A woman of contradictions

Once upon a time I wrote...
I did warn you that the sea reminds me of my own turbulent spirit. Inviting you to dive in one minute and slamming you against the rocks the next. Are you tough enough to weather the gales? Those violent storms?

Shakespeare wrote in 'As You Like It'
"They are in the very wrath of love, and they will together;
clubs cannot part them"

I'm a woman of contradictions. I wonder if you have the strength to bring me to my knees. Many have tried. Few have succeeded. Like water I slip from their cupped hands.

And now I am restless.
Unsatiated.

I sat tonight, candles glowing on the mantle, the moon, a shadowy orb, illuminating the night outside, and thought of this. What would it take to break through this shroud that has covered my mind with darkness? I miss the shipping forecast. I miss the dreams I had of traveling across dark waters to find my peace. I'm unable to find the words to make that connection again. I feel far from myself, the self I used to be. I want to lash out, to get in my car and drive until I'm in a place that holds none of the familiar bonds that are forcing me to be grounded.

And yet I long to be stopped. To be forced by your hands into unwilling submission. I want you prove to me that you'll never let go. To fight for me. I want to feel the leathery bond as you slip it around me, pronouncing your dominion over me.

I want you to make me feel alive again.


Transient

The shipping forecast for tonight...
There are warnings of gales in Viking North Utsire trafalgar Shannon Rockall Malin Hebrides Bailey Fair Isle Faeroes and Southeast Iceland.

Listen to the BBC Shipping Forecast with me.


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I hate and I love

These chains that bind me are not of metal nor silk.
They have been forged by my own hand. My own heart.
I know I should go and yet I cannot move.

Why is it that the more cruel he behaves the more I fold myself into him? Why is it that one sharp word from his lips can send me into the darkest of places? And yet every word from my own lips is of love.

There is most certainly betrayal here. But is it his betrayal or mine? And who is being betrayed? Does he betray me or do I betray myself?

Thank you Catullus for seeing the truth in contradictions.



I HATE and I love. Why I do so, perhaps you ask.
I know not, but I feel it, and I am in torment.
~~Gaius Valerius Catullus

I knew a ferryman before.
But he was not so old as you.
He spoke from unembittered lips,
With careless eyes on the bright sea
One day, such bitter words to me
As age and wisdom never knew.
Sappho Crosses the Dark River into Hades
~~Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Rain

Tonight I sat with the french doors open and listened to the sound of the rain.
I lit candles around the room and turned on the stereo.

Fade Into You by Mazzy Star was playing softly.
I want to hold the hand inside you
I want to take a breath thats true

I poured a glass of wine and settled down into the couch to listen, pulling my throw blanket up close. The turbulance of the last week has left me feeling drained. And although I can still feel the brush of your lips on my mouth I feel lonely. Disconnected.

I look to you and I see nothing
I look to you to see the truth

There's something comforting in the sound of rain. It takes me to a place of peace. A place where I feel more myself. I've always found comfort in water, the sound of it. Whether it's the crash of angry waves against a rocky shore or the bubbling rush of a hidden spring, I feel it inside me. A soothing re-connection with my metaphysical soul, as if I am merely a simulacrum of a woman, lost without my pelagic spirit.

Fade into you
I think its strange you never knew

I drank my wine and listened to the rain drops beat their own particular rhythm on the flagstones of the patio outside.

Tomorrow I think. Tomorrow we'll be better. We'll let the rain wash away the past and begin again.

Early Hours

Night has given birth to a new morning. The faintest light has begun to creep against my window shades.

This is the hour when I miss you most. My body is still tingling from my dreams of you. I can still feel your hands on me. Those same hands that touched, first tentatively, then with growing urgency. I wonder if I would feel this longing for you if you were here. Would I pull away from you? Afraid to lose myself in your touch. Would I fear to let myself go and lose myself completely?

Sometimes the thought of it makes me shudder. I don't know that I can get myself back if I dare to venture into the depths that you have promised.

Sometimes I'm afraid that I'll just stop breathing.

Lost.
Only you would be able to bring me back.

But I think that you would not.


Helpless as a burning city,
how can I ignore that the extremes
of pleasure are fire storms
that leave a vacuum into which
dangerous feelings (tenderness,
affection, l o v e) may rush
like gale force winds
You Ask Why Sometimes I Say Stop
~~ Marge Piercy



Technorati Tags: intimacy, lovers, passion, relationships, romance, woodnotwood

Vamp!

The bath has been run, towels warmed and set aside. I lay immersed, my body glowing with electric heat as I hear his movements in the bedroom, the anticipation growing. I climb from the tub and dry myself. Walking into the bedroom I find them there waiting for me. Laid out with hands that know anticipation as great as my own. I drop my towel where I stand and move to the bed. I see then, his need for me.

Black. Lace. Garters.



