Your things are still under my bed. I can’t look at them. I tried once, five months after I lost you. I thought I could conquer the memories while in the presence of another man — an inferior, safe man who inspired inferior, frustrated feelings. He was not a fearless leader like you. He could not proffer wise advice or tie a knot or fix my pipes, or even make my coffee. He was the furthest from you that I could find: the opposite of you. He was the opposite of passion and the opposite of distrust. It was a mistake to drag out the dusty bag with him beside me. My breath hitched and my lungs shivered, as though I’d unearthed a sarcophagus, still pungent after all this time. I cried, and then cried harder from the shock of my tears until I was doubled over and sobbing. I saw your shaving kit and your plastic cards that detailed the hundreds of knots a boyscout may need for survival. I desperately thumbed through the cards, wet tears sluicing off the plastic, as though searching for a knot we could have tied to save us — with your belt or your ropes or your colorful scarves, wrinkled and battered in the bag like cold linens left unfolded. I shoved everything back into the bag, kicked it under my bed and asked your replacement to leave and to never come back. I wasn’t ready for your opposite. I didn’t want anyone […]
Candaulism: a sexual practice or fantasy in which a man exposes his female partner, or images of her, to other people for their voyeuristic pleasure. There are photos. In our month-long relationship, he has photos that I never dreamed I’d take or have taken of me. I’ve taken photos of my body from every angle, dressed and, mostly, undressed. I’ve seen parts of myself that I’ve never seen before. I can now identify my nether lips from a line-up and I know exactly how my ass looks with a plug inside it. It looks hot, in case anyone was wondering. And, no, I won’t post those photos here or on The Pink Papers. He’s the candaulist; I’ll leave my exposure to him. He’s published many of them online. Having a partner who enjoys exposing me has been an exercise in body acceptance. I’ve taken that acceptance a bit further and can now say, “I love my body.” Sure, I still cringed a little when I saw the facial shots from our weekend adventures posted on his Fet account. I’m still a little old-fashioned and prudish. I don’t think that will ever go away. I get off on the blush. There’s a quiet part of me that wants to hide, and then there’s the other part — the part that writes this blog — that craves the nakedness. For that woman, the one who craves exposure and desires to push past her comfort levels, I am posting this. It’s a short […]
A re-post. His thumb traces the bruise on her lower right cheek. He lifts her bottom and kisses the red stripe that ends in a blossoming purple. She folds the pillow under her head and weeps. Her hair smells of him, the other him, not the one who kisses her marks. Tangled sheets remind her at the foot board; on the dresser are her panties. Beside her is another man, her man, waiting to hear the story. “Well?” He asks expectantly as his hand moves up her naked back. “It was wonderful,” she sobs. “Then why are you crying?” Because it wasn’t you, comes her silent accusation. It wasn’t her lover who cultivated the butterflies and pushed them to the precipice. He didn’t peer inside her, see her nerves and determine what she needed. It was another man who layered the evening so that she could take it longer and harder than ever before. “He used a paddle,” she begins. “Ah. Is that what this is?” He circles a tender area on her left cheek. Shrugging, she cannot see it. “I didn’t complain,” she says in wonder because she always fights the paddle. “Then he used his belt.” “I bet you liked that, didn’t you, naughty girl?” Closing her eyes, she nods and remembers. With doubled leather in hand, he steered her bottom higher, pushed her legs apart and began. For the first half, she watched him: the rise and fall of his untucked dress shirt; the way his shoulders […]
He left bruises with that big, right hand. My annual exam was today and my OB remarked on them, still purple and fresh. Moments before, she “tsked” when she saw the yellowing fingerprints on my tits, fading from Friday. I said the only thing that made sense: “I’m sure you’ve heard of ’50 Shades.’” That awful book is a handy point of reference when one’s feet are in stirrups. This ‘thing’ with C is still new, but even if it wasn’t, my tummy-toil would be there. I know enough to realize that I’m in big trouble with this one. There are no rules — yet — but I’m already wary of breaking them. Because of his hands. Because of how small he makes me feel in his presence. Because of how well I fit over his lap. When he slapped my thigh, I squealed in a most unbecoming way and kicked. He immediately did it again. And again. And, later, he found the same spot and tested me yet again. I pounded his Doc Marten-clad foot with my fist and momentarily tilted away from his knees. “Babygirl doesn’t like that so much, does she?” He asked. There was no easy answer. I don’t like it. I don’t like the high-pitched sting. I don’t like that it’s not on my ass, where my pleasure receptors seem to be. I don’t like it because it’s all pain, sharp and foul-mouthed. But I’m a confusing girl sometimes. Here is a man I trust […]
Hands and fingers, legs and lips. And eyes and ears And mouth and hips. Hands and fingers, legs and lips, Legs and lips. I remember when every first with a new boyfriend was fully explored prior to moving on to the next discovery. That first kiss took forever in my younger relationships. We’d hint around it, spit out our Juicy Fruit gum in anticipation for it, lean in, almost do it, chicken out and eventually find the courage. When it happened, we’d stay on it for weeks, learning the hows of kissing each other, savoring our breathless wanting. Second base was an exercise in restraint, too. His hand would tentatively explore my young breasts above my Espirit shirt for hours, and then under my shirt the next day, and then finally, maybe if we were really serious, under the bra I’d secretly purchased at TJ Maxx when my mother wasn’t watching. All the while my body would lean into that hand, silently willing him to take my pert nipple between his fingers and teeth but lacking the voice to say it. It was divine frustration that sounds like torture now. And it is. It really is torture when we’re accustomed to immediate gratification and we know exactly what we want. I haven’t been a virgin for 22 years; I’ve been a greedy girl for 10; and I’ve been a slut for 7. I know what I want. I know when I want it. And I want it now. Taking things […]
It was dormant for too long, but I’m finally back to updating my Tumblr with delicious pictures (mostly reblogged from other sources). You may have noticed that I no longer post photos with my words. This was a conscious decision (albeit laziness played a factor). With maturity came a discomfort in using other folks’ photos in telling my stories. But you can still get your visual perv on at The Pink Papers. Check it out here.