kissing tenderly, as our husbands watch,
their passions temporarily placid, bodies weary,
cocks shiny and flaccid, our mouths tasting of their cum, and of scotch, fingers tenderly explore moistened crotch, head moving down, as yours hands gently urge, till my delving tongue, makes arousal surge, finding your hard clit, jutting from its notch, once limp […]
In text of zeroes and ones,
He professes desire to me,
Across a screen brighter,
Than the fires of hell,
He plots to tempt me,
Because he saw my face by chance,
After months of radio silence,
And his heart, for a second, skipped a beat,
Across a thousand wires and wavelengths,
Lust in the modern age,
Like the fruits that burst red and juicy,
On Persephone’s tongue,
“Lure me” or perhaps she said,
“Lure me?” or perhaps she said,
“Lure me!” but we’ll never quite know.
Perhaps she doesn’t quite know,
But it Flows.
But it Follows.
But does it Grow?
But across some far off distance,
Or closer than I hoped,
I became an object of desire,
He plots, leaving the door open,
Lure me or lure me or lure me.
Across clicks and churns and,
Chuggings of hard drive,
By chance he saw me, and I?
In the depths of the old wood, where the trees dripped tears over the toppled stones from the mountain, Mal sat beneath the willows, clutching the totem in her hand. It’s word ivory etchings still held the shape of a Field Spring dog. Her father said it held the power of the old ancestors, but she sensed no faint hum through her skin nor the pull upon her spirit. All that reached out to her was the winter frost through the long arms of the trees. When did everything turn so cold? It seemed as though she’d been walking along the southern shore the day before. Asan, with his rugged good looks, swept her up and into the water as though they were children and not soldiers. The war seemed so long ago, but it’d been merely a year. If everything felt like it’d just happened did that mean Mal was getting old? She sighed and hoped not. Grey did not go with her sun blessed complexion. Grandma might have gone silver, which flattered her ebony skin, but Mal took after her father’s people. “Least of my worries.”she muttered, as a large wet drop splashed across her head, making her cringe.
A short time ago she’d been the source of much strife in the life of her lover, Asan. He defended her like a noble knight defending a fair maiden, though Mal had never been fair and Asan had helped her cease being a maiden long ago. Yet what plagued her was his defenses of her character and person. They were flattering and yet they seemed to inflame parts of her just as much as her attackers, her detractors. Asan’s spirit had been right until they revealed the truth. It ached and cut in such a silent way. In bandaging he just cut deeper, and how could she say why? Would it even be clear?
“I thought I’d find you here.” Asan’s voice, deep like the ocean and just as soothing, came from behind her, and she sighed.
“I needed to think.” She turned her head to see him trudging up the hill wrapped in thick a thick wolf pelt and carrying a dense green blanket. She must have been gone longer than she realized. She looked upward and the sun had just moved past the mountain peek. It’d been hours. Asan came and sat beside her on the stone and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. A slow smile crossed her face and she remembered all the reasons she loved him. For his parent’s and sibling’s sakes she wished she did not. “How are things at the house?”
Asan’s shoulders tensed ever so slightly before falling, and then with all the irritation and disappointment a son could have when his parents disapproved he sighed.
“My mother calmed father and Bretlynn down. Rynhold is…civil, but displeased.”
“I got that from the yelling.” She managed a small smile, but it felt more painful than humorous. Judging by how he rubbed his knees and he hung his head in shame it looked as painful too.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with their horrid behavior. I had told them of you, but…I didn’t expect-”
“They assumed it’d be less part of me, but my magic is as part of me as my hair, my eyes, or my voice. But I think…I think they expected to talk you out of…of us.” The words hurt as she spoke them, and part of her felt foolish for it. She’d been a mage her whole life. Sequestered, belittled, threatened with things that no person should have to suffer. The rejection by Asan’s family wasn’t even the worst of her life’s horrors. Ha. They should have taken lessons, but their scornful eyes spoke of beliefs more seated than prejudice. Those eyes ,so like Asan’s in their almost golden beauty, told her their beliefs were faith. They’d never see it for what it was. They’d never admit their irrational consternation for her daring to exist. People like them never did.
