Saturday, July 08, 2006

Welcome

Welcome to the little place where I let my id out to play. This is my place to say "fuck." I'll be posting musings on sexuality, erotica, and anything else I damn well please. The id, or "das Es," is the reservoir of need-gratification impulses such as the primitive instinctual drive of sexuality (see Wikipedia).

I'll begin with a short piece of writing I submitted for a story contest to Desdmona:

Exhibition

I suggested, “Remember that movie with Sharon Stone where she uncrosses her legs, pauses, and then crosses them again? She sucked the power from the men in that room into her pussy.”

The hotel bar is in an open atrium. I order two bourbons, neat. When served, I take one and begin lazily swirling it, warming the liquid and releasing its woody aromatics. I watch the consierge at his station. The elevator chimes and doors open. Her entrance is announced by the staccato impact of her stiletto heels on the polished marble floor. The consierge looks up, a minimal effort to break the ennui of the muted babel filling the lobby, and he can't stop looking. She advances with fluid, measured steps. Male and female, guests and employees, they all follow the lead of the consierge and discover her.

The heels make her appear taller. She wears a black pinstripe jacket with a red rose in the lapel. Under the jacket, she has two items: a white silk dress shirt and a red sash. That's all. I know. Only the shirt's bottom button (the one that usually tucks below the belt) is fastened. It is hidden by the knotted sash that rides impossibly low on her hip. Like a ship, languidly rolling, tilting left, then right, the sash rises and falls, a hypnotic pendulum. Her leg pushes the shirttail hanging in front to one side and then the other. The treasure beneath remains imagined.

Only the audience can't keep their eyes on her hips. Exposed skin, bounded by loose silk, draws their gazes upward. Her undulating breasts tease, curves disappearing behind the seams, hinting at the possibility of full disclosure. As she navigates the lobby, the jacket opens slightly to reveal an erect nipple pressing into the cloth. Maybe it is guilt, but once again, they have to look higher where they meet her green eyes. As she approaches them, she looks from one to the next. Like a sniper, she picks each one off; watches them redden, acknowledges that they are caught looking, frozen, and helpless. She crosses the lobby in only seconds of time suspended.

She stops at the table's edge, legs slightly apart. She takes the other drink. We tap our glasses together and drain them in a wordless toast to reckless adventure. She bends to meet my lips in a kiss, just enough to lift her shirt tail. After the overture, the curtain rises and the play starts. The audience watches as my fingers caress the inside of her leg and drift upward to the curves and slit of her revealed sex. Just as I warmed the bourbon, I cup her sex and slide my fingers over her moistening cunt. The plot is revealed; everyone knows she is groomed completely smooth.

We stand. I look at my watch, smile, drop a $50 on the table, and we exit. The limousine is on time. She is on top this evening.

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