The Choice You Make – Sensual Sunday

I don’t know if I would undo it if I could. Your shirts are here. And your toothbrush with the fancy nubby side. I actually folded socks today (not my specialty). They weren’t mine. That’s how you know I care.

When you lift your head and put your feet on the cold hard floor, I swoop in and grab your favorite pillow, hook my arm around it and pull it in tight. I watch your naked back bend forward, the valley of your spine is perfect and I reach out and run a finger down.

You wipe the sleep and look over your shoulder, peeking through a mop of messy hair.

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“Me too.”

It doesn’t matter who said which, because we trade off these sentences, depending on what day it is.

I don’t know what force on this earth got to decide what love is or how it manifests, but I know what it is for me. Love is in the Don McLean song that crackles out the same line every morning, “The auctioneer saaaaaaaaid, I’m not through yet…” from your alarm clock. Love is around the edges of your iris, where light brown gives way to hazel. Love is in scrambled eggs and toast next to the window, on a single plate with two forks.

“I like ketchup on mine, do you?”

And now, even after what happened, we’re still here and maybe a little less sorry about it than the two years that followed, because love can also be an opportunity to choose somebody every day. We keep making that choice. I can’t undo it, so I will take solace in this.

 

 

Sensual Sunday – Valentine’s Edition

Valentine’s Day happened to fall on a Sunday this year. So, I was determined to do a Sensual Sunday post today. Here it is. Happy Valentine’s Day all of you lovers out there.

❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤

wchofhlb

He writes. He observes. Quietly. Warmly. Kindly.

I woke up to his whispers.

“You looked so soft,” he said.

He used words like “elegant” and “curvy” and “lovely.”

“I took a photo of you. Look, here…see.” He shows me. I like it. I used to hate every photo of myself. Now I’m more selective with my hate of things, self and otherwise.

All freckled shoulders and my face buried in pillows. My pixie cut obviously well on its way past bob length. Look at that flip in my hair, I thought. It’s nice that the sheet decided to drape that way.

It’s sweet. And loving. And the kind of thing I always wanted in a lover. Somebody who would look at me when I am sleeping and think that I’m beautiful. When I’m not vying for attention or trying to be seductive, he still notices.

“It looks kind of like a ball gown,” he says. “Low in the back, of course. Elegant. You just look so beautiful.” His face searched mine and I saw a flash, that momentary request for approval – that I didn’t hate it and that it was ok that he took it.

I feel my face go soft. I smile.

“Yeah, I guess it does. The way it’s draped like that,” I say.

And I watch him, watching me. Messy hair and barrette falling out. But I don’t feel like a disaster. I feel like I am glowing. And the sheets are so soft and warm. The sun glow is even cooperative, diffuse and comforting. And he puts a hand to my leg and strokes it and then leans in to kiss me. I am at peace in that moment. All of myself focused on that kiss. It’s all I have to offer at this moment in time and I guess, for now, it’s enough.

Sensual Sunday – You Are Going Gray

Sensual Sunday is meant to be writing practice.  I’m looking to hone my ability to write about sensual things or even to write sensually about regular things.

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You Are Going Gray

The soft smell of your spice.  Clove and salt tears.

Peachy, with black curls of hair, down, down, down.

Earthy musk, the taste of you…all of you.

Inside of me.  Each space filled.  And a woman has many spaces.

Slip, slide, into place.  Nestle there.  Rested there.  In your hair.

The smell of the top of your head.  Tickle, soft brown and pewter.  Pewter…what a word.  The color describes the soft turning of your fields from ripe wheat to stoney silver.  You’re only more beautiful for it.  But the word itself – pewter – is wrong because I don’t like the feel of it in my mouth.  And everything about you feels so good in my mouth.

In the dark it’s hard to tell what year it is.  Are we new or has it really been so many years?  The smell of the building and your skin and these sheets and my own spent aromas, a perfume I know well.  The sounds of the whirring fans, creaking branches just outside of our bedroom window, and your rhythmic breaths, just shy of a gentle snore, are such a familiar song.  Leaves dance shadows on the wall thrown there by streetlights as they have always done since the first day I slept next to you.  As you sleep, I watch them twist and rest.

Firefly Flames – Sensual Sunday

I’m sorry I missed a few Sundays.  I was out of town visiting my daughter and when I got back, catching up was a bit overwhelming.

Today’s SS is brought to you by the magical firefly.  I saw my first fireflies of the season two nights ago while out walking.  So, I wanted to be sure to include them in a coming Sensual Sunday.  The below is a fictionalized story inspired by a real event.