“And I love every part of you!” He misunderstood. She never doubted that for a second though she had plenty of reason to. He was vigilante of those who could move energies beyond their world, but he’d long outgrown their fear. However, did that truly make enough of a difference? Did he truly ever understand? They’d come here to announce their engagement and he had never expect his family’s ire.
“I believe you…but could they?” she said. He looked taken aback, as though he didn’t expect her to be so blunt. She felt so tired, but what else could she do but make him see things as they truly were. “You were raised by those who fear magic and who see me as cursed-”
“I don’t care that you’re a mage.”
“And that’s the problem!” She jumped to her feet, nearly slipping on the rocks. He started forward, grabbing her arm so she would not bash her head in on a rock. She stepped down to the ground and turned to him. “You love me, but do you see me?”
“Of course, how can you doubt that?” Asan sounded so hurt and it stung her to hear it, but she had to be honest.
“I ask because they can’t and perhaps you couldn’t, or wouldn’t, see them.” Mal began rubbing the back of her hand nervously. Her heart thudded against a cage of anxiety that began to creep up her throat, and squeeze in on her vocal cords. “How could you not know they’d act this way?”
“I-I…thought they’d be better.”
“That they’d see you, as I do once they got to know you.” His fingers slid down to her hand, squeezing gently. Mal almost pitied him for his naivety, but that feeling only heralded a wave of slow burning irritation. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and took a slow breath to steady her nerves.
“I am a mage. A witch. An arcane warrior.” Her eyes fell upon his face, and all part of her yearned to do was study his olive skin and run her fingers and lips across his stubble. Not for lust or love, but to pretend the world didn’t matter and none of this mattered. But it did. It made all the difference to their future. “Do you not see that?”
“Of course I do,” he said.
“A-and you love me in spite of it?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. Asan looked so confused and Mal could tell he knew she had a point.
“But here is the trouble I need you to love me , not in spite of, but in part because my magic is what makes me…me.” Mal slipped her hand from his grasp, and with it she felt herself slip further away from him. They were boats out at see and the ropes that bound them together were slipping, the knots couldn’t hold, and soon? If they were not careful they’d vanish in the fog and hold nothing but parts of a rope of old bittersweet memories. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want to lose him, but she’d be damned if she did her and him and his family a disservice by ignoring it. Perhaps selfishly, she’d rather break his heart than pretend that this didn’t bother her or did not matter. “You must love me fully or not at all in this case. You need not love magic, but you must love the magic that is in me, what I can do with it, and appreciate the joy I take in it. There are things couples can look past, but somethings must be loved to and not in spite of. If I loved you in-spite of your faith in the All-Father and could not find any respect or beauty for it, what would you say?”
“I..I do not know. I would have to think on everything.” Asan spoke softly and slowly. In his eyes wheels turned, as the thoughts and words connected to find meaning. He wasn’t a slow man by any means. She’d seen him put fools in their place with perfect words, so sharp they might as well have been a sword. But he had this habit of ignoring that which hurt to acknowledge, or bounding around the issues to avoid confronting what life demanded. If only she could be the same. But then again she would not be herself.
“and for you to understand what my magic means and to see what my magic means you must see me as a person, a woman, and a mage. You can’t section off the parts of me you like all the time. Everyone does it. We ignore our lover’s favorite books, or distaste for foods we love. But there are parts of us so important to our lives and who we are we must take a stand.”
“But what does it matter? How do you know the difference?”
“The difference is your family greeting me as your temporary lay versus your future wife.” Cold. Curt. and made them sound so unfavorable. She didn’t like to be that way usually, but it felt somewhat good.
“That’s unfair!” he said.
“But is it wrong?” To that she received only a heavy silence, pregnant with fears he didn’t want her to speak and words she feared she’d have to say.
“No.” His eyes fell to her feet. “Shit.”
“I say all this because for you to bring me here, to be hurt, by them…for you to be so ignorant of their prejudice-” he voice began tremble, and her throat grew tighter, hotter. She felt the threat of tears as images of the evenings arguments blurred in her head. They wished them the worst. They called her everything but a monster. Oh they thought her nice, but her magic damned her more than rudeness ever could. “How could you not think about that, or at least warn me of it, unless you were pretending not to see?”