Hands moving over me. I feel his need.
He is insatiable. His desire for me knows no contentment.
The need is a vacuous space begging to be filled. A void that screams angrily at its privation. Hunger that grows with each taste, each delicious nibble, until it becomes more insatiable with every tantalizing bite. Then it is. Ravenous. That something unfulfilled in the darkness of our long night.

Tonight is his choice.
Whatever he desires.
He will be fulfilled.

Every woman should look upon herself as a work of art, unfinished, unmolded.

At the start of every day, at the beginning of the evening, she is recreated. Women are creatures of diversity. We crave romance and creativity in our love lives. The one thing I think we all have in common is some need to feel sexy, to feel desired, and desirable.

I went searching through the toy stores and on-line catalogues for negligees and other delicious wearables that I thought might bring a little excitement to the bedroom. My biggest disappointment was that most of these stores use waif-like models to peddle their wares and, honestly, I'm a busty girl with a full figure to match. I wanted to see what naughty things look like on 'normal' women. I always check here first because they use models with different body types.




Personally I have found that the best way to get what I want is to take him with me. There is something incredibly erotic about wandering the aisles of a store, fingers touching lace and feathers, asking him what he likes. Sharing those things that turn him on is as important as finding the things that I like. And in truth I always get more when he goes with me. Once he has helped me pick out the outfits he likes, especially if I've had a chance to model them for him, I have found that cost is no obstacle when his libido is kicked into high gear.

Then I let him choose what I'll wear for him.
After all, this was shopping with purpose. Just whisper in his ear 'I'm going to go take a hot shower. You come pick out what you like and leave it on the bed for me. Tonight I'm all yours.'

Here's a great site to fill your head with fun ideas for fetish and fantasy.
trashy.com


Technorati Tags: Love, Intimacy, Relationships, Couples, Romance, Lingerie, Sex Shop, Lovers, Fetish, Beautiful

Body Remember

Body, remember this moment. Remember the feeling as his hands caressed you gently, as he whispered, lips pressed against your skin. Remember how his muscles moved under your fingertips, the salt taste of his skin against your tongue. The low growl as he lost himself inside you.
Body, remember this moment that you shall have him again and again.

It is a well known fact that men crave visual stimulation, that the vision of a naked woman or people having sex triggers some primal instinct in their minds that gives them pleasure, that arouses them, excites them. But what of women?

I know many women who truly enjoy watching and sharing pornography. I believe that sharing is the key word here. Men tend to isolate their watching more so than women. Perhaps it is shame induced by a society that says that Rodin's 'Embrace' is art and Jenna Jamison is a shameful display of female sexploitation.

Personally I like them both. More so when shared.




The picture above is not plucked from the Internet. It came from my own personal photo album. It is a bed in a hotel room . A bed where I had spent an incredible night and morning making love. After my bags were packed, after the rush of trying to get our luggage together before check out time. With one last backward glance at that bed, where I had known so much pleasure, I pulled out my camera and snapped that picture, locking that night into my memory forever.

Body, Remember this moment. Lock it away deep inside yourself. Not dead, but merely slumbering, waiting to be resurrected by the slightest whisper of Mnemosyne's fingers against your cheek. By the trace of his scent on your pillow as you rest your head, longing to feel him inside you once more.

I see the indentation where his head had rested on the pillow and the ephemeral shape of his body permanently engraved on the sheets. I see the marks that my knees left as I straddled him, hovering above him and watching his face as I controlled the rhythm of our love making, as he relinquished the previous nights control and allowed me to pleasure us both at my own pace. I see my own ass prints on the edge of the bed where I had taken him into my mouth and swallowed him one last time before we left that little world-- where only we two existed for a few hours. A few magnificent hours. I am there again each time I look at it. I see it in shadows, the forms that we were in that moment. I can smell the ocean outside the sliding glass door. Ah, you cannot see the balcony doors swung wide so that we could hear the crash of the waves even as we crashed into one another. But I know they are there. I remember. I can taste him, feel his hands and tongue as he took me to those places that are secret-- that only lovers share.

I have many such photographs. Not of people, but of things, places, restaurant booths and bar stools, hotel room beds and sandy beaches. Places that I want to remember, moments of time that I recreate each time I see them.

A woman's mind may work differently than a man's but I know that when he sees this picture it affects him in the same way that it does me. That imagery stimulates the body to remember how incredible we were together.

And he hungers for me in that moment of remembering.

HNT Scars

I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut
My weakness is that I care too much
And my scars remind me that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel
Papa Roach

Single white female seeking single male in North Atlanta /Suburbs for fun and romance.
Age 25 and up. Must be gainfully employed and ready to show the new girl how much fun Atlanta can be!

