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Erotic Arts And Letters


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#1 Zerreit

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Posted 17 September 2005 - 08:07 PM

I was looking for the Erotic Literature thread but sadly, it has either been deleted or locked. I hope the admins and mods won't mind if I start another one as a diversion from the many field reports that bombard MTC.

This thread is purely for erotic literature and arts. Post your favorite erotic literature. May it be poetry, an excerpt from a story, your own writings, or what not. Maybe some of us can even share artworks.

Post responsibly though as original erotic lit thread was closed due to some people who plagiarized. Please indicate if it's an original work, lifted from another site (e.g. Literotica.com), author, title of book, etc. Let's give credit where credit is due.

Let me start off with something from Rumi...



Lighting, your presence
from ground to sky.
No one knows what becomes of me,
when you take me so quickly.

--Rumi (From the book Yellow Silk 2, International Erotic Stories & Poems, edited by Lily Pond)

Edited by Zerreit, 17 September 2005 - 08:11 PM.


#2 Zerreit

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Posted 17 September 2005 - 08:25 PM

Songs
Melissa Holmes


I too overflow; my desires have invented new desires,
my body knows unheard of songs.
--Helen Cixous


Timpani of clitoris, bass note of nipple,
fugue of fingertip and skin.

in remembrance of the body
in remembrance of the blood


this swell of self -
polished wax of apple skin,
hips of perfume bottles,
magnitude of hands

mine, his, hers
all the flawed possessives.

If you listen long enough, syntax
is inconsequential
it's frequencies of flesh that gather
the tone and pitch of pleasure
playing with its shape.

This is a game I've always played
stretch the string free of knots,
see what my two hands can do...
windows opening into, outward
this mutability of metaphor
the vulva is.

I am obvious textures - velvet,
the tease of feathers,
smooth curve of soup ladles,
granite,

a shift of particles
purple behind closed eyes.

Think of where
to touch -
translucence of wrist, stone of ankle, silk of cervix
slipperiness with word and without...

Edited by Zerreit, 17 September 2005 - 08:26 PM.


#3 Guest_chunky_*

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Posted 19 September 2005 - 12:32 PM

Electricity flows
each time they touch
Their skins tingle
they felt it as such

A longing kiss
that lasted forever
naked bodies connect
to end they want it never

they rise up and down
like waters beneath them
softly making waves
making pattern with rhythm

temperatures rose
like the sweet love they made
and they locked their embrace
under that gentle shade...

#4 MHY®

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Posted 19 September 2005 - 04:35 PM

This feel of your hand in mine
The sound of your voice
The gentle caresses
Playful hugs and kisses

Your mouth on mine
As you find my most tender areas
Sending electricity through me
As only you know how to do

The amazement at our excitement
The lust in your eyes
That is meant for only me
The afterglow of it all

The feel of your arms around me
The sound of your breathless voice
The satisfied caresses
The caring hugs and kisses

All the things I miss about you.

#5 MHY®

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Posted 19 September 2005 - 05:00 PM

LUSTFUL WAYS

Music drifted on a breeze
The night, heavy, warm, damp

The sun had long since set
Our clothes clung to sweat, slick skin

Sensual scents of our bodies
Languor in the thick air

Sexuality flows like two magnets
Radiating, drawn to each other

Secluded in moonlit darkness
Our clothes not completely removed

With out a word, with out a sound
Your muscular arm encloses round my waist

Bending me towards the vacant car
My fingers find metal cool beneath my touch

Your breath rolls down my back
I arch and silently spread my legs

Fingers entwined in my long silky tresses
Gentle, yet erotic, my head is pulled back

The bulge pressed against my bottom
Arouses and stimulates my passion

Eagerly I am drenched, quivering
You thrust hard into my soft, honeyed sheath

Slowly pulling out, I feel every inch of you
The thickness, the length, the ridge

The head of your shaft, teasingly enters me
Hungrily my body tightens drawing you in

You feel my urgency, as it is your own
Driving into me from behind, I obey

Meeting each demand in frantic rhythm
Tension building, your fingers wet with my desire

Buried deep with in, your seed fills me
Satiated, fulfilled, I succumb with bliss.