And to that Asan had no answer. To that his mouth hung open as he tried to bring forth excuses, justifications, and rationales. Yet Asan could not lie through logic, through truths presented by someone he so dearly loved, and his spirit crumpled. Many would call her over sensitive, would say it shouldn’t matter, would say she made a mountain out of a mole hill. Asan had always acted better than that. He did not disappoint. If he did maybe it would have been easier.
“But what does your magic matter? What does that have to do with you as a person, as a woman, as my wife?”
Mal let out a dry chuckle, and folded her arms in front of her chest with a roll of her eyes. He still did not want to get it.
“Magic informs who I am. I am a woman mage. I like being able to cast spells, I research magical artifacts, I grew up cloistered in a mage sanctuary. Magic is and always will be a part of my life and a part of my life that defines part of my core identity. If we have children they could be mages. Their mother will be a mage.”
“I know that! Don’t think I’m a fool,” Asan said.
Mal sighed, letting her arms fall to her side. She wanted to just run off to some warm quiet corner, and sleep.
“No child should be told in ways big or small that “Your mother is very lovely except…” “Your father is wonderful but only….” I will not have it be so. I’d sooner raise children on my own than have that be so. ” Now, the tears began to fall down her cheeks. A sob racked her chest and the suddenness of it shocked her. She turned away, wiping her tears so he could not see. Crying in front of people wasn’t something she did. From the corner of her eye she saw his shadow move and he stepped behind her. He let her cry as he wrapped his arms around her, and maybe he had begun to understand. Maybe he had begun to see her pain. “It was minor to you. My magic was to be ignored, but I don’t want it ignored or even loved. I want it accepted.”
“I would never tell our children that,” he said, and she believed him.
“You don’t have to say “I hate something” to make it clear. Most people never use the words love or hate, but their words and actions otherwise do enough.” She sniffled, and swallowed, trying to collect herself once more. Another beleaguered silence weighed in, only broken by her sniffling. After what felt like an eternity of melancholy he pulled her tighter.
“I failed you because I didn’t want to believe they’d not understand. I wanted to believe they’d come to the same conclusions I did, but maybe even my own conclusions were short sighted.”
“You’ve never been with someone like me. It is to be expected, but… can it change?”
“I can’t change my family, but… I can try to talk to them and I can try to better accept you. Mal, you deserve everything in the world I can give. It isn’t much, but I’d rather be and do better than live a lesser life without you.”
A warmth slowly ran through her, causing the cage around her chest and throat to retreat. It’d take time until she felt free again, but the release brought relief enough for now. She trusted him, but now he knew her line in the sand. He had to see if he could change and she’d watch carefully.
“I’m going to talk to my father, and he shall either accept us or he shall be a lesser part of our lives…I’ll be sorry for it, but they need to know I won’t let it stand.”
“Don’t destroy your relationship with them, but…don’t expect me to let them walk over me again and discuss me like I’m five seconds from burning down the whole village.”
“Five seconds? I thought it was less than that.”
She let out a little laugh, watching the river flow on as a stray leaf landed on its surface. It bobbed along, twisting and turning with every flow and ebb.
“Oh yes, three seconds from massive destruction is more accurate. Especially on a day like today.”
It’d have to do for now when better people took a lot of work. No one changed in a day. Asan didn’t and she couldn’t expect that of others. Still she couldn’t be expected to let their lesser natures belittle her own. She was a good woman and an even better mage. They could either learn that or they could not. But for now she had Asan and for now she’d try to be happy and push through the bad for some good.
***So definitely inspired by the video game Dragon Age: Inquisition, and the relationship between Commander Cullen and a mage Inquisitor.***
“Leather Bound Babes?”
He reads the title and laughs like a mad man, utterly unable to ignore the contorted figure on the cover. She just chuckles and pulls another book from the book store’s battered gunmetal grey shelves.
In that quiet back corner of the book store they were surrounded by bodice rippers and rippling bare chested cowboys. Titles with subtly obscene and obnoxious names surrounded them, and reminded them how many innuendos included the words “come” and the phrase “Doing the”. For all the joking and the laughing, they shared a mutual love of the romance section. Their gentle jabs and riffs arose from a place of pure affection, not petty scorn for a genre. Her life had been where the book had been her one constant companion in the face of scorn, and of course she read those silly titles to feel a love once deemed impossible for her to find. His love of the genre came from sneaking in his mother’s stack of books from the library or thrift store after he blew through his own. He read page after page not caring about it being “kissy kissy stuff”, as he told her.
