it’s a sin
when the doors
close at the club
it’s a sin
when the doors
close at the club
They had hooked up before, you know. Just getting back to one another, it had been too long. They saw each other at the dollar store. They walked out that dollar store, each with someone invaluable under their arm. Each with one another. Hand in hand. Laughing. Invaluable kinda love. A dollar store’s wet dream.
The night began in the middle of the fucking day, you know. Oh!
Light kisses on the insides of arms. Pandora on the chromebook. Sad Flower, by Keston and Westdal kicked the whole thing off. Legs forming diamonds in the air, toes touching, knees bent. Arms just searching the air for a prayer. Fingertips gliding across the edges of ears. Acupuncture needles were threaded through, five on a side. Then Emiliana Torrini’s voice dripped out the speakers and filled the air. Set off goosebumps which got hard; then softened by each warm breath and whisper.
Then came the reflexology sessions, working the soles over and pushing the magic release of tension all the way up the spine by way of the simple careful pressure. Breathing got deep. And deeper. Then two bodies were like words, and freshly pressed.
This was not a test.
Four eyes met somewhere around five. Predawn. Just as they had put one another to sleep, the looking into one another’s yawning glass eyes woke them into the eternity that comes of staring into some soul for even one minute. Palms of hands surfed up the back of the calves, with sleeves of dragons fire biting the achilles.
Then a slow motion hyperventilation filled the room, synchronized deep breathing. Both women were naturally tan. One was a slender five nine. She did an extended child pose over the other, sitting back on her ankles in between the dragons, and pushing her upper body down and across the length of the other. And then the moment the deal got sealed: clasping hands and way over their heads.
The one above had tresses of auburn hair, falling like flames over the shoulders and tits of the one below her with her boot camp close cut to the head. Their ribs fell into one another like a grill. The heat was fantastic in the predawn coolness.
The heat got spent in no time.
What was left, they took to the bank, by six.
By seven, they laughed it all out, side by side, in a milky way of sheets and blankets all mixed up.
Wonderfully spent. Came and went.
Spun out in a daydream. Pale and smooth faces, looking up like flowers to the sun.
They laughed it out at eight.
Oh, what a date.
-erotica, by Katya
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.
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.