Murderess

She wrapped me in her quilted smile,
then torched the salty fabric of us, tear stained and aching.

She knees cruel in the balls.
And I love her that way just the same.

She hangs me up to dry,
then cuts me down for air.

The breathing windows of us,
pulsating walls setting chairs rocking, us inside,
lulled in four-arm sleep.

Murderess

She wrapped me in her quilted smile 

then torched the salty fabric of us, 

tear stained and aching. 

She knees cruel in the balls. 

And I love her that way just the same. 

She hangs me up to dry, 

then cuts me down for air. 

The breathing windows of us, 

pulsating walls setting chairs rocking, 

us inside, lulled in four-arm sleep.

The “Nipplegasm”

  
“I’d say that the more a person is engaged with sexual activity as an open-ended adventure in which to explore sensory possibilities, the easier it will be to become orgasmic via nipple and breast stimulation,” says Queen. “The first step may simply be knowing that it’s possible.”

Alternet’s short article on “nipplegasms”(orgasms attained through nipple stimulation alone) not only explores this more-popular-than-you-think pleasure vehicle but confirms some simply comforting observations about self-framed sexual perceptions. The writer lays bare the facts (haha) that orgasms by nipple stimulation happens typically to those open to it. And those who are not, generally don’t have them:

Sexologist Carol Queen suspects those who have are likely armed with two specific skills: the ability to get very aroused and the willingness to explore sex as a full body practice.

In fact, nipplegasms are the second most common orgasm, according to experts interviewed in this article. Interesting.

Makes sense. The mind-body connection producing orgasm is no secret by now, so the right parts (sensitive or not too sensitive nipples), open attitude and vivid imagination reap the rewards. But not everyone enjoys nipples–or other erotic parts–touched. 

The experts agree that cultural, familial and/or relgious perceptions of “right and wrong” sex most probably underpin what gets someone off and what hang-ups prevent orgasms.  The author cites those with culturally divergent sexual attitudes as “in the BDSM world, where it is well-accepted that the whole body can be the source of erotic and exciting sensory experiences.” 

So, moral of the story: when you consider your body one big sensor ready to be stroked, orgasms may fly from anywhere. And what could be bad about that? 

credit: Flkr

Orange and Blue

  

I colored your feet orange and blue while you called me names like “whore” and “cunt”, 

your toes brimming like the koi pond pressed in a steely concrete commercial center, juxtaposed erupted urchins of God’s flashing tongue dimmed by man’s dull blunt greed.

You promised me a cutting inscription of flesh, bled poem to my thighs, while I raised my glass to meet your eyes, full of razor smiles and pinned suggestion.

And while we slashed each other’s will, the poison mist encircled our ears, making rhymes echo, fall flat down the canals and pool in pelvic hollows of warm, viscous amethyst paramnesia.

“Get lost!” you roared. Startled, I gazed upon you, the words traversing lacrimal streams teleprompting your dread: Lose me inside and bring me home to your harbors, belly deep in the will of cabined fear and vicious distraint.

Aloud, my response came: “Let me paint the coraled sea around you orange and blue.” 

Define Mistress 

  
I certainly enjoyed the following Urban Dictionary definitions of the term “Mistress:”

***Something between a mister and his mattress.

***Spare pussy to have when your wife or girlfriend is either on the rag or just not in the mood to straddle the cock. Traditionally a popular stress reliever in France, which might explain why they rarely wage wars these days.

***The woman who is dominant to you and will gladly punish you at any time for any thing. 

see bitch

You missed a spot on the window… 

Bend over to be spanked!
***<ORIGIN> from the Old French maistresse, from maistre ‘master’

Noun 

1) – a woman in a position of authority or control.

<special usage> a woman who is skilled in a particular subject or activity. (possibly sexually)
2) – a woman having an extramarital sexual relationship, especially with a married man.
<special usage> a woman loved and courted by a man
3) – a woman that is the dominating role in a dominate/submissive relationship or arrangement.