#6 MHY®

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Posted 19 September 2005 - 05:06 PM

Wanton Embrace


My lips tremble in anticipation.
Eagerly, I press my warm mouth to your skin.
Softly kissing your throat upwards,
lingering as I lead a trail up your neck,
seeking your lips.
your skin, salty, beneath my hungry mouth.
Sighing into your breath, sparks fly.
I want to devour every inch of you!
I imagine your lips, pressing into mine, softly.
Pressure increasing, as my heart beats wildly.
Your tongue, slips, enticingly into my mouth.
Intimately, savoring, I taste you.
Then u kiss me harder, taking over my senses
and delving into my being.
Our tongues caress , circling, stroking
I cant get enough, my body is exploding!
Drowning in desire, knees weak,
as your hands roam my body,
seeking my breasts, cupping my bottom.
A path of fire scorches my skin.
Touching your face, my fingertips gingerly tracing
your jaw line, strong, proud, my blood is pounding!
I lean into to you trying to get closer.
I feel your hardness pressed against my hip.
I smile at how your body responds
to mine, in needing, wanting.
I cant get close enough.
My hands fall from your nape to your chest.
Teasingly, I rub your nipples, longing to kiss them.
Your thigh parts my legs, making my skirt rise.
Slowly, rubbing your leg into my burning flesh,
I make no sound, my breath held in.
My hands slide down to your waist.
Opening your pants eagerly,
I find you hard beneath my touch.
Gently, I enclose your engorged manhood.
Smooth, yet firm, I imagine
my mouth, caressing, sucking, tasting,
where my hand is now working at.
I want you so bad!
Yet, you aren't through, ...nor ready,
to give me, sweet release.
I feel your fingers seeking my inner flesh,
bringing waves of excitement, pleasure.
Your finger invades my now wet, innermost turmoil.
I feel a wicked rage of infernal passion,
Spreading like wildfire, assaulting my senses
I beg you to quench my desires.
I look at you, your eyes, smoldering arrest me.
My cheeks grow hot under your gaze.
A groan sounds deep in your throat, gratifying.
Then bending your head toward me.
You capture my mouth with yours.
Seducing me entirely, endlessly.
My mind, my body, my soul.
Clothes fall away silently to the floor.
You... now want me... as I want you.


Edited by MHY®, 19 September 2005 - 05:08 PM.


#7 Zerreit

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Posted 20 September 2005 - 07:03 AM

From the book Yellow Silk 2: International Erotic Stories & Poems, edited by Linda Russo...

Seventeen, Excerpts
Kenzaburo Oe, translation by Luke Van Haute


Today is my birthday. Seventeen years of age I am today: a Seventeen. But nobody in my family realizes it's my birthday. Not my father, not my mother or my brother. Or at least they act like they don't. So I keep quiet about it too.

Toward evening, my older sister comes home from the Self-Defense Forces hospital, where she works as a nurse. I'm in the bathroom, lathering myself with soap. "Seventeen years old," she calls out to me. "Doesn't it just make you want to grab yourself?"

My sister is horribly nearsighted, and so ashamed of her glasses she's made up her mind never to get married. That's why she went to work for the SDF. In desperation, she does nothing but read. She's ruining her eyes all the more, but she doesn't care.

What she said to me now was probably stolen from a book. Still, at least one person in the family remembered my birthday. As I scrub myself down, I recover just a little from my lonliness. I repeat what my sister said. As I think about her words, my sex stands up out of the soap in a sudden erection. I go and lock the bathroom door.

It seems like I'm always having erections. I like erections. I like them because of the sensation of energy holding up through my body. And I like to look at my sex in the state of erection. I sit down again and cover myself with soap from head to foot. Then I masturbate. My first masturbation since I turned seventeen.

At first I wondered if masturbation wasn't bad for me but I looked through some sexology books in the bookstore and made the liberating discovery that the only bad thing about masturbation is feeling guilty about it.

I don't like the reddish-black adult sex, looking completely naked with the skin peeled back, and I don't like kids' sex, which looks like some kind of unripe plant. The sex I like is my own, when it's ready for masturbation. My very own sex. I can pull back the foreskin if I want to, but when I have an erection, it covers the rose-colored head like a soft sweater. I can use it to warm the stuff under the skin and melt it into a lubricating oil.

During health class, the school doctor told us how to get rid of that stuff, but everybody laughed. That's because we all masturbate, so there's never any stuff to get rid of. I've gotten to be quite a "hand" at masturbation. I've even discovered how to grab the tip of my foreskin as I come, like I'm squeezing the neck of a bag, and catch the semen in it. As a further advance, I've also made a side door in the pocket of a pair of pants. When I wear those, I can masturbate even in class.

As I masturbate now, I recall a story I saw in the color feature of a women's magazing, the confessions of a husband who gave his wife peritonitis by ramming his penis through the walls of her vagina on their wedding night. My erect sex is wrapped in its soft white foreskin, cloaked in a blue haze. It strains upward with the powerful beauty of a rocket. As I caress it, I realize for the very first time that the muscles of my arms are beginning to grow.

