In the gaze of the other

"My mistress' eyes are nothing…"


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Bi-pedal Panties


While the pic axe shrinks to an ice pic in my shoulder,

My eyeballs swell to beefsteak tomatoes, plumped tight

Pressuring the sockets to give way or tear up and split.

I’ve tapped as many keys as there are doors in this planet.

Day is done. Pace myself. Leave some pages for tomorrow.

Time to puff a two, loosen my belt and lose the jeans, bra

And throw on a tee-shirt. I’ll keep the panties but not these;

 
They strangle the creases to dead circulation in my thighs.

I’ve gained weight, and they’ve shrunk. They’re sentimental.

She gave them to me with a gleeful glint, when we were a

Thing. A present. I think it was my birthday or may be just

Because. She loved me then, and maybe she still does.

We’re a distant fragrance of passing perfume in a coat;

It’s winter and the cinnamon leaves crackled and died off.

 
image source/pixabay


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Fuck You, Fifty Shades

I blame her.

E.L James of 50 Shades of Grey.

She did it, unwittingly of course.

She was just trying to turn a buck

With a bit of earnest fiction, I’m sure.

But she unleashed it.

The American subconscious.

Seething all this time, culminating

In this climactic rape scene, 

The public just wanting it, 

Conditioned to accept it as love

Rape, breaking down, power loss

Submission to might–in the name

Of love, the father, and that not-so-

Holy ghost misogyny we all love

To hate and hate to love.

In the name of the grandest

Circle jerk, Americans,

Perpetrators and victims, watch

Stroking themselves as they 

Witness, their own interests die

And with them, their lives.

And so be it. 

Get off while you can.

The party’s started.

When the gang rape 

Really gets going, full thrust

They’ll be no stopping it.

Witness and weep.

Or get out.

Fuck off.

 

Credit: Miskatonic Institute of Horror Studies


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Zoophiliac’s Dream

  

Credit: http://static.comicvine.com/uploads/scale_small/1/15776/1322468-cat_fem6.jpg

She mewed at him provoking sense and shifted gaze.

The glint in his eye sparked flame among the blue.
Smoke surrounded her, drifting a tail of thin vapor.


His Circe gone, the scent of woman-cum-feline stirred.
The endless voyage in hiatus, his will broke in on itself
feathering out the tics drinking below the surface calm.


Caged ardor pounces a captain’s dreams ad delirium.
The restraints of a space-time compendium of battles
writ to air beats love into holes of clawed subordinates.


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One Man’s Pornography….

  

…is another’s erotica.  Considered pornography in 1918, Biederer’s photography depicts erotica or pornography, depending on your tolerance for whips and chains, striking portraiture of fabulously outlandish poses and brimming emotion. 

Risqué for its time but rather tame for today’s show-all-leave-nothing-for-the-imagination flat porn, Biederer’s stills and stags are delightfully playful imprints of the imagination, sexy and daring. From nasty snarling dominatrix whip yielders to women on women S & M to plain old funky fun spankings (click on the more daring photos in the text link). I especially love the smirk on the face of the woman, riding crop poised to snap, as she, atop the man on all fours with the hourse head, is about to strike. 

The most striking part of this short piece in dangerousminds.net is the shockingly sordid fact of the article’s last sentence, so poignant, so moving in consideration of the preceding photos of creative enjoyment and the artist’s  genuine celebration of lust for the bizarre and outlier’s reach.


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The Second Time 

  

Credit: http://www.autostraddle.com

The second time she came was with a boy-man she had attracted while perusing selections in a shoe store. He was a salesman and she was in the market for some comfortable shoes that evoked her style: earth shoes. 

“Do you have these in a size 9?” she asked huskily, then choking slightly, clearing her throat as she held up the shelf model to his smiling eyes. 

It was late 1978. She had already met Sean but he was spending the summer with his girlfriend while she was working and making her way through college as a young, vibrant, jeans-and-flannel 18 year old seeking love and fun in between classes. 

She was thrilled that she caught his attention, he with the thick, sandy brown, wavy, shoulder length hair, the same texture as his full wide bandito mustache of old Spaghetti westerns, that covered his full mouth and detracted from his cobalt blue eyes, the same color as Sean’s. He was clearly flirting, touching her foot in lingering courtesy, as he helped her try on the ugly dirt brown leather earth shoe with its flat rubber sole the color of bottled rubber cement, and hobbit-foot curved toe box. 

“How do these fit?” he asked, grinning too widely for the contextual inquiry.

It was the first of many encounters with Jim, whom she loved to kiss for hours. He may still go down as one of the best kissers ever, someone who could savor a mouth, a tongue, the fullness of a brushing lower lip along another’s thinner, grasping top lip in utter tender breathlessness of passionate study. He clearly understood that a kiss was a conversation. 

He was a natural fit and they had sex often but after a time, made love, high on cheap wine and pot, in synced undulation that moved her body–shoulders to thighs–slithery-slowly in sweaty sensual waves inside the steamy, airless room of a slightly seedy, shared apartment behind the liquor store of the town’s busy main drag. A shoe salesman’s commissions afforded little luxury.

On one occasion, she found herself lying underneath him, hands softly cupping his bare shoulders, fingers rounded relaxed so that her nails lightly tingled the skin of his back as he slowly moved in and out of her, rhythmic but slow-savor of flesh on flesh, every stroke of it on the way in and out, even-calm gliding sweetness that all of the sudden burst tears from her eyes in a full-blown opening that was yet a closeness to his being; it moved her body and heart–an unknown sensation to her prior to that moment and a mystery still as she bathed in the warm tears on her face and the outpour from her brain down to the depths of her, some place she only abstractly identified as the darkness of her womb. 

She was surprised at the tears and the tender feeling of surrender and body deep warmth leaking from her pores and especially her legs, between her thighs. She would many years later identify that sensation in the throes of an intentionally induced orgasm in the bed of the technician, whose fingers worked effortlessly to make her body arch in that final tautness before the release–as an orgasm. 

It was an aha! moment 12 years later while reflecting in the night spent with that technician, “Hotel Jones,” lying awake in glorious incongruous aftermath of body-spent stillness and sleeplessness for the sheer bubbling liquid excitement that stirred inside her: the newness of an unknown man, experience, and sex never before recognized, come to light of her mind, where she knew everything, filtered by ponderous thought and book-learned emotion, how she understood the world and herself.