*Psychos and cheaters need not apply.
(Been there, done that... got the bodies in my crawl space to prove it ;)

Meaning

Let me tell you this once
(I will not be able to say it again):
I have lost the meaning of words.
Heavy, they ripped
away from the sounds,
fell into cracked ground.
Naming~~ Nancy Mair




Lately it seems as if words have lost their meaning. Where once there was a wealth, seemingly endless, now there is a dearth. I feel emptied and exhausted.

I do wonder about the words we choose to use in our relationships. Words that have been uttered so many times that their meanings have lost any specific truth in our world. These words designed to hurt, we use again and again. Because they achieve a desired result. Their concrete meaning is no longer considered, they connect only to some Pavlovian reaction that has been learned over time.

And the words of love that used to penetrate? I long to feel their power again.
A wrenching power that could effect me in so many ways. Have I gone numb?
Have words lost their power over me. Have they lost their meaning?

Or am I lost?

The Spoils of War

I follow in shadow, my eyes averted from the light.

No rope binds me now, my hands have been given willingly. I follow in silence, my wrists need no tether. No ropes to bind. Not of red, the color of the blood upon my knees, from crawling in pitiful sublimation. Nor of blue steel, the color of eyes that watch and stare without mercy at the carnage upon the field.

In battle the spoils go to the victor, and what would the conqueror ask of me? To kneel and acquiesce? To take my own blade and, with all of the dignity left that I can muster, to throw myself upon its silver shaft and thus end it all? Broken. Destroyed. No more than a mere ghost amongst the wreckage.

Do I take the blade from you, when you lack courage to thrust it in yourself? Do I smile at you and thrust it into my own breast, as Arria did when her husband's resolve faltered. Do I show you how it should be done? Do I plunge it inside my own heart, and hand it back to you with a smile, saying, "Paetus, it does not hurt. It is what you are about to do that hurts."

I do wonder what Cleopatra was feeling as she pulled into the harbor at Tarsus, her sails full of perfume; a glimpse of thigh that suggested something far from the war that was on her mind. Did she see the futility of battling? Did she see her own certain defeat at the hands of a man more powerful than she could ever have imagined? And, in seeing this, did she feel the need to conquer? In the ways that a woman needs to conquer?

What did she feel as Antony slid between her thighs? What desire in this bold new lover, the conqueror of her own empire? All the power of lover and foe? Did she feel the powers of Phoenicia, Mesopotamia, Thebes, Syria, Assyria... Egypt... in the touch of his hand? Did she desire him thusly, as her conqueror? Or was this just some trick of the mind? That, although her defeat was imminent, she could still hold some power over this foe? Some ability to sway him, even if only by the pull of flesh, the passion of battle.

Did he realize that he was breaking the last Pharoah of Egypt? Destroying all that came before her?

What did she see when she gazed upon his face?
Is it the same face that every woman sees in her victor?
My lover, my enemy.
Ruthless, conniving and ever deceitful in his irresistable charm.

And did he sincerely believe that she would betray him? That she could betray him? The woman who took up arms to battle by his side?

Yes. He did. And brought them both down in his vengeance.

As we all do eventually.
Ruin perfection.
Ruin what could have been the perfect love affair.
We are doomed.



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Fade

Musical Monday

In every new touch there is the memory of another touch left behind. How can one's skin not remember the first time it was possessed entirely by a sang-froid finger brushing against it: precise, unintended, erotic, scarring? That first touch has burned and seared itself into the memory; a willful branding, begged for silently in a moment of passion.

Every new touch contains its own stigma: fear. The fear that it cannot be unfelt; it can never be undone. That on nights long and dark, the touch will rise once more and force back into memory that which can no longer be had. A certainty that no other touch will ever feel as good. And that the feeling cannot be sustained. In the end, this memory of touch will be all there is, and there is some part of the soul that knows it will be left emptier for ever having felt it.

And the mind begs the body to turn away, to save itself. But the body knows no sensibilty, only sensuality. It begs to be branded, just so. Possessed.

Shadow

I hear a voice on the wind. A mere whisper that ebbs and flows, the harder I listen for it the further it recedes into the darkness of night's chaos. And so I ask, did you need me? I feel you there, your hand pulling at mine. Urging me into some response.

But when I do you run.

Do you fear me? Do you think there is some 'thing' I would have of you that you simply cannot part with? I guess this is true. There is some part of you that I would have. I would have it and never give it back. And I can promise you this, once had, you would never be able to be un-had. That part of you I would own. Unsatisfied with another - she of that weak embrace and mewling whine, that pillar of false virtue and strength that crumbles without constant reassurance.

I need no reassurance.
I am sure.
You have shown me time and again that you need me to see you. Your tugging at me to get my attention, negative or positive, it matters not, as long as I have looked and you know I have. And then you melt away again, a shadow that steps back into the night, only to re-appear in another form, another shape.

I see you there. I do.
And I am waiting.
Waiting for you to step fully into the light and make your demands. Tell me what it is that you need of me.