For a moment I stare in amazement at my muscles. They're like new rubber straps. My muscles. I grab my own muscular flesh, like my sister said. Joy wells up inside me. I smile. I'm a Seventeen, with no love for anybody but myself. My triceps, my biceps, my thigh muscles, they're all still young and immature, but with training they'll grow unfettered into thick sinewy muscle.

I think about asking my father to buy me an expander or a barbell set for my birthday. The old man is a tightwad, and he's not about to spend money on things like training equipment, but the warm steam and the soft bubbles have put me into the kind of rapture where it seems like I could talk him into it. By next summer my body will be solid, developed everywhere it ought to be. It'll catch the eyes of the girls at the beach, and plant fervent roots of respect in the hearts of the boys in my class. The salt taste of the sea breeze, the hot sand, the itching powder dusted over sunburned skin, the smell of me and my friends, and amid the cries of the naked crowd of swimmers, an abyss of blissful dizziness into which I suddenly plunge, in silence and solitude. I cry out and close my eyes. The hard hot sex in my grip stiffens for an instant, and in that instant I feel the sperm that erupts from inside me flowing out to fill my hand. All the while, I know that the lucky crowd of naked bathers is peacefully swimming, sunken into silence in the clear summer afternoon sea within me.

#8 Zerreit

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Posted 20 September 2005 - 07:20 AM

Creation
Robert Wrigley

The sun's a balm and a blade. They're blind
but warm without their clothes,
having packed a pad and blanket
most of a snowy mile from the car.

She slips her boots on and steps off
into the lee of a pine, to pee
and leave his leavings in the needles
underneath. What will the coyotes think

tonight, that scent, the mignled broths
taking color from the moon. High up
the trunk, a wound has oozed
every autumn for a dozen years,

the fallen limb a rack of stobs
they've hung their shirts and woolen pants on.
The palest breath of them rises
around her thighs, her nipples

wrinkle hard in the shade, her teeth chatter,
her breasts quiver and sway
and in the lenses of her sunglasses
he sees himself asprawl in the sun.

They do not own this land, they do not
live here. No one does,
except the coyotes and the deer, and the pair
of gray sparrows flitting overhead,

eyeing the lunchtime crumbs.
Dominion is a word, and ownership
is language. Here, a deed is what they've done,
not unsingable to wits across a page.

They are mates. They have mated,
and as he warms her again
beneath their blanket, they speak of this,
who bed most often in a bed

among the walls plumb and square,
the walls of law and human fidelity.
Mating, he says. Mount.
It is the only thing, she says,

to be human in winter.
Estrus, he says. The curse
of the cycle. Fun, she replies.
Recreation, not pro. And maybe

because they are laughing now,
the sparrows see their chance and land
along the blanket's edges, pluck a crumb
and fly back up to twitter

overhead like chimes in an easy breeze.
The light is wine, and still
in her boots, she straddles him, and the blanket falls.

and the sun on her shoulders
is luminous and symbolic. She can see
in his glasses the bottomless sky,
he can see in hers, the sparrows,

working an arm's half-span away,
hopping among the folds of cloth
for a morsel of cheese or an arc of crust,
and without the lovers knowing,

a loosened blue thread from the blanket,
which the birds will weave
through the twigs and redolent needles,
come spring in their nest.


#9 MHY®

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Posted 20 September 2005 - 01:30 PM

Wanting


Helpless
When you touch me
Feeling your hands move around my waist
I give my self to you, wanting nothing else

Intoxicated
When you kiss me
Your tongue glides into my warm, wet mouth
I taste you completely, wanting nothing else

Mesmerized
When you look into my eyes
You see right into my soul
I feel your gaze, wanting nothing else

Excited
When you take me
Our bodies move as one
I meet you with unbridled passion, wanting nothing else

Longing
When you leave me
So soon after making love
I need more time with you, wanting nothing else

Desperate
Knowing you go back home
To your separate life
I live for our brief interludes, wanting more from you.. :cry:

Edited by MHY®, 20 September 2005 - 01:38 PM.


#10 Zerreit

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Posted 21 September 2005 - 11:37 AM

Standing Stone
Carmela Delia Lanza

"And Ruth said, Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people and thy God my God..."

"Charles is where the garden will be,"
I tell my son on Palm Sunday,
the frost may still hit while we transform
the sand into soil for plants that pull me back,
an umbilical cord to my father.
I have resisted this gardening for a long time but now
I water the tree and feel this planting in my bones:
he talks about heirloom seeds from one generation to another
and my mother holds a bag of seeds in her garage,
she tells me she doesn't know what to do with them.
"The grass has taken over the garden," she says
as it should take over the world,
"I can't bend over anymore, I fall down."

