Love Is A Crime


Love Is A Crime

Her name was Melanie, and she stole my heart.
I was three.  She lived a few houses down, and used to babysit.
I don’t remember her parents, but I’ve heard they were indulgent.
I used to toddle down the street and ring their doorbell.
“Can Melanie come out to play?”
She would have been twelve.
Maybe she already had a boyfriend?
It took me until I was 16 to get my heart back.
Until then, I replaced it with a pretty purple stone.

Her name was Tanya, and she stole my stone.
I was four.  She lived around the corner from me.
Her mother was German, and made incredible coffee cake.
Tanya and I would hold hands, and pretend to be married.
I never did get my stone back, so I stole an extra piece of cake.
It filled the cavity nicely.

Her name was Thea, and she stole my coffee cake.
I was five.  She lived across the street from me.
Her father wasn’t German, but he looked like Hitler.
He was very strict, so Thea and I couldn’t hold hands.
Instead, we played doctor, and her sister Nell was the nurse.
Thea always seemed to need surgery on her vagina.
I really liked that cake, but I didn’t want it back from her.
Thea gave me my first kiss.
I knew the perfect place to keep it.

Her name was Kelly, and she stole my first kiss.
I was six.  She lived at the top of the street, in the cul de sac.
She had a twin sister named Carmen.  My friend Ed loved Carmen.
Carmen and Kelly’s parents were never around.
We would play tag in the woods behind the house.
If you got caught, the twins would kiss you.
Ed never got caught, but I always got caught, eventually.
Kelly took my first kiss, but she gave me dozens to replace it.

Her name was Teagan, and she stole all my kisses.
I was eight.  She lived a long way away, on the other side of town.
I never met her parents, but they seemed nice.
We met in school and she liked me because I said her name right.
“It’s TAY-gun,” I’d say, “Not TEA-ghin!”
And I’d beat the crap out of Nick, who always said her name wrong.
I walked Teagan home from school every day.
We would hold hands and talk about school, and homework.
She never gave me any kisses, but she blushed a lot,
Especially when I told her how much I liked her.
I kept her blushes where my heart used to be.

His name was Felix, and he stole my blushes.
I was twelve.  He lived a few blocks away.
His parents were weird.  French, and always saying strange things.
Without my blushes, I was willing to consider new things.
Felix and I explored these things together.
He gave me confusion, and took it away again.
He gave me fear, and a little stayed with me.
He gave me a better sense of my identity.
That, I kept.

I bumped into Melanie again, and got my heart back.
I was sixteen, and she was twenty-five.
Her husband was ruggedly handsome.  He said,
“Is this the one… ?” And she laughed,
“Yeah.  He was so cute!”
I scratched my head and watched them walk away.
It didn’t seem damaged in any way.  My heart, I mean.
And even with a better sense of myself, it still fit nicely.

Her name was Catalina, and she stole my heart.
I was seventeen, and still didn’t know any better.
Her mother was rarely around; she wanted to be in Australia.
Cat and I didn’t actually like each other,
Though we still love one another.

It took an awful lot of sex to discover that fact.
A lot of arguments, too.
Meanwhile, my friends drifted away (I let them go),
My family drifted away (I never even noticed),
My grades drifted away (I barely graduated).
We grew apart, and we grew up.
Life has a funny way of wearing away the rough edges.
We sort of like each other now.
Despite everything (or perhaps because of it) she kept my heart.
To be fair, I think I kept hers.

Well, that sums up early childhood through teen years, minus some odds and ends that aren’t in keeping with the tone of this poem.  I could probably do another for adulthood.  I could probably do an entire book of poems for every person I’ve ever loved, but I won’t bore you with that.  Instead, I will leave you with the inspiration behind my words, a letter from a woman (who used to be) named Felony.

Felony writes:

Hey Eon,

My parents named me Felony, for the way I was conceived.  The story I heard (not from my parents, mind you, but from a friend of theirs) was that in the swinging seventies they fell in with a bad crowd.
They all shared the same kinks, swapping partners, big orgies and sex parties, most of it while flying high or tripping way out.  It was natural for them to spend most of their time with the friends they made in that crowd,  but that crowd was fond of flipping off “The Man,” angry environmental demonstrations and political rallies being the least of their activities meant to undermine authority.
Some of that crew sabotaged police vehicles late at night, breaking into fenced compounds, cutting brake lines, sugaring gas tanks, setting cruisers on fire.  Others had robbed a bank or two.
My parents were encouraged to involve themselves in action against the corruption and corporate thievery of Big Brother.  High on idealism as much as anything that might have gotten up their noses, they began a series of B & Es.
They would target the wealthy homes of bankers, politicians, businessmen, even police.  They got away with it for a long time through sheer brazenness.  They were actually very intelligent, when they weren’t flying on chemicals, so they developed a system, and the system worked.  They could walk into a home, get the grand tour from the home owner himself, the whole time making notes on an official looking clipboard.  If they didn’t rob the poor sod blind during that very tour with a series of quick-fingered manouvers, or by manufacturing an excuse to separate, leaving one free to grab choice items while the other distracted the homeowner, they would use the notes they were taking right in front of their target to come back later and finish the job.
So many descriptions of my parents circulated due to the disguises they wore that it was thought, for a long time, that a crime syndicate was responsible for targeting the elite, the influential, the well-to-do.
My father once told me:  Never get too good at anything.  It makes you lazy.
My parents, so drunk on success and wealth that they spent outrageously, confident of always having more, began to take totally unnecessary risks when on the job.  My mother would seduce a police officer in his home, handcuff him to his own bed with his own cuffs, then leave him there when my father showed up to announce the house had been cleaned out.
They would set off an alarm at a mansion on purpose, drawing police and firemen to the scene, and rob the house next door right under the collective nose of authority.  When they were done, they would often go out to join the crowd that had gathered from around the neighborhood, all the looky-lous who came to stare, and start asking questions of the police, riling everyone up about slow response times, lack of leads or suspects, questioning what was being done to make the area safe again.  They implied that tax payers paid police wages, and these taxpayers paid more than anyone.  In essence, they were the officers’ real employers, and they deserved special attention.  Capitalizing on the deeply distrustful spirit of the times, when so few people believed in the leadership of the government, these scenes could rapidly devolve into entire angry neighborhoods ready to crucify what they now saw as lazy pigs, when in reality the poor men and women trying to placate them were just trying to do their jobs.
Still, it wasn’t until they joined in on a bank job (something they had once sworn they would never do) that they got caught.  True to form, they failed to take the task at hand seriously, and when the crew on that job realized my parents were a liability, they cut and ran.  With no escape, trapped in a bank vault, my parents did “the logical thing,” as they put it, to pass the time:  they made love.  For hours, over and over again, they  made love, reaffirming their devotion to one another with passionate kisses and tender touches.  By the time police had located a bank manager to open the vault, my parents were fast asleep, tangled naked in a mess of documents torn from the steel womb of the vault.
My mother gave birth to me in prison.  I was immediately given over to state custody and placed in an orphanage.  One last “screw you” to The Man, I think, forcing him to raise the child of crime, change my diapers, feed me, clothe me.
My mother dubbed me Felony.  It said so right on my birth certificate.  When I was growing up, everyone called me “Lany,” and I’ve since had my name changed legally.
I do everything legally.  I often wonder if my parents would be disappointed in me, but times have changed.  Surveillance technology, forensic science, police powers; there’s so much today that would prevent my parents from living the life they lived back then.
They did leave me with something, though.  A thing only a few people have ever known about me.  Something I’m sharing with you now because part of why I’m writing is to try to understand.  I hope this is the first steps towards knowing why.
Throughout my life, I have fantasized about being trapped.  Locked in a bank vault, like my parents, put in a cage by cruel men, tied to beds, chained to the desk of a powerful company president.  When I became sexually active, I found myself unable to reach the peaks of arousal, or orgasm, without some sort of restraint preventing my “escape.”  This always made me feel very embarassed, because I never really wanted to escape, I wanted to have sex, but I couldn’t find the words to make myself understood, and not many people knew the story of my parents and my birth.
Telling a man, “Hold me down.  Don’t let me get away.  Pin me,” was sometimes enough for the pleasure to crest, but not often.  I had a chance to get away, then.  Tied up, chained to something too heavy to move, I could submit more fully and allow myself to be brought to climax.  It hasn’t ever been difficult to convince men to do this for me.  Most men secretly want to dominate women, I think.  Control us.  I haven’t suffered from want of sexual satisfaction.  But there is another satisfaction that seems to be missing from my life… no matter how many men I get to constrain me, cage me, chain me, pin me, truss me, keep me, neither they nor I truly know why I need this.  I am not truly a submissive, by nature.  I enjoy giving my man commands, and I sometimes hate my inability to climax if I don’t submit to restraints.  It seems there is something sad being said about my life when my bed is equipped with leather straps.  Like the cage I’m truly trapped in is my own fear of living outside the lines, of breaking rules, of defining myself without reference to the expectations of society and authority.
Thank you for reading, Eon.  This has been… helpful.  One can’t really redefine oneself without first knowing what needs to be redefined.