***Side hoe
***mistress

a women who has a foot slave and allows him to worship her feet, ie kissing each toe, licking her soles, eating her toejam

mistress gemma wanted to punish her foot slave so took off her boots and smothered his with her sweaty soles, the slave was in heaven, she even then made him masturbate over her smelly socks

***female PIMP

***1.) a lonely female with no self-respect who willingly subjects herself to the marginal attention of married men 

2.) enemy to the institution of marriage 

3.) an example of female energy used for evil

4.) a married man’s co-conspirator 
5.) the puppet a married man keeps in his closet and pulls out only at night and only when no one else is around to witness its existance 

6.) one who will never experience real romantic love, and seemingly has no desire for it

7.) a woman with no value other than that of sexual gratification

credit: http://pre01.deviantart.net

Patterns of Memory Seize

  

credit:  http://blaine.org/sevenimpossiblethings/?p=2216

A static image floats fuzzy still life before a mind’s eye

–mine.
Lips crushed in grimace foul, screeching silent panic
a movie memory sans sound features a small face
wet with tears, her curls raging above and about her
head brown with ratted coils
and a dainty, tender, fragile forefinger
one finger enlooped by layers of hair, an index finger
struggling, captive, to untangle its freedom locked in 
a strangling tress much to the horror of its owner.
That image, that girl, that finger flashes before me
now, you, whose wide firm hand with digits like
iron stuffed leather rods rummage through my 
hair gripping the base of the rubber band that ties
the tail to my head, tighten your grip, finding 
the loops for your yanking intention 
my head poised, still, steeled up to constriction
and confinement.
All hands reach back, pull my trussed will, memory-
bound to arches circumscribing the view
of the celestial seascape’s cliche’d vision:
a man, a woman, trapped in time and hair-locks.
A choice, ownership and recognition–
a cerebral passion, homo sapien adores patterns.

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.

A Caged Notion:  Sarcophagal Love 




When a notion, 
a flash, 
becomes flesh, 
enacted, 
the creative act animates, 
wields powerful revelation, 
a reflection of will, 
aching in wistful want, 
the small voice of a wounded child, 
more an intention to reverberate, 
ripple through others and move, 
affect or make them,
inchoate breath.


The containment you imagine me is pure pleasure palladia, 
mutual fantasy of possession and punishment, 
our sado-satisfying masochistic me in it for your admiration, 
a prize for you to paw.  
We dream that cage together, 
get off on it in our sleep, 
its bars of steely glares and grim reproach
spaced wide enough for you to grope your grapey lust, 
take what’s yours to take.  
Inside, 
the space is so small,
almost nil, 
no room to parade or pace, 
just enough to set upon all fours and wait and watch, 
captured in your gaze, 
electroreception,
anticipating your designs. 
A rectangle of caged space 
inside a rectangle of shut in space 
inside a locked staring searing eye is meta murder, 
again and again.  
You slay my spirit with suffocating enclosure, 
arms wrapped around me in my sleep, 
nowhere to avert the sarcophogal stare, 
nailed to a phone pinging and ringing your intentions, 
mind manacled to your roller-coaster moment and measurement. 
The cave of your desire, 
crated me, 
still closes out the bogey man of freedom, 
choice, 
all burden of the untied.


Like the neo-fascist caged desire, 
bully-beaten youth grown cruel, 
craving corrective counterblow, 
bursting from their cells (non-cognitive) of scarred safety, 
pummeling the impenetrable,
un-crumpled equanimous content,
our cage, 
pale to compare, 
private,
keeps out the unwanted. 
Only in those other confines, 
the downtrodden,
the losers at the starting gate 
crawling into empty spaces 
in the walls of ice-just, 
inside homes of the muddled mind-less classes, 
with Cerberus as their keeper, 
ferryman to their burning holes, 
here and there 
in courtrooms and classrooms and barbed wired buses and wanton walls. 
They are safe inside, 
terra firma, 
havens of co-caged meat, 
their fists and teeth, 
sinking in their terror, 
angst, 
despair and connection, 
conjunction, 
a merging of all the shit shared from drug-addled parents,
pimping lovers and duplicitous lawyers, 
witch doctors, 
robed wardens and baton’d judges. 


And one of them shouted at me, 
in chains, 
walking the long hall of dungeoned malice
after the debacle 
after an irreversible sentence to a life’s shackling stain, 
a broken destiny, 
“Why you cry?!! 
Why?!! 
Why you cry for?!!” 
As if shouting, 
commanding could make it so:  
one human being sharing agony with another, 
seeking consolation and empathy from parallel worlds 
sealed off from one another by impenetrable soundless walls. 
Your lips moved but blood splattered the walls of my unending walk
with utterances of the caged, 
the animals you molest and shove and grab and spit on.  
You, 
who just do your job like boot-and-bayonet-brave Nazis.
Your cage
my compassion
their circles
our cells
one DNA
dream.

Take her

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Credit: s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com

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One day I stepped into myself and found love.
I knew it was there all along because I could feel it, give it.
But it was all for others.
And I also found greed and jealousy and hate, disrespect.
And I found those hideously powerful.
They belonged to me.
I felt them too.
But mostly I felt disillusionment and loss.
I felt myself missing.
I feel it.
There is no poetry in reality.