Your body is over me and you ask me if I think of anyone else
while we f**k. Coming with you inside of me is not like my past.
I feel I turn myself inside out, skin is gone and I feel all
I have done, all I have meant to do brings me to this place,
the world moving night to day slowly under our bodies,
a thin moon is holding its breath, forgetting our names again.

We walk in the snow on this island where I was born,
my mother has no boots and steps in my footsteps.
The snow is up to our knees.
I have the number of the row and headstone,
my mother stops, she can't breathe,
she jokes that this would be the best place to die,
we would save some money, we could just throw her in a hole.
I keep going until I am standing over my father's half-year grave,
the wind wants to lift me over the headstone.
But I stand, a market of gravity, feeling the pull
to the center, feeling your heavy back against my breasts,
licking your black hair in the night,
no more talking, no more waving a hand, "forget about it,"
I have no moment left, no passing of fingers,
no stand of hair on my backbone,
I bury the seashells and let the wind lift me up;
my mother goes back to the car and says
she thought she was going to fall down.

I take my son to the ocean and we gather winter sand for you,
a man who is now my friend and will soon be my lover,
a seagull shivers a few feet away, looking for a warm spot.
I cannot offer him any hope while I dig with my fingers down,
your request was said as a joke and yet I take it seriously,
I will not understand your intensity until I am breathing
alone in my bed holding air that was once you.

Edited by Zerreit, 21 September 2005 - 12:20 PM.


#11 Zerreit

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Posted 21 September 2005 - 11:46 AM

Miss Keller Returns to Her Senses
Lynn E. Levin

The voice of her left and right
hands cried out, Carmine! Amber!
India Blue! upon the wide
stretch of his chest. Peter Fagan,

you are my lighthouse, she spelled
deftly across the little bridge
of his cock. On her palm
into which he normall pressed
news of the Great War or Chautauqua

business, he nested dozens
of kisses, then sunk
his teeth into the soft
mound of her eloquent thumb. Helen,
my rose and thorn, his fingers
confessed to the inside

of her arm. On the nape of her neck
he scrawled, swear you are mine. His fingertips
were fierce with her breasts
which could suddenly hear
nor was her dark eye

blind. Then like the strikers
on the picket line, her fingers traveled
down the length of his spine
to the small shallow where
she tapped I will always be separate
even from you translator
of the world to my flesh -
this is my crime. She grasped

as he signed and deeper
signed, then without hesitating
guided him into the darkness.


#12 Guest_chunky_*

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Posted 22 September 2005 - 02:16 PM

Her skin glistened from the faint light coming from his window. It was already twilight, and with the light giving way to the darkness, he was having a hard time seeing her naked body.

But he needn't have light. The heat of her skin was enough for him to know she was there, and in that dimly lit room, he could see her raise her arms and cup her hands to his face, pulled him close, and gave him a deep, longing kiss.

Heat surged from his body, and he could not describe the sensation, as he responded and wrapped his arms around her. Her skin felt like soft cotton, and her firm breasts pressed against his in a powerful but gentle embrace. Slowly she pulled away, and looked at him.

She pulled him close again, and slowly reached for the knot that held his shorts to his waist. She reached into his shorts and held his erect tool in a loving grasp. She pushed him down on his back and artfully pulled his shorts in one swift motion, whilst holding him still.

She moved in and kissed him again, gently, and progressed downwards. His neck, collarbone, shoulders, abdomen and hips reacted wildly to the moist pursing of her lips, and the hot caresses of her tongue. No longer able to hold himself back, he moved his arms and reached for her breasts. Her nipples, erect and hard from the anticipation, aroused him even more.

She held her breasts together and squeezed him. He felt as if he was being torn apart and meld together at the same time. It was a sensation he could not fathom.

Her tongue moved where her breasts used to be, and he could not help but hold her head in his hands. She played with him, licking his shaft, teasing the tip with her now burning buds, and pecking it with her lips. She licked the slightest amount juice that came from him, and lovingly squeezed his manhood with her free hand. And in one breath she put him in her mouth.

Waves of wild pleasure flooded his entire being, and only became wilder when she moved her hips to meet his burning tongue.

Although he could not reach her, he knew for a fact that she was already wet, and when he lashed his tongue on her, she could not help but let out a very pleasurable moan.

Which only heightened his own longing. He played with her clit with his tongue so fast that she shook each and every time he stops. Slow, then fast, then slow, and as fast as his tongue could flick. She let out another moan, and he knew she came twice.

She moved again, and slid him inside her.

It was as if the heat was unbearable. The pleasure from the heat of their contact rose to an undescribeable level. Both of them tangled their hands on each other's hair. Their embrace was so tight that they could no longer discern from each other. They were one.

Wave upon wave, he held himself back, controlling his urge to ejaculate, which excited her even more. She knew he was injaculating the moment he stops and slows down his pace, and that upped her anticipation.

