erotica in e minora all night loco to menana

She was a musical instrument when the fuckwas

k by k

m. hotel 2011

good. I swear. I would know! I had a moment a flash! In a secondhand reflection through a dreamy post mad love made embrace, head in the forgiveness of the goose down pillows we just bought together at the goose down shop uptown. You know the one. And my hair was styled that wild way straight  hair gets styled in a couple hours of heat and hands running through it, and the push and pull and slide friction of the strands against the century count thread white sheets.

I had her in my sights, and she always gave her all to the whole thing in an organic way. Down to the threadcount, the anais nin parfume, the sesame oil, the music, the candles, the all! She did me right, like i did her, too. All thats left in the wake of it are the images following lovely thoughts in my mind. I have us in a snowy virgin country open space I created; took the best aspects of different places we had hiked, set it to the perfect temperature, threw in some snow and an ocelot spying us from a nook in a nearby oak. Scratch that oak, lets make it a beech tree, ya, the kind ya find in deepwoods pine forest. ya. Well, if a beech tree can handle the weight of an ocelot…no matter.

No matter, cause when I went to embrace her in this wonderful place in my head, I really was embracing her right down here on earth in oakland california in this poor excuse of a mattress hiding beneath silk and satin finery. Deluxe moment in time! Holding one another exhausted in that wonderful way after it all, of course, and the dream i had setup perfect-like, such that the two synched up so nice! I blended it like strawberry daiquiris. Thorough!

I kinda got addicted to this sort of daydream a couple decades ago, after my best friend Virginia inadvertently got me hooked. She was brilliant! She had trained her mind to pull her away and dissociate into her waking dreams. And I was given this dance of day dream.

m. hotel

daydream #47

What was so good about this connect? What did we have in this way of coming together, that could connect us after all hell broke loose and the cow tipped the oil lamp and burned down the city for all intents and purpose? What was this fuck to her? To me?

Sustained attention. Implicit trust in a physical sense. What we wanted, each of us, the other seemed to naturally have to give over. Reciprocity. Open to flex the supple toned muscles and change direction, but subtle like the wind. You don’t hardly know until you see the weather vane turn, or hear it turn.  The movement occurred gradual like an Chopin nocturne unfolding before our conscious presence. No limbs getting stuck and pressed into pins and needles by it. Na! No falling asleep because its dull and senseless. Best of all, No one was forced to do nothing!

I was so turned on sometimes I crossed her eyes! I mean her seeing me so turned on got her breathless herself, and basically one could say her eyes crossed when i got off, or like I was by the ice cream truck as a kid, but only to watch the other kids delight in snow cones. It was like I delighted in them.

I think good sex was unselfish, because I know if I commit to a moment with someone and I’m only thinking about getting off, it usually won’t work that way. Unless I commit my efforts toward them, going down after they go down, or pinching nipples while they lick my kneecap or tickle my elbow or something cute like that!

Ya, mostly the best sex is the altruistic kind. That’s my take. Cause its not so much about two women being together, like alot of people think or talk about. Bisexuality is unmistakably less about gender than most. Though some people think the opposite. Strange. The best fuck comes irregardless of gender, age, creed. A good fuck could be good regardless of the happy ending, either.  My favorite lucky one will know this by the smile on my face when we are over and out like now, tired draped over one another and falling gently into the bed courtesy of gravity herself. Were there a happy ending for one and not the other? No matter. Were it a man, were it a woman? No matter; whom you love is whom you love. If you really wanna be sincere to yourself about it. Thats what i think. Don’t worry, my opinions won’t cost you nothing! Just a second of your time. All serious attention is rewarded, you know, its… karmic.

She became what she was. And this was a silent rule by which we both must abide: allowance. Letting your partner be someone and feel some way without constraint, and without fear of rejection. Self need not be self-conscious. We get to feel elated, satisfied, bored, anxious, relaxed, ticklish, sensitive, breathless. We let it happen. This takes time, really.   Good fucks deserve the time they take to get there. A good fuck wasn’t always so! Remember the discomfort as we learned one another’s body language and where to translate. Until we found that unique body vernacular of our own. Our dance. How we fuck. And when I say the f. word, i mean it as a term of endearment. The word is street, which turns me on. Cause I know the street, and the street is not always vulgar. Street is also underground, sharp cut, to the point, dangerous-like. Street is sexy. And Fuck is street.

A good fuck often breaks records, goes off the charts! Like magic! Sometimes we felt more than just two or three orgasms together, even simultaneous every now and then. Wow! Sometimes our cries came from somewhere which knew of past lives: a deep place within us. Yes, I believe in past lives. So sue me in the next life, if you think my credibility just fell off. I can still tell you about passion and compassion, intimacy through role reversals. I can still touch on the greater sexual enterprise implicit in some of our affairs. Some which front as intellectual. purely. some which sever themselves from any and all possible sexual context. Some which are devoid of tangible sexual reference.

All of which betray themselves if the right one comes along and offers the best fuck you ever had. Don’t you just love that moment? When the one who considered themselves strictly alpha, suddenly turns over in submission cause you touched them just that deep? Wow! Congratulations is in order! Maybe some martinellis and velvet cupcakes.  Those citizens who have long evolved sexually, know how to turn this trick. Some even seek it out, the turning alpha over like that. It can be addictive. They smile often when tangentially they connect or reconnect with such purists.

Well, my mind is going back now to this cherished recent memory I began talking about and strayed away from. She is pulling me back, what we have is pulling me back there all day long sometimes. Unbelievable. I’m going back there now, all the way, like I did earlier, arching my back over my heels to kiss the lips of the woman who waits for me and all we need are eachother in this moment. No drive bys.  No need for any man to come and take both of our blouses off,  pulling our tights down our slender legs. No need for anyone aggressively forcing what need not be now forced.