Sensual Sunday is meant to be writing practice.  I’m looking to hone my ability to write about sensual things or even to write sensually about regular things.  I don’t go back and edit them.  Or, at least I try not to.  The point is to try and get a good first draft down. And to resist my urge to edit into oblivion.  I’m also working on staying in tense.  So I do a rough draft and look back to see how often I stray.  This way I can see if I’m improving.  Sometimes when I’m absorbed in the story, it’s easy to wander.

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fireflies

Even in the middle of a huge grassy yard surrounded by trees, the July day had been blazing and sticky.  The smell of beer, damp skin and barbeque smoke clung to everybody.  But when the sun began to dip below the treeline and the bugs began to sing, the heat let up and I noticed you again.  Standing by a chain-link fence beyond the giant oak people had been sheltering under for shade.  A beer in one hand, the other leaning into the fence, your hip a little oddly out, almost feminine.  Not body language I was used to seeing on a man, but I liked that somehow.

I approached from your open side, only about two feet away from you I leaned onto the fence and looked out over the tall grasses and wildflowers.  Without looking at you I said, “I’ve had fun talking to you today.”  I could see you smile out of the corner of my eye.

“I’ve enjoyed talking with you, as well.”  You turned towards me and took a step my direction.  I wondered why your sexy young (rude) girlfriend wasn’t at the party, too.

I turned towards you and could feel the gravity and spark flowing between us.  “Look, we’ve had some amazing conversations today and I think you’re a really great guy.  In fact, I would love to go somewhere with air-conditioning and iced coffee and talk to you for hours, but I have to be honest with you, I don’t like your girlfriend.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.  It’s just, you’re so nice and before I start to get even friendly with you, I didn’t want to seem fake or anything.  Like, I can’t be around her and smile and pretend like I like her if I run into the two of you together.  It’s a small town and that kind of thing happens.”  Your brow knitted and you took a casual sip of your beer.  I could feel myself getting more nervous.  I mean, were you flirting with me?  Seriously?  That’s not cool, even if I don’t like your girlfriend.  But I want to flirt back. But what kind of guy goes to parties and flirts with strange girls when he has a gorgeous girlfriend at home, even if she is a self-centered brat?

I could feel myself wind up, the nervous talking was going to keep pouring out of me.  I told myself to shut up now.  Shut up.  “I mean, I know we only met today and I know you’re not from in this town and all, but we do have some of the same friends and we could end up at a party together, again…like before.  And well, if we did and I would say hi to you and I guess I could smile at her, I mean, if we were good friends I could do that for you, I just don’t, well I’m sorry.  I understand if you’d rather not be friends.  It would just be too complicated.  I’m just being honest.  I think it’s important to be authentic.”  I mean, what is a nice guy doing with that girl anyway?  It’s fine if I just talk friendly, right?

You let out a laugh.  It gave me a chill up my spine.  Your voice was deep and had a resonance that danced across my skin.

That shut me up.  Ouch.  Laughing.  I felt a hot flash of embarrassment rush over my entire body.  “I’m sorry.  I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

“You’re nervous?”  You sipped your beer again.  You and your damn casual body language.  So relaxed.  Confident and cool.

I nodded, not daring to open my mouth for fear of what might tumble out.

You stepped in a bit closer.  We were almost touching.  You emptied your beer and turned the cup upside down on a fencepost.  We were now facing each other and you put your hands on my shoulders and looked down at me.  I thought my knees would buckle.  I was undeniably attracted to this man on every level.  Even though my face was hot and I wanted to look away, I was transfixed.

Finally you said, “We broke up.”

I managed to croak out an, “Oh.”  I leaned forward, we both did.  Our lips barely touching we breathed each other in.  Then gently we both pressed forward and parted lips and kissed, warm and sweaty and salt and beer, the flavors of the day and the smell of spice and warm emanated from him.  We pressed hard into each other, everything behind us, the music, the lights, the splashing and talking, suddenly sounded far away.   I felt the kisses in my toes and my low back, my neck and my belly.  It reached every part of me and eventually, we finally came up for air.  When we did, we noticed the field beyond the fence, with a black backdrop of silhouetted trees was alive and sparkling with fireflies.  You put your arm around me and we stood there, watching them and whispering about how magical fireflies are and imagining stories about what they might have inspired throughout history.  We stood there a long while, whispering, breathing, laughing and holding each other. Eventually, legs tired and bug-bitten we climbed into my truck and headed to the all-night diner and talked straight through until the breakfast rush.

Sensual Sunday – Bodice Ripper Train Ride

Sensual Sunday is a weekly sensual micro-story, poem or word association. It’s mostly sexy writing practice. I encourage others to do Sensual Sunday – share your links with me!