“Sometimes I wonder if these male models have faces or anything else besides chests.”
She laughed. “What more do they need…well-” she whispered, “besides fourteen inch dicks?” They both chuckled and glanced around to make sure no wandering youngsters could hear them. “Apparently that’s all women want.”
“Is it true?” He teased.
“Oh god no, but it is a nice thought. Just…” she motioned towards the field of covers surrounding them from the front and flank. “very ultra common.”
“Well, it sort of suits the genre, no?” he said.
“The books aren’t bad. The covers often are, but that makes them more fun.” She picked a bright purple cover with a couple leaning against a ranch fence from the shelf. As she scimmed the pages she saw, from the corner of her eye, him watching her closely. “What’s on your mind?” As she spoke her eyes fell on the phrase ‘engorged rod’. For some reason that one always tripped her up and made her laugh. Something about it seemed so retro and so visceral and yet so not descriptive. She just found it…oddly hilarious.
“It’s cool that you’re cool with this,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“A lot of people would give me shit if they knew a big burly guy like me liked this stuff.” Sadly, she agreed that people would be so stupid.
“People are shitty, but you are perfect.” She leaned up on her tip toes and placed a soft kiss against his full and soft lips, which curled into a smile as they pulled away. She lived to see that smile.
Her boyfriend looked like a friendly neighborhood lumberjack with the beard and broadness to match. For the New Year, he’d begun working out regularly, pushing himself to the limit and then farther. The result was his natural broadness gained tone and got a bit broader, a bit harder, and he really looked like one of those men of the mountain. But he didn’t play any B.S games about what he should do as a man. He could fix a truck and then drive it to craft store, would be the first to suggest salad for dinner, and ,dare she say, he cried at the same points in movies she did. The night before they had watched Beaches. It was a mess and they ran out of kleenex. Actually, that was why they’d gone out and they decided on the way to get more books.
Like they didn’t have enough books.
“I’m not perfect,” he said as he turned to the covers. Dozens of chiseled bare chests stared back at him and his face knotted a little. She wrapped an arm around his own, a small comfort in the face of his own insecurities. He never wanted to be jacked, but she’d sense he’d been somewhat unhappy with his build. He didn’t lose a shit ton of weight, and replace it with lean muscle Chris Evans Captain America like muscle. He gained muscle and it just layered under his chubby bits. He wasn’t as fat as he thought he was. He had a bit of tummy, a nice butt(which she grabbed often), and the sort of meatiness she found comforting. Why didn’t he see it that way? His eyes absorbed those cover images with half covetous jealousy, and she pulled him closer. Through their winter pea coats she felt his warmth surround her and she nuzzled against him.
“Do you know what I like about you?” she asked.
“My charming wit and lackluster personality?”
She shook her head, then beamed up at him with all the love in her heart.
“You’re very real. You aren’t a ken doll. You have meat, and substance, and a unique feeling. I like you in my arms, and on my body and…in my body.” She watched his cheeks beam firetruck red, a better sign of how effective her words were than anything he could say. “Truthfully very few of these guys do it for me, but you…you’re real to me, for me, and your flaws are perfect.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say, and so he kissed her again, sealing his mouth to hers. In seconds a deep meaningful kiss descended into raw meaningful passion. They were consumed by each other, breathing in a moment in time that would never be exactly repeated. A quiet couple solidifying one part of their love surrounded by books that often subverted the cozier notions of love like reading together, shopping together, or simply not being those perfect people.
“Ahem?” A voice startled them.
The couple instantly parted, both flustered and feeling a tad exposed as a store clerk rounded the corner. As she struggled to say the socially appropriate thing he cleared his throat then said “Sorry, this seemed the best section for romance.”
“Well,” the clerk chuckled, “Romance is the section not lust.”
“Judging by the look of it, ” she said glancing around them. “Not exactly.”
