple.  Are you happy?  Do you spend your weekends with your daughter as you dreamed?  Do you thrive in your job and have you set roots down in your new home?  Have you decorated your home and what car did you replace the Pearl with? Do you grill flank steak and drink Iron Horse? Do you listen to Mule? Do you sleep well at night, knowing you are writing the chapter in your story you wanted?  And sometimes I even wonder, do you ever think of me?

I don’t have any answers.  That once drove me nearly mad – the lack of answers and the endless swirling questions.  But like a tornado in my heart, the winds have died down.  That funnel of wind, fueled by grief and silence, fed by the unknown and unattainable has faded.  I won’t say my soul is at peace.  That would be stretching the truth too far.  But I will say that storm within has passed. 

Now, when my thoughts turn to you as I drive past the Killingsworth sign, I raise my eyes momentarily to the clouds above and say a prayer that you are well.  I pray you are whole and thriving, that your world is everything you wanted it to be.  I wish you well and even if you don’t want it any longer, I feel the ties of friendship that for me, were never severed. 

And I keep on driving. 

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Moment of Change

When did it happen?

When did that moment occur when you stopped fucking me and started making love to me?

I didn’t see it happen, I didn’t feel the shifting of your emotional tide.  I just know at some point it changed.

You stopped spanking me.  You stopped pulling my hair.  You stopped tying me up, clamping me down.  You stopped the punishments.

You started caressing my skin.  You began stroking my hair.  You put away your tethers and devices.  You stopped trying to leash me.

When I asked you about the change, you said you didn’t need those things.  That you liked us just the way we are.

And I knew.

The shift had taken place.

The tide had changed.

You are invested.

I can see it in the subtle depth of colors in your eyes.

I can feel it in the loving way your mouth moves over mine.

Your feelings are silently present in the quiet moments lying naked with my head against your shoulder.

They are on the tip of the tongue you use to kiss me.

We laugh about it.  Joke about how it isn’t happening.  You assure me you are staying in your box.

But you are lying – and so am I.

There is a subtle depth of color in my eyes too.

There is something on the tip of the tongue I use to kiss you.

We aren’t fucking any more.

We are making love.

And now there is only one course left to take.

There is one more moment whose time has come…

 

The moment I let you go.

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Filed under Erotica, Poetry

Morning Coffee and Thoughts About Sex

He was supposed to visit today but had to cancel due to weather.  I was primed and ready, my body tingling with a hunger that needed – that still needs – to be filled.  I had been looking forward to seeing him all week.  Looking forward to what was sure to be that blissful pinnacle, the moment when I would finally feel his thick cock stretching me, driving into my body.  Damn.

I poured my morning coffee, the early morning air cold against my bare legs, and wondered how I could possibly fill the ache within me.  I certainly had options, but they all lacked the one thing I was really craving: human touch.  I could run my hands all over my own body, I could pleasure myself 15 different ways.  But there was nothing that could reenact the bliss of a another person’s hands on my body.  Fuck.

Sure I could whip out the medicine ball, slide Bessie (my favorite pink g-spot vibe) into my slick, tight body.  I could roll my hips, bounce a bit, each rise and fall driving Bessie deep up inside me.  It wouldn’t take long like that.  A bit of that action and I’d be cumming hard in a matter of minutes.  Sometimes, I like to draw it out a bit, laying Bessie on her side, bent tip up and nestled against my clit.  I rub and roll, grinding my hips in a figure eight while I play with ample tits.  The ball allows me a wider range of motion, rolling forward and back, feeling that vibrating nub from clit to ass and back again.  Nothing to complain about there…

But it wouldn’t be strong male hands on my body.  It wouldn’t be a warm, throbbing cock inside me.  Yes, the end result is the same.  But one is intimate, passionate, connected. The other is just me, doing filthy things to a piece of exercise equipment.

I sipped my coffee, deep in thought.  As the morning light brightened the white landscape outside my window, the light of inspiration slowly awakened inside me.

CJ, I said to myself, you have a hell of an opportunity here.  A perfect excuse.  A day to yourself.  No distractions, no obligations, no reason to leave your apartment.  Everything you need is here, music, food, fresh batteries, the laptop, coffee and a mischievous intent.  What more do you really need on a snowy Friday?

So my salacious friends, stay tuned.  I will report back after my day of mischief is complete…

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Filed under Erotica, Love Notes, Tasty Morsels

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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