*Image from Internet*


The Ritual

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I’ve started today’s post with an image, as usual, but it is unusual this time because it’s a pen and ink drawing that was included with the letter Erik sent me.
I apologize for the poor quality scan.  Best I could do with the tools at hand.
Still, it’s enough to give you the idea.
I’m reminded of the totem poles I saw on a school trip when I was thirteen or fourteen years old.  My social studies class had gone to a museum that was full of interesting artifacts, but the ones that stick out in my mind were these carved wooden people, twenty feet high, with immense erect phalluses on the men and huge jutting breasts and buttocks on the women.
They were an eye-opening depiction of the human form, as seen by a culture which thought nothing of nudity.  They made me realize that sex, and sexuality, had at one time been accepted as an integral part of daily life, no more or less taboo than, say, washing the laundry, or smoking the day’s catch of fish.  Human beings, at one point, lived simply, in communion with the natural world, and in touch with their natural place in it.  They would learn of rutting from watching the elk, perhaps, and maybe try it themselves.  Their fumbling, eager clumsiness might be laughed at by their elders, but never ridiculed.  These children were becoming men and women, and this, too, was a part of it.

Later in life I would read about the numerous shamanic rituals of tribal peoples, many of them sexual in nature, and begin to realize that the advent of religion was largely responsible for the development of sexual taboos in many parts of the world.  Once removed from the realm of the mundane, sex was a useful tool with which to control the people, directing their strongest pleasure-seeking urges towards cultural activity that was beneficial to all (though often even more beneficial to an elite few).
In some places sex was used to invoke the god or goddess or spirit of fertility and ensure a bountiful harvest of corn, for example.  Numerous rituals addressed the very real dangers of pregnancy and childbirth, and were highly sexualized.  Transition from childhood into adulthood often involved numerous rites of passage, trials both physical and spiritual, involving everything from deprivation, physical violence through combat or hunting, tests of knowledge or skill, and, of course, sex.

Sexual worship wasn’t uncommon even in more civilized times, where Bacchus or Eros held sway.  A quick glance at this list, which is by no means exhaustive, will show you that love and lust have, for the bulk of recorded human history, been placed in a realm beyond the understanding of mere mortals.  While many cults would encourage inebriation and revelry, indulging in wanton orgies and uninhibited pleasure, more organized and successful religions eventually stamped out most such worship, relegating it to the realm of the devil and successfully burying openness and honesty about sex beneath thousands of years of guilt and shame.
Is it any wonder, then, that we hesitate to discuss it?
Is it such a surprise that many of us don’t know our own desires?
Never mind the desires of our partners!

Erik’s story is one of personal revelation, and it came about because of the Lust Totem, which he found one day in a pawn shop.  The drawing above is Erik’s attempt to depict it for us.  Why didn’t he take a photo, you may ask?  Well, Erik now worships this little totem, and it has begun to take a central role in many of his sexual rituals.  He feels the time and effort involved in capturing the Totem’s true spirit through art is a better expression of his devotion than simply snapping a digital pic.
After reading his letter, I’m prone to agree.

Erik writes:

