Monday, December 14, 2009
Sometimes, it’s nothing more than a foot in the snow, bare in its desire to feel.
From there, it’s the warm caress of spring air on a nearly thawed nipple and the feeling of forest duff on the knees.
Eroticism begets eroticism; feeling breeds feeling.
Everything excites the senses: bread dough, cool fish, firm sand, falling leaves, wet moss, mushrooms, morning coffee, vibrant flowers, muted hillsides, deep waters, the tongue of a cat, the music of verse, and the whispering comfort of her sleeping breath.
Friday, December 4, 2009
She wanted to make a statement. It was all about the liberation of women from the servitude of male-dominated society. She was appalled by the bovine complacency of her mother. She was not going to follow in those timid, subservient, footsteps. No man would tell her to have supper waiting at 6 o'clock. She wasn't going to wear nylons around the house while she vacuumed the carpets. And...to hell with sucking dicks on demand. She would show women what it was like to be free.
The party was large, the house enormous. Glass walls, stone floors, spacious balconies, waterfalls, statuettes, all overlooking the silent and flickering lights of distant Los Angeles. Glitterati, illuminati, charlatans, intelligentsia, fakers, posers, artists, writers, social climbers: all the cutting edge of the city were there. Middle-aged men in sports jackets, accompanied by their clinging second wives and surreptitious girlfriends in mid-thigh dresses and spiked heels, stood in small groups, martinis in hand. Laughter, loud and affectatious, blew through the thick haze of incense, marijuana, cigarette and cigar smoke. The Doors, Yes, Jimi Hendrix and the Moody Blues blared through the hi-fi stereo system. Photographers circulated through the crowd, recording the social scene for the industry tabloids.
Her entrance was anticipated. Some of the guests, particularly the women, very much doubted her resolve and sincerity. Aside from that, they did not know how they felt about what was billed to occur. Her closest friends, however, harbored no doubt; of course she would go through with it. She circulated through the crowd, the thin soft silk of her shift caressing her flowing curves, accentuating her nipples and the gently flex of her dancer's buttocks. Unlike the other woman in the place, she was barefooted, her painted toes like drops of blood on the cool stone floor. Her hair was long and loose; no hairspray or bobby pins or other unnecessary confinement. The men, and the women, were captivated by her feral loveliness and boldness. She felt their fingers grazing her as she moved from room to room. As the time drew near, the small tightness in her belly grew, along with the slickness between her legs. She would do this for all women. She would show them a better path to travel. Their men would view them in a different light, a strong and honest light.
She walked out onto a balcony and looked out over the city. She imagined the noises that were being made in the bedrooms below, the raw slamming sloppy sounds of copulation in infinite ways. She imagined sperm flying, pumping, flowing, and the deep feelings of gut-wrenching orgasms in uncounted women. The buzz of the party went on, unabated. The sultry liquid warmth of southern California air held her in its embrace as she slipped, unnoticed, out of her dress and stood naked in the night. The moment was upon her. She turned.
Tentatively, but with quiet resolve, she stode back into the light and noise of the party. The music stopped, conversation subsided. She settled onto the mattress that had been placed in the center of the room. This was her stage for her performance. She looked around and smiled, then lay back and spread her legs. The exposure was exquisite, excitement coursed through her body. The energy of a hundred sets of eyes fell upon her, the lust that permeated the space surrounding her. Eyes closed, she began a slow stroking of her engorged clitoris, sliding her fingers through the spongy thick labia that already shone with her juice. She teased herself and her quiet audience, running her hands over her twisting body, licking her fingers, tugging on her tight breasts. She knew she was turning everyone on. The room was filled with static electricity and her soft moans.
When the time came to unleash her passion, she raised her hips into the air in invitation. She thought of cocks driving into her, one after the other, all of them thick and hard and new. The fingers of one hand drew the cum out of her pussy and spread it across her skin, over and over, as the tension within her increased with each knowing flick of her clit. Again and again, her soaked fingers pumped into her exhibited hole; again and again, the imaginary cocks drove into her.
The circle of her silent admirers sipped on their drinks, trying to appear controlled in their passion. Women squeezed their legs together in supression; men shifted from side to side, feeling the uncomfortable pleasure of their cocks filling the confines of their dress slacks. The subtle, maddening, pungent scent of sex made each nostril flare and each heartbeat quicken.
When she came, it was with the sharp and wailing release of every woman filled with happy freedom. Her legs flew in a St. Vitus dance of uncontrollable, jerk-off, spasm. She was a puppet at the hands of a mad puppeteer. There were no thoughts in her mind. She was electric sizzling nerve, an animal with no consciousness of itself, a wriggling worm in a wet and violent storm of sensation. Women gasped and giggled, nervously, wishing. Their men subconsciously moved their hips, thrusting ever so slightly into imaginary pussy.
As she finally settled into the dampness of the mattress, regaining herself, the crowd released its tension with exclamations of approval and wild clapping. She had done it; she had demonstrated the beauty, the unparalleled beauty, the awesome liberating beauty of the truly sexual female. Her world would never be the same, and the photograph of her ecstasy changed the lives of women for all time.