All this heat

Filed Under pushing the edges | 1 Comment

I’ve been hard for days. Ready to fuck. I take long luxurious laps at the briefest contacts to my pelvis – the moment of walking through the subway turnstyles. Leaning up against a table. My hips tilt upward in wait, like the center of a plant revealing to the blue sky. Magnetic and animal and it’s all I can do to keep from growling, sharpening my teeth on the skin of the girl next to me, behind me, in front of me.

My cock is hard. That internal butch cock that raises and piques when I feel that rush to my clit, that swelling between my legs.

I am a battery charged. Plugged in and there is much I would do for the chance to spend a weekend in bed. Or a day – I’d settle for a day.

Cock so hard I could force it through brick. Through plywood. It could puncture glass, plastic. What would it do to you?

In Praise of Summertime Girls

Filed Under Ruminations | Leave a Comment

mar-5172th.jpgThe really fantastic thing about summer, and it nearly goes without saying, is the marvelous paucity of clothing. The sheerness of the fabrics, the slenderness of the straps, the floatiness of the skirts, the way that the summer air itself becomes more of a garment than what we put on in the morning.

Women walking around in deep v-cut t-shirts, their breasts puddling like liquid mangoes all ripe and juicy. Blackberry nipples. Apricot aureoles. The sweet peachy down of the cleft of an ass. The succulent slipperiness of persimmon labia (though now I’ve undressed the ubiquitous woman in question, without her permission, and slipped her metonymically into autumn fruit. That is so unfair). The long downward-sloping plane of the abdomen, rounded gently as the bottom of a watermelon.

Summer is the time of edible women. Girls tall and cool, dripping sweet like popsicles. And girls short and plump as dusky plums, with mysterious and sheeny-slick skins. Tasty chicks you want to lick from instep to eyeball, just because they look so good standing there in the summer sun, backlit maybe, their gauze skirts flirting with translucency. Only their eyes behind their sunglasses are shuttered tight as windows in Guadalajara at noontime; only their eyes are icy and off-putting.

The other day, a Sunday, I saw a girl struggling with both her many-sectioned paper and a broken strap on her sandal. She was across the street from me, sitting on the curb, paper under one arm, bent over and attentive to her recalcitrant footwear. She was wearing a white shirt and a red skirt, a flippy red skirt whose hem had a mind of its own, or perhaps it had a mind of my own.

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