He moved her and made her lay on her back without breaking contact. That gave her more excitement, as she can feel him deep inside her.

He kissed her again. Their tongues looking for a reason to break contact, while finding none, and he slowly thrusts himself into her. He increased his pace, and her eyes start to roll around their sockets. She moans loudly, screaming his name, screaming "f uck" several times. She screamed for him to thrust harder and faster

So he did. He pumped himself like a ferrari, being careful not to overrev himself. They both didn't want it to end. Then she came once more.

She reached for him again, and he knew what she wanted.

"Take me from behind..."

Slowly, he eased himself out and she let out another moan. She turned and got on all fours and he gently slid inside her. He caressed her breasts who were vying for attention since he was on top of her and his hand bound by the bed. He held both breasts with one hand, and he reached for her slit with the other. He thrusts gently and hard at the same time whilst playing with her clit with his free hand. She reached for him and kissed him in what would be the most erotic kiss he has had since they started going to bed together. He was near.

And she knew it. He pumped faster while she moaned and screamed his name, and screamed for him to thrust harder.

He slid out and she instinctively reached for his throbbing hardness and sucked him till his eyes rolled in their sockets in turn.

They laid down, exhausted, and looked at each other lovingly, and started to kiss again. He could taste himself in her mouth, and he tasted as she did. He was still hard, and she pulled him again into her.

Attached File  ah_hahbig.jpg   8.99KB   5 downloads

Edited by chunky, 23 September 2005 - 03:33 PM.


#13 MA

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Posted 23 September 2005 - 03:36 PM

Something by Karina Africa-Bolasco


SAUNA 2

I choose to come every noon
when I have the room all to myself.
Then I dare be fully bare.
I stretch out on the planks
and from their gaps heat spurts.
Making my flesh tingle
in all the special places.
My fingers tread lines of sweat
and catch pores popping.
I touch myself
as no one ever would:
the unders, the beneaths,
the tops, the beyonds,
and the in betweens.
All at once I feel your mouth,
like the heat, all over me.
Powerful hands cup my curves,
or whatever remains of them.
The searching legs lock mine.
The body, the heart,
smarting from unimagined wounds,
almost cringe
from imagined pleasure.
I pat my buttocks:
once, thrice.

It's just the heat.


#14 resident_big_evil

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Posted 23 September 2005 - 06:02 PM

i don't know if lyrics count, but here goes anyway...

Hand Painted Sky
Color It Red


There's a hand painted sky
Out tonight, out tonight
And it's perfect, perfect
Perfect for love, perfect for us

Yeah, us
And as the night air cooled
The beads of perspiration
From my bow

I trembled in expectation
Of what is to come
When lips touch lips
And tongue meets tongue

Lips touch lips
And tongue meets tongue
My roaming hands
Begin to explore

Ask for more, ask for more
And as the night air called
The beads of perspiration
From my bow

I trembled in expectation
Of what is to come
Until my skin presses against your skin
And everything begins to peak
Slowly, gently, you thrust me deep.

#15 Zerreit

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Posted 01 October 2005 - 08:38 AM

Painting
Jane Hirshfield

There is a painting of it: an eighteenth-century miniature from the Kangra School of India, of the lovers Krishna and Radha. In other paintings, they have sheltered together, stood under a canopy of invisibility among cows and the village girls who tend them. His hand has covered her breast. In other paintings, we have watched her prepare for him, behind the screen of a bedcloth held up by her friends. She is putting red dye on her nipples and the bottom of her feet, while he looks down from an upstairs window, smiling. His body is blue, his flute's notes possess a god's effortless irresistibility. But here it is different. Though her eyes and mouth turn toward him with undeniable longing, she stops him with one raised hand. Inscribed on the page are his words, "Hear me, hear what I ask," and hers - they nare simple, immediate - "I hear, my Lord." But still she is leaving, walking away. Though her torso turns back, her feet are already rising a little out of her slippers - the god, though not the viewer, can see the red dye as she goes. Under the silk of a sari so fine it could pass through the hoop of her earring, her nipples are standing.

Edited by Zerreit, 01 October 2005 - 08:41 AM.


#16 Zerreit

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Posted 01 October 2005 - 09:49 AM

From the book Yellow Silk 2, International Erotic Stories & Poems, edited by Lily Pond...

Nice Girls Do It, Too
Dany Laferriere, translated bye Carrol F. Coates

At the last minute, Christina changes her mind, decided to stay home and rest. She hasn't felt well all afternoon. Of course, it may just be the beginning of a case of flu, but she doesn't want to go out in that state. There are times when she has the impression of being chilled to the bone (in a tropical country!). Since she arrived in Port-au-Prince, her greatest fear has been of catching malaria. She knows what she's going to do. She's going to fix a good toddy (rum, lemon, sugar). Then she will hop into bed with John Le Carre's latest novel. She likes his cool, refined sense of humor. That will make her evening. Harry will go to the Widmaiers' alone.