Cliches aren’t an inherent problem. Shocker. I know. You’d never expect Rosie to say something like that, but it is true. Cliches are not an inherent problem in writing or life. The problem with cliches is twofold sincerity and whether or not they’re boring. A cliche fails when it feels insincere. Let’s put it another way your partner can say “You look great”, but you’ll usually be able to tell when they are really serious or just spouting platitudes. Why? Because there is a difference in tone. Whether your reading a book or a blog you can tell the difference between someone writing passionately and with more than a passing interest to get a concept out.
I say this because I think there are a lot of writers who like the idea of writing and the concept of telling a story, but who don’t want to dig into what they’re writing enough to make it feel authentic. You pick up a book or read someone’s story page and your met with an obvious love of the concept of a character or a relationship, but the writer hasn’t made the story worth your while. They love the idea of this handsome young lad sweeping this girl off her feet…but there is actually no relationship between them except for the writer telling you so. They never have serious conversations or bond beyond steamy scenes, and even if your’re left with a bit of enjoyment you can’t quite believe in their relationship.
Plenty of blogs and stories that I started have not been finished for that very reason. They’re concepts with no depth, and that’s how you fall into the cliche. You don’t sound sincere even if you sincerely want to tell your story. D.D Griggs and I talked about this the other day. Whether you are writing non-fiction or fiction there are cliches and themes. She writes self-help books, and 70% of them are similar or have similar themes that are cliches we can all spout to a certain degree. Writers like her put those cliches into a context and a way of living that is incredibly important, but we’re all familiar with self-help stereotypes of conferences, yogis, and hippies. Most people can tell you one common philosophy in self-help, but neither of those things are inherently bad. What makes a self-help book succeed or fail is a matter of someone liking the author’s style, but more so it is a matter of whether that author is speaking from a place of sincerity and belief. That’s what keeps those cliches from being a problem.
When cliches become a problem is when they’re boring and don’t feel genuine. A blogger talking about “the power of positivism” and working out won’t grab your interest if they are just issuing copy-pasted ideas to their audience. If they don’t let you in to who they are you don’t feel like you can trust them because all you see is surface cliches. The same thing happens in fiction. If you have a book about a werewolf romance that is just paint by numbers it may make money…but it won’t make you an audience for the next book. It won’t get you the sort of repeat readers you want because the readers can tell you aren’t in it and you’re not giving them anything interesting. By that same token, someone else can write the exact same plot (and people do this and do it well) but they make the characters more sincere and write with more passion. They try to keep the story interesting and their readers see that. In blogging and ebook writing I see a lot of people just regurgitating what they think will get them blog follows or downloads, and then I go to forums of people upset and complaining about not getting sales. Well, you aren’t giving a unique product. You give something that is pain by numbers…and so have hundreds of thousands of others, which has hurt the market in many ways all on its own. These writers just don’t see how the cliches aren’t what hurts or helps a story or blog or what have you. It is a matter of how something is written and the tone that allows readers to connect.
Cliches can be powerful tools not only when you subvert them, but when you embrace them with the intention of making them interesting and bringing somethign new to the table with all the sincerity you can muster. This not only applies to the page or screen, but to how you talk to people as well. I hope you keep that in mind when writing holiday cards this season or are getting ready for New Years.
Until next time…
Writing can be a very good distraction from life. That can also be a bit of a problem, but right now I find it to be rather enjoyable. When you write it allows you to step away from yourself even if you’re right about you. Your just surrendering to the moment and the act of creating something wonderful. There is nothing more awesome than the exchange of ideas and we’re lucky to live in an age where we can do it from virtually anytime or anywhere. Since about 2pm I’ve been reading different articles on writing and marketing on different blogs. It’s been very enlightening and I’ve realized that writing is a source of power when used correctly. Regardless of what you write you begin to step away and just go for your thoughts and getting them down on paper or screen. You manage to keep yourself going. Lately I’ve been struggling with my life. I’m not unique. I won’t claim I anything is special about me. I’m smart. I’m talented. And unfortunately that isn’t enough. It doesn’t matter how hard I work or for how long. Sometimes life just doesn’t go in your favor or how you plan. That’s not sad. It is just life, and our goal is to take a step towards what we want with every single day. I got rejected from two literature magizines and the Bitch Media internship I applied for, but does that mean I am bad at what I do? Not at all. What it means is those things didn’t come through. Nothing’s changed and I just have to keep trying. I write. I spend hours on reading marketing, reading in general, and then I spend at least three hours a day writing.