When I saw it, I knew I had to have it.
I can’t really say why.  It was crudely made, vulgar.  It squatted there, lasciviously tonguing itself, and it cared not one bit what I might think of its shameless autofellatio.  It gripped its massive phallus, fully half the length of its own body, without the least concern for who might walk by.  It was as careless of the other abandoned carvings on the shelf around it as it was of me.  It dared me to come up with even one good reason why it shouldn’t revel in the pleasure of its own body.
I couldn’t.  Who was I to judge?  Overweight, always sweaty, greasy hair, pimply skin.  I got so nervous talking to girls that I would shake and stammer in terror.  If they spoke to me at all, it was to ridicule, to scoff at my attempts at conversation.  At home, alone, I was no better than this gross little mannikin, feverishly tugging at myself, inserting the smaller soap and shampoo bottles into my anus whenever I was in the shower.  Craving human contact, knowing it would never come from anyone but myself.
It got me thinking: why shouldn’t I own that?  Why shouldn’t I be shameless about it?  If someone were to tell me it was disgusting to touch myself in those ways, I could always ask, “Well, are YOU going to do it?”  I knew the answer to that.  In just a few minutes, staring at this nasty-minded little beast, I already felt different about myself.
I picked it up.  It was surprisingly heavy.  Red lacquered wood of some kind.  A little orange sticker on the bottom read “$4.99”  I tested the heft of it, and it felt good in my hand.  Dirty and perverted, but somehow right.
Sweeping my eyes across the shelf, I could see there was nothing else in the inventory quite like this.  If anything, the little carvings of deer and dwarves, of bears and bards, of racecars and rastafarians, would be glad to see this impudent little prick taken away.
I bought it, from a very pretty girl, and didn’t even blush.
When I got home I went straight to my room and I took the randy little bastard out of the plastic bag where he had been smothered.  He looked at me, wagged his tongue, and he seemed to laugh.
He said, “Put me back in the bag.  Asphyxiation can enhance the fun.  I wasn’t quite done yet.”
I ignored him and scraped his price tag off, set him on the top of my book shelf.
Seated at the end of my bed, I stared at him.  He, in turn, ignored me and carried on licking himself.  His hands kept kneading the swollen flesh of his shaft.  The little face on his tongue cooed and moaned in delight.  It lived for that taste.  The strongest urge to masturbate came over me, but I hesitated. Something wasn’t quite right.
I glanced around the room, ostensibly to be sure the door was closed.  It was, but I noticed the laundry hamper had spilled over.  Rancid clothes were strewn around my room.
Huffing and puffing, cursing the flab of my middle that forced me to work around it, I set about putting my room to rights.  Gathering my clothes led to gathering the books and magazines.  The collectibles scattered about were put back into their places.  The rumpled bed was made up.  The pictures on the walls were straightened, sagging posters re-tacked.  The accretion of bric-a-brac on my computer desk was tidied away into drawers and cubbies.  Within an hour, my room had never looked so clean.
Looking back at the totem, I felt that urge to touch myself again.  The pressure was intense.  I wanted to display myself to him, to revel in shamelessness the way he did.  I even moved towards him, fumbling at my crotch.
He looked at me, while he slurped at himself contemplatively, and he said, “You’re a disgusting slob.  I’d rather touch myself than play with you.”
I bit my lip, feeling self-loathing and despair encroach like a rising black tide.  Viciously, I shoved it down.
“Fuck you,” I told the totem.
He grinned at me.
I snatched him from the shelf, dropped to my hands and knees, and spat on his head.  Reefing down my sweatpants, I worked his bulbous skull into my asshole with one hand, grabbed my burning cock with the other.  In less than ten seconds I spent myself on the rug, collapsing into my own ejaculate.  I worked the little lust god around my anus a few more times, enjoying the final shivers of pleasure, then pulled him free.
He grinned at me.
“Now you’re getting it,” he said.  “But you’re still living like a pig, wallowing in your own shit.  Use me and abuse me all you like, but you’re kidding yourself if you think I’m the one suffering.”
I left him lying on the rug.  With my pants once more firmly tied around my belly, I moved the laundry out into the hall.  Stepping back into the room, I realized how cluttered it was, even after being cleaned.  I tugged and shoved the computer desk and all its freight out into the hall as well, dragging wires like intestines.  Next to go was the stereo, and the table, and the bookshelf.  The bedside tables went, too.  Considering, I brought one back into the room and put it where the bookshelf had been.  I draped it with a folded black bedsheet and placed my cruel new god, grinning under his crown of shit, in the center.  Then I rolled up the rug and tossed it out in the hall with the rest of my junk.
Dust floated in the sunbeams peaking in through the blinds.  Emptied of the years, my room looked abandoned and forlorn.
I tore down the blinds, tossed them in the hall, and came back with a broom and a vacuum.
The rest of my day vanished in a feverish storm of activity.  I reconfigured the den with all the furniture removed from my bedroom, the computer and the books.  Anything I couldn’t find room for I hauled out to the dumpster.  I washed numerous loads of laundry, and threw out piles of ratty, sweat-stained clothes.  The rug and the blinds got similar treatment.  I went to a home decor place and purchased blood red curtains for my window, a matching rug for the floor.  Wall hangings and bed coverings in similar shades completed the effect.
With my room redecorated, the bed remade, the idol now cleaned and sitting atop an altar of ruby red cloth, the entire room felt different.  It had become a temple.  A feeling of peace descended.  For a few minutes, a sense of tranquility blossomed.
Then I caught a whiff of myself.  All day, running around, sweating like a pig.  The oversexed little asshole was right.  I was disgusting.
I showered until the hot water ran out.  I touched myself all over, and it was an excuse to rub soap in places it hadn’t been rubbed in ages.  When I emerged, I was flushed and pink, but not like a pig.  More like a cherub.

Since then I have been transformed.  Self love has led to self respect.  As I told myself, more and more, “Why should I care what anyone thinks?  I’ll touch myself however I like!” that attitude began to spill over into other aspects of my life.  Why should I care what anyone thinks?  Gyms are for people just like me.  I shouldn’t have to be ashamed to walk into a gym.  I shouldn’t have to be ashamed to let my rolls jiggle and fly as I struggle to destroy them.  If they don’t want to see it, they don’t have to look.  Fuck them.  Fuck everyone.  I will love myself, because only I know how to do it best.
And so I’ve lost weight.  The acne has vanished.  I shave my head, because I can’t stand my greasy, curly hair.  I shower regularly, and the body I see in the mirror has slowly, slowly, become sleek and muscular.  I notice women looking at me now, and I am flushed with a sense of triumph, most especially because I know I don’t need them.  I have myself.  It was doubly satisfying to discover I could have women whenever I wanted, as well.  The first time I brought a woman home, I tried to explain to her about the pugnacious little masturbator on his altar.
Now I don’t bother.

This is my ritual:
Every morning, I kneel in front of my lewd little sculpture.  I lick his shaft from scrotum to frenulum.  I kiss his mouth.  And I masturbate myself, praising my body, my will, my ability, my courage.  I stroke myself to the point of explosive release.
But it isn’t until I believe the words I’m saying, until I feel their truth suffuse me, that I allow myself to let go, to crest that hill, to ride the avalanche down the other side.

I’m telling you this story because radical self love is what’s missing from our world.  Like an animal, it has been systematically hunted down and exterminated.  Religion stigmatized healthy sexual expression.  Now capitalism, our latest god, building on what religion began, has penned us in with fences built of our own guilt and shame.  Know this: that guilt and shame is imposed upon us!  When we fail to measure up to the unrealistic standards of a society that does not care for us, we abuse ourselves worse than anyone else can.  We must not be ashamed of ourselves, our bodies, our faults.  Only by embracing who we are can we find the power to accept, love, and respect ourselves.  Only through love and self respect will we change for the better, and thereby create positive change in the world around us!

Start talking about it!

Love, Volcanic and Sudden


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Fighting a sore throat and stuffy nose today.  The weather is miserable in this corner of the world.  The rain gathers and scatters like schools of silver fish chased by the cold shark teeth of the wind.  It’s a drowning wind, laden with water, capricious and malicious like a big stupid child, eager to snatch you up and just as quickly dash you back down.  I’m happy to be out of the rain where it’s warm.  And, if I wanted a little more warmth today, this letter might provide it.

Carmen writes:

In January I walked in on my long time friend and roommate, Cliah, in the middle of a suicide attempt, and fell in love.

I was home early from a long, frustrating day at work, just one more in a long series of them, really, but different this time, because this one culminated in me throwing my name tag and apron at the manager and storming out.  Out of a job, out of the certainty and security of a humdrum life, out of everything familiar, and straight into the bizarre and unknown.

On my way home I grabbed a couple coffees, on the off chance my roommate was home.  I completely missed the chance to flirt with the cute guy at the counter like I usually do, which shows how much of a funk I was in, then trudged the remaining miles to our apartment with a little black cloud hanging over my head the entire way.

Banged into the apartment, threw my keys in the bowl on the table by the door, called out, “Honey, I’m home!”

Silence.  Like a slow fade in, the sound of quiet gagging registers on my ears.

“Cliah?  You okay, babe?”