"Are you sure it doesn't bother you if I stay home, honey?"

"I'd rather you went with me, but, if you're not feeling well, honey... I'll just put in an appearance and come back as early as possible."

She knows Harry has nno intention of leaving the party before the last "interesting woman" has left - that is, any woman with protruding buttocks and full lips. Let's just say that Harry has a weakness for the young Haitian women who are always to be found at the Widmaier parties. But Christina is not jealous and Harry is no fool. He likes to come home. If he fantasizes about balck women, that's his business. In a way, it's nobody's business but his own. You have to realize that Christina is the brunette daughter of New York Jewish parents. She loves Woody Allen and her favorite writer (apart from Le Carre) is Philip Roth. So she appreciates humor and has a fairly pessimistic outlook on life. She followed Harry here, but she is herself a professor of comparative literature at the Union School. Harry is working at the American Embassy as a cultural attache. He is a slender person with a prominent forehead that makes him look vaguely like a sadistic killer. On the other hand, he has sparkling eyes and a sensuous mouth. You really can't put a label on him. As for Christina, she is somewhat uninteresting, with no lips or bottom, but bright and energetic. Men are attracted to her, curiously enough. At parties, there is always a cluster of men around her. But she distinctly prefers intellectual discussions over screwing. There's no way you can explain that to a man with an erection. So, as much as possible, she stays away from those social occasions that are simply pretexts for getting drunk and looking for sex. She has been particularly wary since a drunk pinched June's ass. June is their 17-year-old daughter, born in Manhattan. The name June doesn't really suit her. Harry named her after a character that had deeply attracted him in Henry Miller novels. That was the sort of femme fatale who had introduced Henry Miller to all aspects of hell. And of paradies. Harry's daughter has none of those traits. She is a classic beauty. A perfect oval, as they used to say. Her professors lover her. She is so gofted that she takes all her courses in French - a language that she learned only after they arrived in Port-au-Prince - and comes out with top grades. June never raises her voice. Always calm. She can always be found in her room working or listening to music. Her girlfriends have finally crossed her off their lists because they can never get her to come to their parties in Kenscoff or La Boule. With growing anxiety, Christina sometimes wonders whether right under her own eyes, her daughter is not becoming a nun. What had been just a joke between Christina and Harry is now becoming very serious - to the point that mother is now on the prowl in the interests of daughter.

"Know who I saw today, June?"

"Bob Samy."

"I know you, Ma. You've been talking about him for a week so I knew you would finally manage to get a hook on him."

Christina took a quick breath.

"Is it alright if I invited him to come for a game of badminton on Saturday?"

"Mom, I have an exam on Monday."

"But, honey, you study all the time. You should get some exercise."

"We do a lot of sports at school."

"Honey, sports isn't the only thing in life," Christina blurts out with an edge in her voice. "There are boys, too, and that helps us girls keep things in balance!"

"What do you mean, Ma?"

"June!"

"Just kidding, Ma. I know what you mean, but I can tell you that I haven't got any balance problems."

Christina appears to be lost in thought for a moment.

"Honey, you know that the mind isn't everything."

"Why do you say that?" June asks a bit anxiously.

"I'm saying that because I fell into that trap myself, honey," Christina answers softly.

"I don't understand, Mom."

Christina takes a deep breath this time.

"OK. Well, I missed a lot of chances with men I was interested in because I went all out on the intellect side when I was a teen."

"I still don't get it."

"Good God! Listen, honey, there are times when only the body should speak. Nothing else, just the body. You can;t do anything about it - we're made like that. It's physical, June. It's natural. We're animals too, you know! Monkeys do it. Dogs do it. Birds do it. Plants probably do it too if we just knew. June, look me in the eyes. June..., your mother does it. Even nice girls do it. Do you understand?"

"I'm not stupid, Ma. I know all that."

"June, there's a big difference between knowing something and accepting it. Or experiencing it. It hurts me to see you following the same path I took. You know I've suffered because of it, and I want to help you avoid that pain before it's too late. I don't want you to be just an intellectual. I'd like for you to have a mind, of course, but I'd like for you to have... a body too. Understand?"

"Yes, Ma."

They talked a bit longer and then June went right back to her room to do her homework. Christina went to take more cold showers (menopause). Afterwards, she called her best friend, Carol, a young woman who works with Harry at the embassy. Carol has already been Harry's mistress (Christina knows), but he dropped her after he began hanging around with Haitian women.