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This is a bit longer than a micro-story so we’ll just call it a short story. This is in the erotica category, so it’s NSFW. It is a rough draft. I have not gone through to do edits. I am still working on tense shifting, so I try hard these days not to shift tense in the first draft, but I have yet to manage that feat. I am sure somewhere in this story there are improper tense shifts. I can’t promise that I won’t go through and edit something if I see it later and it bothers the hell out of me. But part of these Sensual Sunday writing exercises is to push outside of my comfort zone. And leaving barely edited work hanging out there is definitely outside of my comfort zone.

Do you have any special writing exercises?  Do you have a blog where you practice?  I’d love to hear from you!

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SStrain

Lindy straightened her hat and stepped onto the train, a dainty gloved hand extended to the conductor. She placed one perfectly heeled white pump onto the first large step and felt her dress catch a draft and fly out behind her. She let out a little yelp and the conductor quickly saved her reputation by swatting the hem back towards her calves.

“Thank you,” she said, demurely. He simply nodded and touched the brim of his hat.

The train was mostly empty and it would be a long ride to Memphis from Sacramento, so once in the back she opened her small suitcase and fished for the bodice ripper her older sister had insisted she take along. She looked around, saw only a couple of passengers at least six rows up, grasped the book like a child thieving from the cookie jar and tucked it behind her back. She snapped the metal clasps closed with two satisfying pops and slunk down into her seat.

Proper young unmarried ladies just didn’t read this sort of thing. But she would be married in a few days’ time and she wanted to be prepared for the wedding night. Her mother never prepared her for the “big night” and her sister did her best to explain things. But Cora said the book would give her more detailed descriptions of what to expect. She crossed her legs, cheated her body towards the window and hunkered over the pulp as she began to read the first pages. It was long before the pirate in the story was popping a maiden’s bodice with his cutlass.

These scenes were full of words that Lindy had never seen before, but she somehow knew exactly what they meant. She devoured each page like a rich, sinful bon-bon. After a solid hour of reading, Lindy began to grow restless. She felt herself swell a number of times throughout the pages. At one point she gasped out loud. She kept shifting in her seat, trying to simultaneously ignore and relieve the ache.

After several hours of reading and the light failing, she left her car to use the lady’s room. She tidied up her dampness, feeling somewhat silly and sexy somehow. She splashed some cold water on the back of her neck and took a few deep breaths. She chided herself for allowing her hormones to get carried away, but she also couldn’t wait to get back to her seat to finish the book. She even took it to the lady’s room, only – of course – because she didn’t want anybody to find it. In all honesty, she couldn’t bear to put it down.

On her return one of the doors popped open and a man, tall and handsome and probably ten years older than she was, emerged. He was wearing a white dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. A royal blue tie with green diamonds, loosened and his top button was undone. They almost collided.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he said. His voice as rich as molasses. Eyes as green as emeralds. She looked down at his left hand. No ring.

Lindy felt herself start to perspire, even though the car was pleasantly cool for June. She smiled at him and pressed herself against a bit of wall as he started to squeeze by. As he did she put her hand on his torso and said, “It’s a long trip to Memphis.”

His forehead creased and he tilted his head to the side, as if trying to figure her out. He looked down at her and smiled a crooked grin and nodded, “Yes, it is.”

She held up the novel she’d been reading, a pirate on the front with a woman in a chemise draped artistically over his arm, both of them with windswept hair, the title in a lusty shade of red shouted out from the cover, Pirate Plunders Pink Pearls.

“I…I brought this book to read.” She took a deep breath and held is gaze. Her chest rising and falling and the sound of the train beginning to sound muffled the world became a single focal point – his mouth.

His face flushed. His breathing stopped for a moment. She saw his body give an almost imperceptible shiver. He let out a long breath. “Is there something I can help you with?”

She opened his compartment door, which was strewn with books and papers, turned to him and backed into it. “I can’t…you know…I can’t do everything. But I’m…well, you know. I’m getting married in a few days and I just…I want to, well…have, well, I’m kind of restless, on account of reading this book. Do you think you can help me?”

He stepped into the compartment and shut the door behind him. For a moment Lindy felt a trapped, and like she could be murdered and it would serve her right for doing something so sinful. But she was drunk with hormones and want and in a few short days she could never have sex with anybody else again. It was making all her proper pearly buttons pop.

It wasn’t long, though, before her mouth was on his and her hands were inside of his shirt, feeling all of his firm, smooth flesh. They kept their mouths pressed together as he pulled off his shirt. She pulled away to watch him remove his pants and as he took down his shorts his cock sprung forward. She gasped out loud a felt a little faint. It was longer than she thought it would be and bouncing and swaying as it stuck straight out from his body.