Cliah and I have been best friends since we were five.  We’d fought over toys, fought over clothes, fought over boys.  We’d made up, again and again, like sisters, like yin and yang, like, I don’t know, like people who don’t always see eye to eye but deep down really understand each other.  The point is, if she was hurting, I wanted to know about it.  Either so I could laugh at her for being an idiot or so I could go kick the shit out of whichever asshole had broken her heart this time.

Fuming, certain it must’ve been that manipulative pig Brad again, I shouldered my way through the bead curtain and kicked her bedroom door open, coffees in hand.

This is what I saw:  An open space, dimly lit by a lava lamp.  Her bed against the wall to my right, just a mattress on the floor, in total disarray, as usual.  Clothing scattered everywhere, colorful panties and bras peeking out from under and on top of various things like wee creatures startled by an intruder.  Magazines stacked in random piles.  Dogeared books lying open facedown and forgotten.  A black hole of a closet across the room.  Pale and painted onto this yawning darkness, Cliah, naked, suspended from an electrical cord in the middle of the room.  Face turning purple, just her toes barely grazing the overturned trashcan spilling wadded up Kleenex and used condoms onto the floor.  Cliah.  Eyes bulging.  Fingers clawing bright red trails in her swelling throat.  Breasts plump and shaking as her struggles for air increase.  Legs beginning to search spastically for the garbage bucket as the panic sets in.  Our eyes lock.  A hand reaches towards me feebly.  Pleading.

The sound and feel of two hot coffees hitting the floor and splashing over my feet jolts me back to reality.  With a yell I run across the room and leap into Cliah, grabbing the cord above her head and swinging from it.  Drywall or hook, I’m not sure which, but it gives and we crash to the floor together, a tangle of flailing arms and legs.  I dig frantically at the cord buried in the flesh of her neck but I can’t get a purchase on it, it’s too tight.  I’m screaming at her, calling her names, crying so hard snot flies from my nose as I slap her and punch her and beg the goddamn cord to let go, let go.

Finally, it does.  Her first ragged breath is like music to my ears.  Like a choir of angels bursting into song.  I collapse on top of Cliah, sobbing and laughing, covering her in kisses and phlegm and tears as she pushes at me feebly, trying to get air into her lungs.

I can’t stop kissing her.  My mouth roams over her shoulders and neck and face.  With every kiss I’m whispering, “I love you, I love you, please don’t ever try to leave me again.”

For a while she just lays there, just breathing.  Just trying to be alive.  And then she croaks, “Do you mean it?”

I sit up on top of her, looking down.  Her blue eyes, bloodshot now, but still beautiful, look up at me.  They demand honesty.

“Mean what?” I hedge.  I’m suddenly aware that I’m poised on the edge of a precipice, and I’m teetering.  Before this moment, I had never even considered loving another woman.  Not in that way.  In the past few minutes, I’ve given my best friend more kisses than I’ve ever given to every boy I ever kissed, combined.  Strangely, all I can think is, What if I had started kissing her sooner?

“Do you…” Cliah takes a deep, shuddering breath, then lets it out slowly.  Her words ride the escaping air in a whisper.  “Do you really love me?”

My answer is another kiss, this time full on the mouth.  My hands stroke the side of her neck and grip the hair at the back of her head.  The taste of my tears mingles with our saliva as I roughly press my lips into hers, probing with my tongue.  I bite her lower lip as I pull away, just far enough to look her in the eyes.

“Yes!” I say.  Fiercely.  I’m over the edge and plummeting.  I felt a premonition of this when I walked out on my job; today, everything changes.

My clothes melt away as if by magic.  Her hands are shaking but determined as they explore my curves.  I’m taller than her, skinnier, with shoulder length brown hair and green eyes.  She’s short, even for a girl, a little chubby, well padded in all the womanly places, with long blonde hair and blue eyes like chips of ice.   Her lips are soft and tender and hungry for me.  I lead her to the bed.

Cliah, caught in the most vulnerable moment of her life, opens herself to me in a way she never has before.  Body and soul, she gives herself to me.  She needs to find something inside her worthy of living, and I do everything in my power to show it to her.  Fingers and hands, lips and tongue, I caress every inch of her.  I kiss her goosebumps and bite her nipples.  I tongue her belly button and squeeze her breasts and ass.  I press her mons pubis with the palm of my hand, part her labia with my fingers, lick and suckle her clitoris.  I lap at her inner nectar with slow, broad strokes of my tongue, soaking her with spit.  I probe her insides with my tongue and fingers, touch and tease her until she’s shuddering.

Everything I do to her she does to me.  The fires of passion ignite in her eyes.  I hope a passion for life burns with them.
Hours pass in this way, culminating in the press of our pussies, one against the other, swollen and slippery from our play.  The slow rubbing sends frissons of electricity through me.  Warm coils of pleasure unfurl within, like seeking tendrils, reaching out to my fingers and toes, filling me up.  Slow becomes surging, sudden, desperate, frantic.  We thrash our sexes together in furious release.  She cries out, and collapses, spent.  I bite my lip, silent, grim, determined, and grind on, finding one, two, three little explosions after another, as she laughs and pushes at me, begging me, “Stop!  Stop!”  Finally, volcanically, I find my release.

I curl around her from behind, and pull a blanket over us.  She sighs, a deep release of something long held inside.  Together, in the dim wandering light of the lava lamp, we fall into blissful sleep.

Months have passed.  Cliah has been seeing a counsellor.   Writing a journal.  Painting.  Some nights she gets so low I find it difficult to trust her on her own.  She promised me she won’t try to leave me again, and I want to believe that.  I need to believe it.

Most days, though, Cliah is a wonder of energy and exuberance.  Life has taken on new meaning for her, and she works hard to embrace it in all its jagged beauty.  She has a long, arduous path ahead of her, I think.  But I will be there, holding her hand, every step of the way.


 *Image from Internet*



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This titillating tidbit comes from Hannah, who says she discovered what the funny little button down below was for while learning to ride a horse at the tender age of twelve.  Up until that time she hadn’t thought about her vagina much, and she hadn’t considered that her crotch might be a source of pleasure.  If anything, she thought her private folds “were sort of gross.  Growing up in a conservative, Christian household will do that to you.”

Horses terrify me, so it never fails to impress me when someone displays mastery over such a majestic and powerful beast.  When I was a wee lad, annual visits to my grandfather’s farm would usually result in tears as my siblings and cousins were all taught to ride, and I, quaking in fear, would do everything in my power to escape my grandfather’s huge workman’s hands and the horrifying horse ride to follow should he manage to get a grip on me.  I wasn’t always successful, but more often than not I would wriggle my tiny body into one hideaway or another, and they would be forced to give up the chase.  A favorite escape was beneath the cattle grid.  No one else was small enough to fit between the bars.  If I managed to escape behind the barn, and followed the ditch in a running crouch, I could circle behind everyone and dive for cover beneath the cattle grid at the end of the driveway while they were all searching elsewhere.  I spent many long afternoons laying there in the weeds, staring at the big blue sky and daydreaming, seeing shapes in the clouds, chewing on stalks of grass, and thrilling at the occasional sudden rumble of tires as trucks or tractors passed overhead on their way to and from my grandfather’s farm.

