She said:
Tonight
I want you
deep inside me
but please
don’t take it
as literal
as it sounds
I need to feel you
in a place that
your dick––
on it’s best,
gold medal
triathlon winning
day––
cannot reach.
I need
every part of you
to fuck me wet
and long
tenderly
violently
and tenderly
again
Tonight,
I need your hands
your eyes
your voice
to open me
wide, like the prairie
outside the car window
Under a clear night sky
Aerial Feeding by Shanna Germain.
This is an absolutely beautiful poem by the amazing Shanna Germain. It is published by one of my favorite new blogs for erotic writing, Featherlit.
How is it that
your legs
hijack the entire
conversation
hold hostage
any coherent thought
in my mind
author the entire evening
plottwists and all
reduce my attention span
to–
…I’m sorry,
you were saying?
You,
the driving force behind
the curtain
your invisible
humming machine
twirling coal into diamonds
what is this madness
you call
a tongue?
Well, it’s almost that time of year again–when, for a short time, we let our Freak Flags fly high and proud, and come together and celebrate All Things Erotic in Seattle. Artists, art lovers, freaks and geeks from around the country will make their way to the Freemont neighborhood in Seattle to take part in one of the biggest Erotica festivals in the country.
I have two poems that have been accepted to the Literary section of the festival this year: Fire, and Letter to a Feminist Lover.
Check out the website for details and more info on the festival: http://www.seattleerotic.org/.
Hope to see you there!
There are days when
sliding into
the dream world of the scent
of your skin
the taste
of your tongue
is the only lesson I need
On being human
on breath and
breathing
laughing
loving
dying
and so this day
ends
as it began
in the prayer
of your
sweetest
kiss
I have a confession. I’m a True Crime tv show junkie––The First 48, City Confidential, Dateline. Every now and then I’ll catch an episode of Law & Order SVU, but true life drama is always more interesting.
Usually, erotica is the furthest thing from my mind when I’m watching an investigator use the latest DNA technology to crack a thirty year old cold case, but during one particular show, I heard something that got my creative juices flowing.
It was an episode of Forensic Files, and the arson investigator was explaining the term “flashover”. He said: “Flashover is the point at which you go from having a fire in a room…to having a room on fire.” For some reason, I found this definition really…erotic. Anyway, I wrote down the quote and stashed it away on my computer. A few weeks later, I wrote this flash fiction piece.
Flashover
After dinner at Girardis, Randy and Jenna pause outside the restaurant to take in the warm spring air. The sun has just set, and the street is vacant. The topic hadn’t come up all that evening, but she could read the question in his eyes as they’d made small talk throughout the meal.
“So…did you fuck him last night?” Randy asks, as he runs his hand up her camisole and along the small of her back.
She buries her face buried in his half-unbuttoned shirt. She told herself she wouldn’t get this close. Not tonight. She inhales his Armani cologne, and for a split-second thinks about lying to him. She decides to tell him the truth.
“Yes. He’s my husband, and if I keep making excuses, he’s going to get suspicious.”
Justin looks her in the eyes. “Well…we can’t have that, can we?” He kisses her––slowly at first––then more passionately. His tongue explores her mouth, desperately trying to give her a reason to leave her not-so-perfect suburban life. She reciprocates, as if this were the last time their lips would meet.
“I know I’m just a distraction for you,” he says, pulling away. “You told me as much in the beginning. I guess part of me wishes that you would’ve changed your mind by now.” She knows what is coming next. His apartment is just up the road. Her husband is out with his friends and won’t be home for hours. Although she had resolved to end things tonight, her body is craving his now. The kiss…his hands against her spine, coupled with the thought of never seeing him again, has thrown fuel on a smoldering flame she had fought so hard to extinguish. “One last fuck,” she thinks to herself. But, would she have the strength to leave it at that? Or, would this be the point of no return?
She reaches in her purse, fumbles for her keys. In the distance she can almost hear the sirens.
Summer Dream
You sit astride my hips
head lowered, hair dangling
auburn vines of fire
Animalistic in your lust
your thighs flexing prayers
to the gods of desire
and damnation
Sweat drips from your pores
like the honey slow drip
of raindrops
falling from leaves
Summer nights like this
we lie entertwined
like jalebi
spent from an evening
of making love
in the August heat
with only the whir of the ceiling fan
to keep our desires
from consuming us
When we wake from this dream
we wonder how much was real
our bodies slick to the touch
sheets drenched with the only evidence
we will ever need
Masquerade (flash fiction)
“Don’t I know you?” a sexy voice calls out to me from behind. I turn around to find an equally sexy figure wearing a sleek velvet corset, a black mini skirt, high heels and mardi gras mask.
“Well, the voice sounds familiar,” I respond. “But you definitely have me at a disadvantage–I seem to be one of the few partygoers without a mask tonight.”
“Oh, no worries,” she says, while straightening my tie. “It would be a shame to cover up that handsome face.”
I smile. “Well, it only seems fair that since you know what I look like, that you should show me your face.”
The beautiful stranger takes a sip of her martini. “Why don’t you take it off for me?” she says, more in the form of a command, than a question.
Taking her not-so-subtle cue, I grab her hand and we duck into a hallway door. There, we find an old wooden stairway leading down into a wine cellar.
We feel our way down, the wood stairs creaking with each step we take. There’s an old dusty window in the far corner of the room, where the moonlight filters through, half illuminating the cellar.
Tonight, there are no kids. No partygoers and no party. Only our silhouette against the wall, her lips around my cock, and the best anniversary gift in a long time.
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Erotic Fiction
Writer, Poet (Occasionally), Kinky Geek, and lover of Oscar Wilde (Not literally, obviously, that would be weird...)
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Exploring the world of erotica with an open mind, through poetry, story telling and more.
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