Bare skin and firelight, backlit with the silver dim of cold blue dusk. Bands of black and metal clasps. Warm flames dancing across shadowy figures in chill air.
Camera.
Fireplace, fold-out couch, black-out mask.
Free hands positioning bound limbs.
Click.
Click.
Too dark, too bright, wrong frame. Back up, close in, adjust flash.
Adjust flesh.
Trailing fingers, intakes of breath. Waterfall kisses spilling streams from lips.
Hard.
Click.
Wet.
I write about hundreds of things. Publicly, via this blog; intimately, through correspondence; privately, for myself.
I do not write about hundreds more.
A few, in no particular order:
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Alcoholism: My sister-in-law is nearing the end of a two-year slide down the steep, injurious slope of alcoholic relapse. We live 3,000 miles away from her – from both our families, and happily so (my spouse and I both come from ridiculous familial dysfunctionality; it is nothing short of a miracle that we’ve managed to cobble together a strong foundation on which to build our marital relationship) – but, thanks to the tyranny of modern technology (and his own choice to utilize it), my spouse is being inundated with messages about his youngest sister’s not-so-well-being. Which has not been good for his own well-being.
One guess on who I’m concerned about. (And I don’t really fucking care if you think I’m a bitch.)
ALL The Sex (I’m not having): I’m sure there are some polyamorous people who have a lot of sex with a lot of people. Or perhaps, who have multiple loving sexual relationships with a lot of people. (Because all poly people are all about the luuuurv, right?) (Wrong.) Likewise, I’m sure there exist self-labeled “kinky” folks whose lives are a non-stop fetish fest, and who are currently working on their 37th orgasm of the week. But that’s not my life. And I’m pretty sure the sex I’m not having is within the norm.
They come in all different weights, colors, textures, and sizes.
And it feels damn good when they fit just right.