"Carol, I told her everything. All of it, even the bit about the animal. I felt like a fool! She stayed calm as usual, but I know my daughter - I'm sure I shook her up. I had to - she's 17, and good-looking as she is, nobody ever calls except to ask for help with their homework. You think that's normal? What can I do? I had to take the bull by the horns. I planted the seed and I'll wait for it to bear fruit. Of course I'm concerned; what do you think! If she were to start going out with four guys at the same time! But I'd prefer that! I can't sleep anymore. I hear the timer ticking constantly and I try to guess when the bomb will explode. She seems to be storing up fantasies, holed up in her bedroom, you know. She has to get out and get some frsh air, meet boys, have fun, cut up - you know, that's important. Life is too crazy to take seriously, Carol. I want her to let go (Christina is crying), blow up, taste the apple of love (she is sobbing now). That's all I want for my daughter. You say that it's everything I haven't had. Of course I know that you can't change your own life through somebody else's. I've got to hang up. Harry just came back and he doesn't have any idea what's going on in this house. He thinks everything is fine. The sun, tropical fruit, Haitian women with beautiful asses; he's in paradies. There aren't any problems in paradise. I'll call you again."

That conversation took place exactly one week ago. Today Christina has a touch of fever and she's planning for a restful evening with a toddy and a good detective novel to be followed by a sound sleep. At the last minute, she decided not to go to her own room, but to the guest room instead. It's an attractive room, smaller than the master bedroom, but intelligently arranged and that makes it very comfortable. Christina likes to hole up in this room, which reminds her of her undergrad days when she had a little room close to Columbia University. At that time, she was torn between solitude and freedom. Let's say she preferred to be alone rather than free. She would spend her time reading Virginia Woolf even as she hoped somebody would knock at the door. Now, she reads nothing but detective fiction and Philip Roth (a good thing he publishes a novel a year) in order to try ease the migraine that never gives her any rest. At least this room gives her the impression of still being the young woman who was free and alone in the sixties. From this small room, you can see the porch where Absalom sleeps when Harry isn't at home. Absalom is the young man recommended by the Widmaiers. he's a real pearl, as Francoise Widmaier says. He's polite, hardworking, and very bright. Christina sometimes considers taking him back to New York when Harry's tour is over. He already speaks some basic English and understands everything you say to him. Harry likes him a lot because of his ready wit. his quickness at understaning all sorts of complex situations amazes harry every day. Absalom is already preparing his bed for the night. He has a room where he keeps his things at the back courtyard, but Harry asks him to sleep on the porch when he expects to reutrn late from evening funtions or those torrid nights with some "Annaise." That way, Abslaom could react immediately to any alert. There are assassins and thieves in the streets these days. Christina smiles as she thinks that nobody knows she is here since she made a last-minute decision to stay home. She can hear June going fown to get a glass of milk in the kitchen. She listens to her daughter's footsteps climbing the newly waxed stairway. It's strange, she tells herself with a smile, you can hear every sound from this room. She never noticed that before. It's a real sound room. Through the open window, she can hear each step Absalom takes on the porch. June is listening to the Billie Holiday record her mother gave her recently when she turned seventeen. "What a serious daughter!" She thinks. A bit unfathomable, too. She has the imperturbable look of an oriental. She's a quiet flame in the midst of a storm. Christina can imagine her sitting her room listening to the record and trying to decode the searing poetry of Billie Holiday's despairing song. Absalom is also listening to music, on the little radio close to his head. Haitian music. Very sensual, gay, lively. Music to dance by. Haitian music and painting have been an agreeable surprise to Christina since she came to Port-au-Prince. It's such a contrast to the miserable life people lead here. They are hungry, but they never stop creating that joyful music and that lively, colorful art. While we Americans, who have everything, never cease whining. Real pessimists. The Haitian is the absolute opposite of the New York Jew. Today's Americans are like a fast-food restaurant of despair. They never stop producing the same depressing hamburger, day and night. Man does not live by hamburgers alone, says the Bible. Woody Allen turns out a film every year. Philip Roth, a book. Our annual ration of bitterness. Bitter America. Poor people die. The rich despair. But here, we're so far from Manhattan at first. She has Manhattan snobbery in her veins. The radical chic of the seventies - that was the greatest. City lights, random murders, yellow taxis, the wet pavement, Cuban coffee, aggressive whores. That's the fast life! before, she missed all that. Not so much now. She remembers, with an enigmatic smile, that she could do in one day everything it takes her six months to do here.

"What's time?" she wonders without even attempting an answer.

She had been so lost in her thought she paid no attention to the curious rustling on the porch.

"Non, Mademoiselle June."