I remember the feeling in my lips. When she kisses me. I like it alot. Whose lips when touched with mine, her bottom lip pressing into mytop, and the whisper of a moan she felt and heard between us brought her eyes into focus on me, like that…its the best feeling to be cared like that.

I was watching some porn my friend had on the other day, no sound, just imagery. Guys like to do that porn backdrop thing sometimes on a lazy day. Then if something works out, that’s great for them. Anyways, in the movie the man had his tongue up in the other womans cunt and was working her this way after about twenty minutes behind herself fucking her slow then hard then slow… and this was all well and fine, but not really an attention grabber to me until the very same woman  was approached by a younger woman, looked like she was Argentine perhaps…. and wearing a tennis skirt and a collared summer shirt.

That scene reminds me now of what we just made here not long ago, somehow, the ginger approach, the empathetic looks thrown around carelessly, and especially the moment when she looks  into the Argentine’s starlight eyes,  before planting soft little kisses all over her face and neck, while the penetration she endured pushed her higher into the oxytocin dream, and closer to the girl.

I get to dream like that , sometimes. Like today. What a lucky day. Tommorrow has suddenly arrived.  The time dripped off and spilled away, water into light. Color into glass, then the stained glass is sucked dry of it, again. The glass is kinda purified, black and white like that… waiting for the color to fill her up once more.

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motels, heartbreak, misunderstandings, moonpies

Last year this time I can remember well.  I had no home… i had to pay off that old school loan…  livin’ out of motels down macarthur avenue… i wish i knew really what to do… i keep on with my routine, whats familiar… keep the wheels full of air…. turn the bike upside down… use the allen wrench the key where needed…I had a friend who split costs for the motel rooms with me, usually around $325 a week for a room with maid service and a bathroom and cable tv. A fridge if we were lucky, otherwise it was styrofoam coolers with ice packs or nothing at all. Popsicles. Tapioca pudding. Hot pots to boil water for the sacred elements; the noodles, the coffee, the tea, the oatmeal. I could live off that for days if i ran out of money. I usually had enough to go in on a pizza once a week from the best joint in oakland. Amazonas.

My former landlady was gracious enough to offer vacuum sealed peets ethiopian ground coffee sometimes. I saw her often, because my kittens stayed with her when I was living somewhere where cats were not welcome. This worked out symbiotically. She loved to see the cats and have their company, and did not want to try and raise another cat of her own. I was blessed to have a home for the cats, even though I myself was mobile and essentially homeless for over a year. This was not my preference.

I lost someone important in my life. Someone I would not see. Once. Long ago. Someone i could not live without once, but who was so unwilling to see me on any level now, I had to just wonder if they lost their mind? I know I have. Then again, I find it when i need it. I lose my mind the way I lose my keys. Sporadically, and often at the worst time. And often leading to panic and dropdown to grip carpet fibers. To dropping my hair over my eyes and hugging my knees. And crying.

I wonder does she still cry over me? Does she even cry at all? I believe if she could do away with the affective channel, she would. Without hesitation. Maybe that’s why are communication broke down and failed to ignite. Failed to turnover at all. For many years now. I put it in the box with my w-2s from last year. I still have not got around to filing my taxes for last year, though i expect a refund when i do. Hey. i wish they could try to use my name…its been about 6 years since I saw her.

The letter went something like this: I know its not what you want to do, i know you dont believe all this and you think im crazy, but if you could just try and acknowledge me, that would be really very nice. you dont have to though. It would be nice to hear from you. i miss you. i do. time goes by. what can i do? any ideas? im happy with myself for who i am, and sure, maybe im a little crazy but its not all that bad. wish you could understand. love you.

-Kat lets see… Westwind lodge is the latest of a string of motels. gotta love the drawers that only open halfway cause they will be stolen. the vending machines that give you sprite when you wanted rootbeer. the late night propositions just right in front of your room if you step out for fresher air. the bed at such an angle that you cannot possibly sit without gravity taking over and sucking you into the headboard. Wow.

I found a home in the ghetto i was given. The world. America. California. Oakland. I had a family waiting for me if I needed them. For reasons unknown to me, I was unable to talk to 99.9% of my close friends since I moved here in 2002. I cannot even call my friends from way back. I’m afraid I am losing them, but I swear I don’t have a choice. Something inside me will not reach out anymore. And though its a systemic problem in my life, you can imagine each individual who cannot get ahold of me or does not hear word one from me, is not gonna hear that! Shit is always personal, no matter what you say. Any defense or excuse or rationale will be quickly dismissed as untrue. Maybe the ones who have been through this kind of process might understand. A couple of my friends have. I just pray the others will be there when I am ready.

Or I worked with it, my situation, best as  i could. Got on my bike and rode hard when I was most isolative and compressed and strictly suffering in seclusion from the world at 38 years of age. Just scared and post trauma stressed, post trauma disordered. Still, despite it all i did my best and when the sun came out after some of those storms, believe me I felt all the more of that redemptive spirit from my eyes to the splashlight on the carpet the floor the ground the earth the pavement the vinyl the mirror the glass the vase the bureau the trunk the tapestry on the floor that was born a curtain yet became a dropcloth cause i like to sit in the middle of the room with my laptop and play with my cat Drama and lay all my papers and makeup and books around me… there in the middle of the room. Oh, don’t forget the Dead letter office! this was there in the center of the sunlit room on the tapestry with me and Drama. It happened to be located in a cardboard box. Ya. You know, the one where i kept my tax forms. My own personal little dead letter office.

to be continued…

drama on bed

cat on bed by K