I learned to masturbate there, touching myself through my overalls.  I’d wake from an afternoon nap in the shady groove below the cattle grate and find a little tent had been pitched in the front of my denims.  My imagination being what it was (and still is!) I would picture red skinned Indians setting up camp, erecting a teepee below my beltline.  I would stealthily walk my fingers along, the brave settler with his rifle, coming to evict the evil Injuns from his acre of land.

(I read one too many adventure stories as a kid, maybe.  These days I’d think, ‘Let them stay.  My acre was theirs to begin with, and my government had no right to give it to me.’  But that’s a topic beyond the scope of this blog.)

So my hand would walk down the length of me, ambushing and shooting Indians along the way, until the final confrontation with the chief, who had heard the shots and dying screams of his tribe from the teepee, and stayed hidden within in terror.  As the settler bursts into the teepee, the chief disarms him with a sudden chop of his tomahawk!  Ha ha, so it would be hand to hand!  Undaunted, the brave frontiersman grapples with the Indian chief, attempting to choke the life from him.  My arm plunged down the front of my overalls, I would grip my erect penis and shake it about, enacting that final battle.  I don’t know how many times the settler fought the chief before that particular struggle became something else.  Certainly the first few times, the chief would fall down and lie dead, and I would be flushed with a feeling of triumph and glory as the hero reclaimed ‘his’ land.  But was that just the thrill of victory in an overactive imagination, or actual pleasure, the rush of endorphins presaging orgasm?

At some point, though, the chief vomited violently as he died, and such a surprising rush of pleasure wracked me that I cried out loud, sitting up abruptly and bopping my head on the heavy metal bars above me, more than a little afraid that I’d broken my dink and my skull.  My hand came out sticky and smelling strangely, that pungent and not altogether unpleasant odor we all come to know eventually.  I wiped it in the grass and dirt.

I was rather embarrassed over the wet spot on the front of my overalls, and took great pains to sneak back into the house to clean myself up and change.  I remember soaking my overalls in the creek afterwards, getting them all muddy, then going back to hand them sheepishly to my grandmother and feed her some line about falling in the pond.  They came out of the laundry good as new; my relief was a palpable thing.  Over the next few days, when my penis seemed to behave normally, my fears subsided, and I began to experiment to see if the strange (and pleasurable!) event could be made to repeat itself.

That poor, fate-cursed Indian chief…

Hannah writes:

Dear Eon,

By my third month of riding lessons, I was feeling more confident in the saddle.  At last I could let my mind wander as I rode, instead of concentrating feverishly on not falling off the horse.
Constellation was a beautiful horse.  She got her name from the pattern of white stars down her left flank.  She was gentle and dainty, always moving as though she was concerned for the comfort of her rider.  Chestnut brown, except for her markings, with a gorgeous white mane and tail that I spent hours braiding with pink ribbons for derbies.
Well, one day, autumn, the leaves changing colors and drifting down around us as we rode, my mind drifted off with the falling leaves.  Thinking about everything all at once and also nothing much at all.  That’s when I noticed a strange sensation of warmth spreading up through my tummy.  As I began to focus on it, it became more pronounced.  My legs were warming up right down to my knees.
Just then we reached a place in the trail where a small log had fallen across the path a few weeks before.  It was still there, no real challenge to traverse.  I lifted slightly in my saddle and Stella (that’s what I usually called her) hopped the log with ease, taking special care with me on her back.  As I resettled myself in the saddle I felt the rub and response in my vagina for the first time, and realized where this feeling of heat was coming from.
Without further direction from me Stella settled into an easy walk.  For a time I just swayed on her back, wondering at the pleasure I was feeling.  I have always enjoyed riding, but this was clearly different.  I’d also been warned against the sin of touching myself.  I was smart enough to put two and two together.  So I wondered, and I worried.  How could this feeling inside me be bad?  It didn’t feel bad at all.  It felt good!  Delightfully good, perfectly good, like… well, like a hug from Papa when he would pick me up and whirl me around, or when Tommy tried to hold my hand, and I let him, just for a minute, before I pretended to be shy.  It felt… safe.  Exciting and safe at the same time.
Constellation was happy to run when I urged her forward.  We galloped along the mossy trail, the colorful leaves of autumn falling all around us, the upright, bright white trunks of birch trees flying past on all sides.  I let myself go to the sensation building within me and even urged it along, just like I was urging my horse.  I could cling tighter with my legs, reducing the rub.  I could press forward, canting my hips to increase the pressure, or lean back to tease my perineum.  I used the gait of the horse and the movement of my own pelvis to bring myself to the shuddering edge of climax before reining Stella in.  I was afraid this new sensation would sweep me away.  I might get hurt riding through the woods alone half-addled with this strange new joy.
So I dismounted, looked all around to be sure I was quite alone, and then wandered off the path into the forest.  At a good distance, but still able to see my horse, I lay down in a fiery carpet of fallen leaves and I used my hands to finish what the saddle had begun.
The first touch of my slick labial folds surprised me.  The wetness, the slishiness of it.  I sniffed my slippery fingers and even tasted them, experimentally.  When I inhaled deeply, my senses were awash in the smell of my secret self, what I would eventually come to know as the arousing musk of sex.  It only heightened the urgency of the moment.  I had to know!
I forced both hands down the front of my jodpurs, struggling to get my wrists past the tight waistband.  Sliding my fingers along the length of my lips, top to bottom and back again, sent shivery pleasure spiralling through me.  The feelings were like the curlicues on fanciful calligraphy and I was the page.  I could write my desires with my fingers using the ink of my own juices.
I thought of Tommy, I thought of my Papa, I thought of the immense penis on the workhorse, Job (Papa named him after the Bible’s Job and I sometimes had to groom him).  My fingers swirled and rubbed, prodded and tugged, and everything I did brought new feelings of ecstacy to glory in.  I knew in my heart that this was one of God’s greatest works and that He made me this way so that I could feel His touch.  I had never felt so close to Him or so safe.
Masturbation has always made me feel safe.
When I discovered my clitoris, well, you can imagine the fun I had!  I had no need to penetrate myself then, there were so many other places to explore.  I brought myself to a shuddering orgasm, soaking my panties and leaving me breathless.  Constellation came over to investigate and did a horsey whuffle of my crotch that made me squeal.  Her snort was concerned.  She was saying she thought I was behaving rather strangely, but she stayed by me.
I spent all afternoon lying in the woods, touching myself, exploring my body.  I squeezed my nipples, tracing their shape with my fingertips.  It made me shake and wiggle with happiness.  When I ran out of other places to touch, I put a finger into my vagina, marvelling at the squishy sounds and the lovely feeling as my whole body tightened before I came again.  I even put a finger into my anus… slowly, cautiously, remembering Sunday Bible studies and fearing God’s wrath, but somehow knowing it wouldn’t come.  He loved me, and He would never strike me down for enjoying His gift of my body.  His wrath didn’t come, but I did, again and again, as I rolled over onto my tummy and rode my hands, gasping, all the way to Heaven’s Gate and back.
It was only when I realized that it was getting dark, and that I would be in a lot of trouble for riding in the woods at night, that I gave up my explorations and made my way back to the stables.  I walked Stella most of the way, not wanting to risk an accident in the gathering darkness.  I felt I was brimming with warmth and satisfaction all the way down to my toes.