She listens

"No, Mademoiselle June, I don't want to lose my job. We can't go on... If Madame hears about this, I'll get fired."

"There's nobody here," June says drily.

Christina is in a sweat already. Her daughter, June, is coming on to a man. Their servant! Christina creeps over the floor to reach the wondow. Withought making the least noise, she raises her torso. She is all nerves. Finally, she can see Absalom. He is lying on his back with June astride him. A slight breeze is rustling the leaves of the magnificent tree that completely hides the porch from the eyes of the curious neighbors.

June calmly takes off her white blouse. Beneath June's firm breasts, Absalom keeps his eyes closed. The rosy nipples are erect. Christina is getting goose bumps. With a shiver, she thinks to herself: "My daughter is in heat." Fascinated, she keeps watching. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion. Time has grown limp. Christina is really tense. There's June, her June, calmly kissing Absalom's trousers. Down to the knees. Suddenly, she grabs hold of his white-hot penis and slips it under her skirt with no formalities. June closes her eyes for an instant at the moment of contact. Her tongue emerges to wet her lips. Abruptly, she seats herself on Absalom, with all her weight. Not a whimper. Time stops. The girl's nostrils flare and contract with increased rapidity. Another instant. Then a violent orgasm seizes her. Christina watches her daughter coming with the little squeals of a mouse caught in a trap. It's endless. And just as it's over, it returns more stronly and she has another orgasm. The cry of an invisble bird on the foliahe of the mango tree. June is galloping. She comes with her mouth wide open this time. Yelling. It's impossible to say whether it's a cry of pleasure or pain. Again! Desire puts her in agony this time. Like an animal trying to bite its own tail. Unbearable desire. A strident yell. It's as if she would stop but can't break off. She is galloping. Faster and faster. She bounds higher and higher. For the fraction of a second, Christina glimpses her delicate thatch of pubic hair. Drops of sweat are breaking out on her anxious forehead. The pleasure is intense. And the girl is all seriousness. She seems to keep articulating something. A prayer? Christina is silently weeping. That life (Absalom's penis) is inserted in the middle of her daughter's womb. A few abrupt movements. She rares back with her breasts pointing skyward. Her mouth is twisted ans she is moaning. She wants to rip her skin off. Pain. Spasms. Stop. Her body begins to move. Slowly. Gently. That unbearable sensation. Suddenly, she opens her eyes like somebody just emerging from a terrible nightmare. A few more sharp groans and another scream. She completely arches her back. The veins are standing out on her neck. "She's going to hurt herself." Christina suddenly thinks. But her face shows such an openly violent and penetrating pleasure that Christina lowers her eyes. It's a private moment. "I never felt that," Christina murmurs, letting herself slump back to the floor. She sobs for a long time, until sleep overtakes her in a foetal position.

Christina abruptly awakens when she hears Harry's car come in the gate. Suddenly, she starts: Harry absolutely must not find June there. She manages to calm herself before glancing over the windowsill. Nobody is on the porch. As if nothing has transpired. She hears Harry's steps on the stairs and the passionate voice of Billie Holiday ("Strange Fruit") coming from June's room.


#17 resident_big_evil

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    you gotta squeeze a little, squeeze a little tease a little more

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Posted 04 October 2005 - 10:23 PM

from dan brown's angels & demons...
"Though billiantly rendered, the statue depicted St. Teresa on her back in a toe curling orgasm."
the staues name is the ecstasy of st. teresa, it got me curious enough to find it on the internet & here it is... you be the judge...

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#18 Zerreit

Zerreit

    You can't afford me because I'm NOT FOR SALE!

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Posted 07 October 2005 - 09:54 AM

Commas: A Boy Writes Of His Clitoris
Gary Scott

With pause,
evening aureoles appear -
a constellation of two, of mirrors.

Yet, I could not see what was most curious,
where vulva was murmur,

and I was a mutable weave, a cat's cradle
of new twill, a song of
small green.
But twirls shush the syntax, redefine lace, posses and I.

Fingers spread with structure,
(I can see that now),
houring space,
thick silk, outlining
orchids,

the evolving O, and then O the tightness of heat
threading away like static, like clarity.


#19 Zerreit

Zerreit

    You can't afford me because I'm NOT FOR SALE!

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Posted 27 October 2005 - 03:06 AM

Venus Coming
Heather M. Bellson

The salt isn't dry yet,
she's rushed up
like a new wave
out of a conch shell.
Her index finger still shaking.
She runs it along the ridge,
brings it to her lips,
tastes the ocean
like it's her first time.

Smiles, points at me.

#20 bustero

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Posted 22 November 2005 - 04:02 PM

Whatever did happen to the old thread , is there something not kosher here?




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