Sep 182011
 

Sitting on the floor leaning your back against the couch, legs splayed, arms limp at your sides, you are still breathing heavy and I know you’re exhausted. I’ve spent the evening feeding off your energy, absorbing it through your skin, sucking it from your mouth, scratching it from your chest, fucking it out of you. I know you think I’m through with you for tonight, and that only makes me want to see if you have anything left to give. I leave you for a moment and return with a glass of wine for me and a tall glass of … [read more]

Sep 132011
 

He is driven by hunger, a need to fulfill his position, to give himself over in thought and expression, to submit his mind and body, to give and to be taken, to worship. He prepares himself, removes all other thoughts from his mind, lays naked for his master, and with reverence, begins his evening prayers. Lips closed, a soft moan begins deep in his chest as he wordlessly offers his appreciation for his task, his position, and his place beneath this altar. He slowly turns his head from side to side, remembering what it’s like to be stripped, laid bare, … [read more]

Sep 102011
 

Blindfolded, with my noise in your head. Arms bound with soft leather cuffs, outstretched and pinned the way I like. Raw, angry strength on display, now captive, contained, controlled. The garish light above betrays your subtle shifts, throws shadows, exposes edges. Like me, the light loves and hates your every curve and angle. I love that light when it reveals the marks of a life well-lived, lessons learned, assorted scars from go-cart accidents, imprints of stitches, the faint outline of an iron burn from years ago when you were old enough to know better, remnant spots of chicken pox and … [read more]

Sep 062011
 
razor

I’ve been desperate to see you and you’re hardly even inside the door before I’m on you, hands clasped around your neck, pulling you closer, trying to consume you with my kiss. Holding your face in my hands, I jerk your head awkwardly to the side to give me better access to your throat. Brushing my lips against your jaw, my anxiousness dissolves into disappointment. It isn’t anger. I want you too fucking much to be angry, but it hurts that you haven’t done what little I asked of you. I had asked that you be clean-shaven and smooth for … [read more]

Sep 022011
 

My handwriting is beautiful. In my most passionate moments, it’s nearly illegible. In those instances, the words have very little meaning for the reader–they’re just pretty. Sometimes there is no reader–I just need to get something out. My shelves are full of notebooks of ramblings, musings, and notes–inspired by lectures, books, images, music, and conversations… as well as mood swings, unidentifiable feelings, and ideas I thought were worth saving at the time. I almost never look back at my notebooks. It’s as if writing something down is enough. The thought is there–it exists–and I can release it from my cluttered … [read more]