I’m 44 now, and masturbation is still my safe place.  It’s where I go when I’m sad, or lonely, or hurt.  It’s where I go to be alone with God.  I see no disparity between my beliefs and my actions.  Jesus said to love ourselves and to love one another was the most important thing, and I know it is true.
Don’t be afraid to love yourself, for God loves you.  The more you love yourself, the more you are able to love others.

Many blessings,

*Image from internet*

Homework Assignment!


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The other night my wife and I were discussing ideas for an erotic project,
(We like to share these things, fantasizing and teasing each other, encouraging imagination)
And we got onto the subject of mementos.
What interesting things do we keep to remind us of past love and lust?
A ribbon from her hair, perhaps?
A bottle of perfume left behind that you just can’t bring yourself to throw away?
Perhaps he forgot his sweatshirt in your flat, and you still curl up wearing nothing else on stormy nights, thinking of the way his big warm hands could communicate such strength while touching you so gently.

I love receiving letters, and my favorite mementos from past lovers are those words of love that they have left me, written by hand, often on fancy and decorated stationery.  They were written at a time when every syllable of longing was penned with emphatic sincerity, when each adoring word was so spontaneous and heartfelt it transcended truth.  The feelings that motivated those love letters have transformed or fallen dormant or ceased, but the truth of that love is still right there in those gushing, enthusiastic, rambunctious words.  Those letters have always been a touchstone for my romantic soul when a cruel world threatens to leave me jaded.

My wife read one or two, marvelling with a perfectly arched eyebrow at the fervor and affection I once inspired in the women (and occasional men) I somehow managed to lead astray.  She mocks but I know she wishes her first language was English so that she could express herself even half so lustily, so she could give tongue to this, my mother tongue, with just such abandon and glee.  That’s when inspiration struck, and she got a wicked gleam in her eye.

“Fuck me,” she said.
“Right now.  Put aside these dusty dead letters and take me like an animal.”

With characteristic relish I complied, but she did an unexpected thing:
She took my journal, lying on the bedside table, and she took a pen, and as the lusty animal she so imperiously summoned pushed its blunt snout between slick jungle leaves, questing for that deepest of drinks to quaff its roaring thirst, she began to write.

I could read it over her shoulder:

He wastes no time.  I have commanded he transform into a beast and rut with me, and he cannot resist my sorcery.  I am picturing myself being mounted by a lion, or perhaps a wild boar or stallion, as I roll onto my knees and thrust my buttocks in the air.  My quim quivers in the room’s chill.  It makes the heat of him all the more delicious.

I stop reading.  What care have animals for the scrawl of man or woman?
She scribbles furiously as I lose myself in her.  She pauses often to moan, to writhe beneath me.
I have the feel of this game now… my task is to push her to the brink, to make her gradually lose control of herself and her pen, so that her pleasure is transfered onto the page in the hurried tilt of a line, the lurch of a word, the sudden gap and gasp in the paragraph before continuing with another thought entirely, another description of the sensations she is experiencing.
After a time, when she has written a generous mess of pages, we come together, the slippery friction of our sweaty bodies too much to bear any longer.  The waves of ecstasy deposit us dripping and delirious into the pooling oasis of bedsheets.  There we bide a time until our breathing slows.

Later I will read it all; sometime when she is away, and I miss her furiously; when touching myself can’t hope to match the rich reality of her.  This thing she has left me is a spontaneous gift, and it moves me in a way I can’t describe.  To have her words, her pleasure, spelled out before my eyes, the incredible nearness and now-ness it… this is pure eroticism.

So here is what I propose:

If you have a lover, corner him or her.  If not, find one, if only for a night.  Offer to go down on your partners if they agree to write about the experience as it happens.  Provide the pen and paper (they’re doing us a favor, after all!).  Take your time.  A half hour to an hour of oral pleasure will give them plenty of opportunity, with lots of pauses to enjoy the moment, to describe it all in glorious, erotic detail.  If you like, and it makes sense to you, have your lovers write in the present tense, to intensify the immediacy.  You are licking your lips, she is wanton, I am touching you, we make love…
Have your playmates describe, in their own words, the sensations you invoke in them as they feel them.  Encourage them to let the writing itself show as much as the words… do they speed up and scribble more as the intensity of the pleasure increases, trying to capture it all?  Do they write with more pressure as their muscles spasm, making them squirm?  Do the lines wander as their body distracts them with sensations?

Then trade places, and try it again from the other point of view.

And, of course, if you happen to send a copy of these homework assignments my way, I’d be delighted.


*image from internet*

Peppermint Tease


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Tonight’s offering comes from J.E. in California.  J.E.’s enthusiasm for his tale, his complete return to that time in his life, comes through in his enthusiastic scribbling.  Kudos to you, J.E., for capturing all the ardor of teenage passion.

J.E. writes:


The smell and the taste of peppermint has always done it for me.  It’s Cheryl’s fault.  She loved peppermint and always had a peppermint candy to suck on, peppermint tea to sip, peppermint gum to blow bright green bubbles with.  She was the first girl I ever kissed, first girl I ever made out with.  She gave me my first blowjob, too, but I’ll get to that.

When I was 16 I went to one of those dumb highschool dances and I was really awkward in my tux, pretty much the only guy who bothered dressing up.  In a small town like mine that makes a dude stand out.  Especially since I spent the whole night standing off to the side watching everyone else dance.  Cheryl kept looking at me throughout the night and I would blush like an idiot and quickly look away, never thinking for a second she was checking me out.  A popular girl like Cheryl, looking at me?  One of the hottest girls in school?  Short and blonde and stacked and just way too perfect for me.  Probably just couldn’t believe her eyes when she saw the skinny dork in the tux.  Everyone else was too cool to wear one but my mom had insisted.  It was almost enough to make me skip the dance completely, but… well, I was hoping magic would happen.  I’d heard ZZ Top’s ‘Sharp Dressed Man.”  You never know, right?

The magic didn’t happen until the next day, though.  I wore the stupid tux and didn’t get a single dance.  I spent the whole night watching other guys go off into the bushes with girls, or just stand there tongue-wrestling in the dark corners like they didn’t give a damn who saw.  One of the girls even took Mr. Hyden by the hand and did a long slow grind on him on the dance floor.  I guess he’s a handsome guy.  He might be the youngest English teacher we’ve ever had, but he was still 10 years older than her.  It was definitely causing a stir in the other chaperones, but nobody stopped it.  I even watched Tyler put his hands up Lea’s shirt and feel up her massive tits.  She didn’t look like she enjoyed it, but she didn’t stop him, either.  Lea might’ve been a bit on the chubbier side but her boobs were bigger than my head and I would’ve traded my tux in a second to be in Tyler’s place.  Was there something in the water?  It seemed like everybody was horny and scoring but me.  I was having trouble hiding my boner by then so I said, “Fuck it,” and I left.