“Sit down,” she said. He swiped away papers and books and did as she commanded. He settled onto the cushioned portion of the first class seat.

As he watched, Lindy kicked off her shoes. She put a leg up next to him and unhooked her garter, then the other side. She pulled off the stockings and tossed them behind her, floating down like feathers, resting onto the bench seat behind her. She grinned and locked eyes with him as she reached under her dress and pulled down her panties and stepped out of them. She stepped towards him, pushing him to lean back a little and she straddled him, resting her slit along his erect cock, sandwiching it between them. The length of him was nestled in her cleft. She unbuttoned the top portion of her dress as he pushed it down around her shoulders. He nestled his face into her ample cleavage as he reached around back to remove the significant undergarment. The elastic relaxed after the popping of the fasteners and she tossed the brazier aside, holding her arms up, she let them swing free.

He looked at her, as if in awe at her rosy nipples and the beautiful milky orbs that they decorated. He hefted the glorious weight of them in his hands, cupping and lifting and repeating, as if he could never do it enough times. This made her swell so greatly between her legs she thought she might burst like an overripe berry. Skin splitting. Juices running all over. She was slick with want and began to rub back and forth against the length of his hardness. He cupped and suckled and rubbed and moaned as she pressed her hands hard against the wall behind him. The motion of the train added to the rocking motion of their rhythm.

She could feel the lust rise in her like never before and couldn’t have stopped rubbing if the train derailed. She felt as if a force of nature, as if an animal acting on instinct, her hips compelled to slide her wetness, her soft downy cleft along him. She was attached to him. Tingles ran up her spine, to her nipples, to her mound, train sounds, his hands, his mouth, all a jumble, dizzying as she rocked and rocked until she heard herself yelling and felt her thighs clasp and her spine make an arch over him as she spasmed and she felt silent, even though her mouth was wide to continue her cries.

At this moment she felt his legs tense and his body lean into hers as he thrust his hips upwards. He pushed up her skirt again, and they both watched as his seed erupted over his belly, some making it almost as far as his neck.

They were both panting as she dismounted and sat next to him. He wiped away his semen with a handkerchief and put his arm around her as she nestled into his chest where she fell asleep. He soon was sleeping, too.

Sensual Sunday – Spring Forward

Sensual Sunday is a weekly sensual micro-story, poem or word association. It’s mostly sexy writing practice. I encourage others to do Sensual Sunday – share your links with me!

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Spring Forward

Springing, showing, sliding, slipping, slowly

Budding, blooming, bouncing, bobbing,

Out, obediently, outrageously, obsessed

Popping, pink, purple, passion, persist

Firming, fragile, fractured, forward, facing

Poking, pouncing, pounding, poking, perspire

Dangling, dancing, dappled, delicious, dizzying

Tempting, touching, tearing, turgid, tenacious, temple

Worship, watching, wishing, wincing, warping

Rocking, rolling, rising, reeling

Swelling, spurting, shooting, streaming

Careening, calling, calming, collapsing

Serenely, softly, sleeping, spent, sated

Sensual Sunday – Bloom

SDF_flowers_gb_06

Soft pink petals, parting.  You pluck them.  Pastel hues, gathered into bunches.  An offering that makes me smile.  I say a tiny blessing that I trust this gift.  Once upon a time I used to get flowers from somebody else.   Receiving them never felt as pleasurable as this.  More often I felt the thorns in those offerings.  As though there was an apology in them, for things I didn’t know were happening.  Sad things, behind my back. I blink the unhappy thought away.

I smell the bouquet and and sneeze.  A tiny squeak that always elicits giggles from anybody nearby.  Your face is warm and your energy is open.  You wrap your arms around me and I bury my face in, inhaling your smells and feeling the texture of your cotton shirt against my cheek. I grasp a wrinkle of jersey in my free hand and press hard into you.

I take them to the sink and fill a faded blue glass antique jar with water.  The smell of green as I snip of blades to tidy the ends.  Dropping them into the vessel I parade them to the table, sitting them on the lace tablecloth near the tea cups resting in a puddle of sunshine.

There is beauty in these small things.  These gestures.  And the beauty blooms and grows in new ways inside of me now that so much pain is behind me.  I am not in a constant state of receiving apologies for things I don’t know that have occurred.  It is plain.  You offer a gift that you were thinking of me and I accept the gift with trust.

We lay down together, spooning in our own ray of sun.  Your hand resting in the valley of my hip.   Your breath on the back of my neck.

“Tell me a story,” I say, only slightly childish.

“Once upon a time there was a mermaid…” you begin a tale made from familiar places and happy endings as I drift off to sleep.

SS_bloom