It is a great distraction.
I create worlds and build characters. I make epic action scenes and intensely romantic works that make me smile, and I hope you smile one day. I’ve accomplished a lot in the last two months. Suffer too Good and Dirty Honey were written and published. I have a few older stories I’m slowly working through. I’ve edited stuff for another author. I’ve been trying to engage more with the world around me and that makes a difference. Depression doesn’t always care, but all of that means something in holding back the tide. I just wish I had a few more bucks in my pocket, but don’t we all.
A lot of times I hesitate in posting these reflections because so often people look at millennials and call us complainers because we should just swallow everything and pretend things are fine. But truthfully I guess I don’t care. If I’m being wholly honest I only care to preserve my image. Yet I will say here I do feel like I’m standing in a realm of possibilities without any chance of getting to move towards any of them. College debt, lack of job prospects, my current job not actually letting me work, and my floundering sales do a lot to damage my sense of self both as a person and a writer. Worse they make me feel unstable. Sometimes I wonder if I should just call it quits. Not because this is hard, but because I don’t know how long I can live with the state of things because I don’t know if anything I’m doing is worth a damn. No one really does know until someone else tells them, and they say the definition of sanity is doing the same thing repeatedly, which sucks because writing is a repeatable practice. The best writers can do is try and recognize that we could be the next Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, or Arthur Miller but never get our break. BUT we could. Any day now someone can swoop in and pick up your book, click your blog, or hear about your journey….and turn you into the next big thing. Someone could find value in all that you do, and that can revolutionize your entire life.
I hope for being seen, read, and loved. Any writer who tells you they don’t want that is a damned liar and you can tell them I said that. We write to connect if not with others than ourselves. The irony of that is that is what makes writing such a great distraction. Regardless of whether I get my big break or make some cash to pay for my studies I will always hold a pen in my hand. So I work on building my character, my life, and my world into a better place and me into a better self. Writing allows me to think both in and outside myself. It allows me a distraction from the crippling doubt and the depression that makes me wish I wasn’t going to wake up tomorrow. When I can’t sleep from the thoughts in my head I distract myself with stories and writing. The worst nights and days are the ones where that doesn’t work, but luckily those are few and far between. In today’s world every person has to be there best advocate, their best friend, their kindest listener, and in world of creatives their strongest mentor. More than all of that we have to be willing to distract ourselves with our writing because that keeps us going. It pushes us to evaluate, to debate, to think critically, and hopefully come to understand our best assets.
As time goes on I hope to find my place in the world. I don’t want to be rich. I just don’t want to stay poor. I don’t want to be happy. I just want to be content. Until I am able to get to a place where those things I want come true all I can do is write and pray for the best. We all must push forward….the problem is knowing where forward is and how to get there. That’s what no one ever tells you.
What does it take to kiss a girl?
Must you be filled with desire?
Must you be ruled by primal compulsion?
Perhaps you must feel brave and full of things,
No one could ever give word to.
What does it take to kiss a girl with,
And fire lips,
And fuller hips,
And a laugh like vinegar,
But that never makes you wilt.
What is it like to kiss a girl?
Is it soft like feather down,
Or warm and spiced like warmed cinnamon,
Or mulled wine?
Is it spicy like raw chilis against your lips,
Or tantalizing like chocolate covered chilis
Repeating the nature of artisan delights,
That excite…that burn…
That leave you quivering and aching and…
I do not know.
I wish I did, but I do not know.
But if I did know I’d imagine it’d be
Warming until it explodes…
At once sweet like sugar…
And creamy like the finest custard,
I imagine it’d be a lot like this poem.
I imagine it’d be a new kind of perfect.
Oh I should mention my books are out now:
Suffer too Good
“If the last round left me with only pleasure to think about…this round would leave me with only him on my mind. Mike promised to push me when we started this, but he could be full of more surprises than I ever knew.”
“In the world of lust and the taboo there is fear, but there is also unyielding passion. Eve may be an accountant by day, but Carver has opened her eyes to that world of bondage, submission, and connection that shows she’s far more than the chubby girl her co-workers know. The world doesn’t know their deep dark secrets, and they’re beginning to push how far they can go before someone figures it out even if it means risking everything for a public thrill.”