So the next day I’m tired and kinda down on myself.  Obviously I didn’t get any action and I’m feeling like an idiot cuz why the fuck did I think last night would be any different?  I’m tall and skinny, my front teeth stick out, I have a big nose, too many zits.  My hair is curly and dull brown and impossible so I just jam it under a hat or a toque most days.  Top it all off, people keep making stupid comments at me about the tux.  Haha, yeah, I stole it from my grandad.  Very funny.  Had to dig him up first, though.  What’s that?  Who died?  Yeah, yeah, tuxes are for weddings and funerals.  It’ll be your funeral next, wise guy.  I’ve just about had it.  This awful day has dragged by and I cannot wait to get the hell out of there.

Suddenly the bell rings and I’m home free.  I grab my shit and jet before anyone can get between me and the door.  That’s when it happens.  I’m in such a fucking rush I run right into Cheryl just outside the door to the classroom and knock her flat on her ass.  Everyone’s piling out of the classroom around us and they crack up.  Way to go, klutz!  Smooth moves, dipshit! Someone smacks me across the back of the head.  I’ve dropped my books and scattered my homework everywhere but all I can do is stare at her.  She’s so beautiful, so incredibly gorgeous, her mouth is so sensuous, and yes, she’s sucking on another mint and she’s all red in the face like she nearly choked on it when I knocked her down.  I can see down her shirt.  Tight white cotton.  All that pale skin curving down into soft, mysterious shadows.  I would never in a million years dream of touching this girl but no one else has offered her a hand up yet so I just reach down and haul her to her feet.  And I mean haul.  I’m so pumped on adrenaline I practically throw her into the roof.  She’s pressed up against me now, her breasts soft and warm against my chest, her breath hot on my face.  Peppermint.  It’s all I can smell.  In that moment I realize I have my arm around her waist to keep her from falling over after manhandling her back to her feet.  My junk is rubbing her stomach.  If I wasn’t so bloody terrified I think I’d probably have a massive hardon right now.

She doesn’t pull away.  She goes, “Hey, aren’t you the guy in the tux?”
I mumble something like, “Duh… pretty.”
I don’t know what I actually said, but she smiles up at me, searching my face, only inches away, and says loud enough for everyone to hear, “Well, I thought it was cute,” and kisses me right on the mouth.

I can’t even think.  I can’t react, I can’t kiss her back.  I’m stunned.  I’m drowning in peppermint.  My instant erection nearly knocks her over backwards.  Everyone around us hoots and hollers.  My face is burning.  Fuck me!  I run.  I don’t know what else to do!  I’m so embarassed.  I can’t figure out what just happened!  Cheryl just kissed me.  In front of everyone!  I just pitched a tent.  In front of everybody!  Am I high on some crazy drugs?  Is this for real?  Am I dreaming?  What the fuck just happened?

She catches up with me down the street from the school.  I left my bag and books and everything when I ran.  She hands them to me.  I take them in silence and just start walking again.  She walks with me.  I can’t look at her.  I’m fucking terrified.

She says, “I mean it, y’know.  I’ve heard the things people have been saying all day.  But you were the only one who went to that dance last night who actually gave a shit.”  (Like I’m going to tell her my mom made me do it.  No way.)  “None of the guys in our school know what dressing up really means.  They figure they just put extra gel in their hair and wear a shirt that actually got washed recently and they’re good to go.  But you wore a tux, and it looked good.  Didn’t you see me looking at you all night?  J, are you even listening to me?”

She grabs me by the arm and stops, turns me to face her.  I can’t help but look her in the eyes.  Blue eyes.  Earnest.  She knows my name.  She must have asked someone before she chased after me.  She’s begging me with her eyes to understand.  She wasn’t making fun of me.  She really meant it.  As it slowly dawns on me this amazing girl actually thinks I’m cute, she drives it home with another kiss.  This time our tongues touch.  I lose my breath.  The world disappears.  I’m in heaven, and it smells and tastes like peppermint.  Time stops.
When she finally pulls away she smiles at me shyly.  Her!  Shy!  I can’t believe what I’m seeing.  Like she doesn’t know if she crossed a line or something.  I’m about to tell her she can cross the line as often as she likes when I realize I’m sucking on her peppermint, and we both burst out laughing.

Just like that I’m as comfortable as I’ve ever been with anyone.  Cheryl and I are suddenly a thing without officially being a thing.  She’s popular and her friends think she’s weird for hanging out with me but she deflects their questions and shrugs off their comments.  Sometimes she even jumps to my defense and tells them how great I am.  They roll their eyes and change the subject.  But I don’t care.  She says I’m a sweetheart and that’s just how she likes me.

The thing I remember most though is the peppermint.  She would be drinking peppermint tea.  We’d kiss and that taste would cool my tongue.  It would make me salivate.  It was like her kisses stayed inside my mouth.  I remember getting her peppermint lip gloss for her birthday.  She put it on right away.  Her eyes went wide.
“It tingles!” she laughed. “It’s making my lips numb!  It’s really minty!”
Then she pushed me down on the couch.  Went straight for my belt buckle.  I felt like a chump but I actually stopped her.
I said, “Are you sure?”
She just giggled and said she wanted to know if it made my thingy go numb, too.

The moment the head of my penis slipped inside of her mouth I lost all control.  I started to pant and moan.  Cheryl’s lips and tongue wrapped my cock like fire.  A slow, tingling coolness began to move along the length of my shaft as she worked her mouth up and down.  She spread her lipgloss right down to the root of me and back up again, gently sucking.  The warmth and the wetness and the pressure all combined were like nothing I’d ever imagined.  She was clumsy at first, but improving moment by moment.  Her fingers tickled my testacles, scratching lightly with her nails.  I could feel my balls tightening.  Shit, I was going to shoot my load.  I couldn’t finish in her mouth, she’d never forgive me.  I couldn’t think straight.  It felt so good!
“Cheryl!” I croaked.  Too late.
She squeaked in surprise as my cum flooded her mouth, but she did the damdest thing.  She clamped on tight, locked her lips around the head of my cock, swirled her tongue around, and sucked.  It actually hurt, she sucked so hard, but the pleasure was so intense I didn’t even consider making her stop.  My hips bucked and my cock throbbed and Cheryl held her breath, held on, until finally I stopped spasming.  When she took her mouth away my cum stretched from her mouth to my cockhead, like a little bridge, then broke and splattered over her lips and chin.  She gave me a small smile, embarassed and suddenly shy.
“I didn’t know what to do,” she said sheepishly.  She got up and got a towel from the bathroom.  I could hear her rinsing her mouth out and spitting into the sink.  When she came back, she watched as I wiped myself off.  I was apologizing all the while for getting off in her mouth.  I babbled about it being my first time and I didn’t know what to expect and it caught me off guard and then she stopped me from talking with a deep kiss.  I could taste my cum, mixed with peppermint.  It probably would have been far less pleasant for both of us if it hand’t been for that lipgloss flavoring everything.

It was Cheryl’s first time, too.  Suddenly, we were both endlessly curious about everything sex had to offer.  We hungered for knowledge.  We explored each other again and again, making new discoveries, sharing all of our firsts.  In my memory, all of it smells and tastes like peppermint.

