(Source: olderoticart)
"Some people underestimate how erotic it is to be understood."
—
Mary Rakow (via loveyourchaos)
This. So much right now. Understood and heard.
(Source: kitty-en-classe, via imfantasyparade)
Trap
Things had deteriorated. I knew I was no longer the queen of The Aesthete’s erotic imagination. I’d lost my hold on him. Truth be told, it had been a long time since he had that old hold on me. Since he’d take me and I’d be so wrapped up in the moment, in our sex, that I couldn’t think of anything, or anyone, else.
I knew it needed to end, I figured it would be a long process, I felt a responsibility. At the same time the animal in me, trapped, wanted to gnaw her leg off. This was two weeks before I hit the button that blew it all up. Exposed the layers of duplicity and deceit he’d spun, that in the end did not surprise me, but gave me a reason to leave.
This was before all of that. I was sitting at my computer, working, thoughts heavy with the fix I was in. An email popped up in my inbox. It was from The Brassplayer. “Respectfully” he said. Telling me he missed me, was thinking of me.
I cried.
Later I wrote him a curt note. Said that I missed him too, but “it is what it is.” I wasn’t going to create further tangles this time.
Thinking about female narrative. Sometimes I think that is the thing that makes me the most hard to take for many (most?) men once they get to know me better.
I am constantly writing my own narrative. I am the narrator of my story, the subject.
I was born that way. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.
Is it narcissistic? Possibly.
Yet men are expected to do it. Women are not.
Sound advice.
”Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked…
For the Aesthete.
(Source: willdiealonewith72cats, via nymphoninjas)
“It still took years for me to let go of learned patterns of behavior that negated my capacity to give and receive love. One pattern that made the practice of love especially difficult was my constantly choosing to be with men who were emotionally wounded, who were not that interested in loving, even though they desired to be loved. I wanted to know love but was afraid to be intimate. By choosing men who were not interested in being loving, I was able to practice giving love but always within an unfulfilling context. Naturally, my need to receive love was not met. I got what I was accustomed to getting. Care and affection, usually mingled with a degree of unkindness, neglect, and on some occasions, out right cruelty.”
― bell hooks
Lucy
Morning, in the Aesthete’s bed. I was on my way up and out. “Daddy, I’m horny,” slipped out of me.
He looked over, alert. “Here!” he patted the edge of the bed, a familiar command. I got on my hands and knees. I’d be late, but fuck it.
He got the Hitachi magic wand and plugged it into the wall. I held it between my legs as he slid into me from behind. Hard in an instant as always. I felt the head of his cock hit the bottom, sending waves of pleasure through me, vibrator on my clit bringing me close to the edge.
His hands on my hips. Pleasure loud inside my head, bombs going off, me not sure what sounds were internal and which were external. Convulsions. Coming and screaming. Him too. I slumped down on the bed and looked over at the clock. Not five minutes had passed.
“Did that scratch your itch?”
It certainly did.
I scrambled for my clothes and headed out the door, high notes still reverberating through my body.