In the end, we didn’t last.  She had to move away.   We tried to keep in touch, but we were teenagers.  The rest of the world was waiting.  But for that semester and the summer that followed, we were too high on teenage love to care.  To this day I get hard at the smell of peppermint.  I still sometimes order her favorite drink, peppermint mocha, and sit alone at a coffee shop remembering the whirlwind crazy bliss of it all.  So many sharp bright moments, and so much that’s blurry and out of focus.  I’m sure I’ve idealized her in my memory, but so what?  My first love was a peppermint angel, a pure white creature of candy canes and lip gloss and bright smiling laughter.  That’s how I will always remember her.

Yours Truly,
J. E.

Well, here’s to you, Cheryl:  Tonight I’m drinking a cup of peppermint tea in your honor.  Here’s to all of the warm-hearted, perceptive women out there who take the time to look a little bit deeper and see the man underneath.

*Image from internet*

After Long Darkness

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  Today I received a confession from a woman calling herself Ing.  Written on thick, creamy paper, the scent of lavender spills from the envelope along with a few dessicated purple flowers.  Immediately, I’m intrigued;  lavender reminds me of Soli, who would always carry a sprig in her pocket.  Soli was a lonely, heavy-set girl I knew in highschool.  I remember drawing circles around her nipples with those sprigs of lavender, making her gasp and giggle nervously.  She’d never been touched like that before, and she wasn’t certain if I was making fun of her or not.  Could he really like me?  I could see the question in her eyes, along with a desperate hope that my attraction was real.  It was, Soli, I can promise you that.  Gods, all that beautiful flesh – breasts like full moons.  I was Neil Armstrong taking his first steps in a place no man had ever ventured.
Her body was an epiphany.

I’m a beast.  I never understood it then.  Neither did poor Soli.  I don’t even remember how I talked her shirt off.
But I’ve always had a way with words…

Ing writes:

Dear Eon,

When my husband Andrew left me eight years ago, without warning or reason, I was a ship lost at sea.  I was adrift and rudderless on cruel tides.  My whole life fell apart, wrecked on the merciless shore of reality.  My children grew ever more distant as the mother they once knew as joyful and vibrant grew pale and frantic with grief.  Perhaps it’s my fault; perhaps I pushed them away.  My beautiful children, my gorgeous, painful reminders of the perfect man I married.  I couldn’t stand the sight of them anymore.

  Oh, how I missed Andrew!  How I needed to feel his love again!  His desire!  Three years of frantic masturbation since he left me and not once had I managed to orgasm!  I could chafe myself raw with fingers and toys.  I could rub helplessly against furniture and pillows.  I could fuck the stick-shift of the sports car Andrew left behind.  It earned me nothing but tears and frustration and such terrible, howling loneliness.
In desperation, I appealed to my few remaining friends.  Concerned and caring girlfriends would touch me, gently, fingers and tongues, trying to help me find pleasure and with it a measure of hope.  Nothing.  They didn’t love me like Andrew had loved me.  My male friends I broke, one by one.  I would ride them to exhaustion, emptying endless bottles of lube, never ever getting wet myself.  Never climaxing.  Eventually the lube would dry up and they would give up and I would be left right where I began.
After three years, I still longed for Andrew with an ache beyond emptiness.  I felt like I might fall into the hollowness within if I didn’t find some way to fill the space my husband left behind.

  Three years of bleakness and despair.  Three years of depression, and then therapy.

  My therapist (I shall call him Troy) was an eager, fresh-faced boy, of an age with Julian, my youngest son.  At 15, Troy graduated highschool.  At 16, Troy had completed his courses at college and moved on to university.  His brilliance catapulted him into a psychology degree by 18 years of age, with none of the life experience necessary to remain professionally aloof in his chosen career.

  Enter Ing.

  Troy wouldn’t have known a seduction if it had walked up and dragged him home by the tie, and that is more or less exactly what I did.  Aside from being of an age with my Julian, they also look similar:  Strong jaw, sandy hair, intense green eyes.  Wide shoulders and a narrow waist.  Julian was the spitting image of his father.  Troy was the spitting image of Julian.

  I was speaking of therapy:
The moment I saw Troy my clitoris tingled back to life.  Electricity shot through  me.  My stomach fluttered with warmth.  After three years, the dam broke; my cunt flooded with wetness.  I knew I had to have him.  I craved him like a drug.  I saw the startled look in his eyes as our gazes met and I knew he felt my hunger.  Our first session was not like a dance.  I did not play coy.  He was not deft in deflecting my advances.  Troy fought bravely to maintain his professional distance as he’d been taught, but he’d never even had sex.  All through school he had been so focused on his studies and on his achievements he had never had time to flirt.  My obvious lust for him made him so deliciously nervous, I almost felt as if I raped him that first night.  I felt guilty even as his beautiful penis entered me.  But I couldn’t stop.  He filled me completely.  I felt guilty when he lost control almost immediately.  The poor virgin, so ashamed and apologetic.  Terrified as he spent himself inside me.  The guilt washed through me like a wave, along with the pleasure, filling the dark spaces, washing away the grief and loneliness.  Replacing it, if only briefly.  For a moment – just a moment – I was whole again.
And then the guilt consumed me.  It did not drip out of me with the rest of his deposit.  It stayed.  I berated myself endlessly.  I told myself I wouldn’t go back for our next appointment.  I swore I wouldn’t continue taking advantage of this… this boy!
And I didn’t.  His secretary left messages.  He never told her what had happened, feeling at least as guilty as I.  But I couldn’t see him again.  I knew I wouldn’t be able to help myself.  He was them!  And I needed them so badly!
It was the guilt that finally made me go back.  I felt I needed to confess.  Tell him all.  Explain myself.  Absolve myself of the sin.  I was so damned tired of feeling dirty and low.  I told myself that Troy was a shrink, of course he would understand!
Our second session, over a month after the first, we made love again while he gently explained how I made him feel like a whore.  He didn’t want to accept my money for therapy while he gave me sex and affection and worshipped me instead of helping me with my issues.  I whispered that he was helping.  He was.  My tears flowed freely.  I had never felt so alive!  His erection sliding in and out of me, skin caressing skin, drove home the words that caressed my soul.  With every thrust he went deeper inside me until I felt my center, my idea of self, had been pierced.  He took his time and thoroughly, completely satisfied me.  Body.  Mind.  And heart.
I could hardly believe this was the same boy who lasted all of three strokes a few weeks before.  He held me like I was the child and made me feel safe again.  Again, he came inside me, once again washing away the debris of my past.

Five years later, we’re still together.  I’m more than twice his age.  I sometimes still feel guilty.  But you know… Andrew never understood me the way Troy does.  Andrew never truly got inside me, not the way Troy gets inside me, in every single way.

  Thank you for reading, Eon.  Please share my story.  I want your readers to know that there is always hope.  Always redemption.  It may not always come in the form you imagine, but if you stay strong, if you stay brave, and you open yourself to the wonder of being alive, it will come.

  May you find what you’re seeking,
Inga M.

*Image from Internet*