I’ve been hesitant to post a lot of the things I’ve been writing lately. I get nervous because they can be kind of salacious, kind of dark, kind of ‘oh my!’ inducing. It’s time to stop hiding. I’m coming out.
It’s easy to talk about authenticity, but only show one side of the self. It’s easy to admit a desire to willingly encompass all aspects, but hide some of them from the world. It’s easy to talk the talk, giggle in whispers and shut the hell up when it comes to owning the all.
Just to be clear? Not everything I write is exactly how I feel from one moment to the next. Hell, not everything I think is exactly how I feel the second after I’ve thought it. Evolution is fluid, adaptation demands this journey of exploration maintain a path of open heart, open mind, consistently seeking truth in order to be of greatest benefit to expansion of self.
When I was young, I wrote a lot of fiction. I devoured it, and spat it back out in my own words. My greatest idol? Roald Dahl. When I was 10 my mum bought me his omnibus as a ‘I love you, it’s tuesday!’ present. She’s great like that. It contained stories I never knew he had written. Adult stories of lust and betrayal and darkness. Of course I recognized the dark in his children’s stories (giants who eat humans? A wretched couple who play horrific tricks on each other? Witches who prey on children?) but his adult stories tapped something inside me that I found delightful. I wrote stories, emulating his themes and finally mailed one to him when I was about 13.
He never got it. He died 2 days after I mailed it. I stopped writing fiction.
I danced around it for years, never giving in to it completely. I wrote poetry, prose, rambling streams of consciousness where I wove words with an intent to delight and tease.
Recently I’ve found myself bombarded by voices. Viable perspectives demanding I give them words. Some of those voices speak, some scream, some moan and gasp with delight. I’ve been a confidante for characters who have stories to tell, regardless of the subject matter. In some ways, it’s quite humbling. But a lot of the stories seemed to come from dark places, from places I’ve never been but have no trouble imagining.
I finally realized why. I’ve been in touch with those places since I was very young, but I’ve denied knowing they existed within me because of how much light and joy there is in my life. As though I haven’t suffered enough to understand the darkness that can hide within the heart of man. But Roald Dahl taught me well and it’s time to open wide and proudly accept the gifts I’ve been given.
My intention was to start a secret blog. A place where I could post these things that might be considered lascivious, risque, smutty. Because guess what? I write a lot of smut. Some of it? Is fucking great. All of it involves sex, to some extent. Why? Because it’s smut. Which is defined as particles of dirt or soot. Which suggests, if you get down with the smut, you’re gonna get dirty and sooty.
I’m a fucking mechanic. I understand the honour that comes from getting dirty or sooty, it means I’ve been working hard. It means I’m not holding back.
I’m done holding back. Let’s get dirty. There’s your caveat.
I suck. A love story.
My love of words and the ability to use them, nay, the desire to want to soak the sheets with my prowess of prose leads me into an overabundance of vivacious verbosity and a need to do laundry more frequently than is sane. I’ll go long and strong with a worthy wordsmith, my synapses love to stray paths beaten or new, and delight in the duel, the thoughtful thrust with preference for parlay. My lust for a tongue lashing of wicked wit and ribald repartee makes me weak in the knees when confronted with one who won’t let up until I’m gasping for mercy. But take note, I did not ask you to stop.
Of course I can tangle a tale, weave a world of whimsy, take pride in my status as patron saint of trickster gods. My love of the fantastic notwithstanding, I can’t hold a candle to those who delve into deceit that so often leads to harm. I’ve tried and failed to convince that black is white and day is night because the blush and stammer gives me away every time. I have no skill for the deception that digs a hole in a heart, the perjury that pains, the falseness that fastens itself to half truths, and tries to maintain a lonely justification that rings hollow when pressed. Honestly? It’s probably because I’m just really disorganized and can’t keep track of things that aren’t truth. I have enough to worry about without spinning yarns that require more wool than I’ve got to spare. I need that wool for legwarmers so I can live my authentic flashdance life. I’m a maniac…
at not falling in love.
It happens every moment. Every chance I get, I’m charmed by the existence of goddamn everything. The simple things like how strawberries taste like sunshine if it was closer to red and how puppies seem to speak the same language as dandelion fluff. The way stars whisper when we shut the fuck up long enough to listen. The crackle of the jazz lp’s I inherited from my da. The moments when I can’t stop laughing because I’m rocked by the giddy. And with people who write words, make music, provide perspective. And individually. Though I’m not talking simpering flowers and hearts and creepy lurking cupid ready to mess with my chemical imbalance in the hope that I find myself ensconced in a tete-a-tete of wedded bliss. No, more the way your voice says my name like you’re hungry and I’m dinner. Those hands..oh my fucking god..those hands! that I want on me. The look in your eyes when I pass you on the street and know that you’re wondering how it would feel to be so deep inside me I can’t remember my name. Yeah, I recognized the look. Because the same one was on my face.
at standing on ceremony.
Formality is not my forte. Hell I’m not even wearing pants as I write this. I love the idea of getting dressed up and bein’ fancy now and then, but I’m always going to be the girl who would rather be barefoot and dirty, playing in the forest, having an impromptu pants off dance off in the living room or reading in a tree. Unless tango dancing is involved. I’ll happily put on the heels for that.
at being subtle.
Your bottom lip, all seduction and grin between my gentle teeth when I tried to kiss you through the smile on my face and ended up here instead. Your fingers biting into my shoulder the way I know your teeth will later, as though you are creating a map, setting a course of the places on my body you’ll mark to remind me how it feels to be possessed, just as I’ll do for you. Your fingers unmistakably finding the places both inside and out that make me moan with wanting at the way you undo, unknit, unhinge and celebrate my surrender. My nails soft, then not so softly raking the flesh of your thighs, your ass, pulling you into me, the feel of the carpet under my knees, the weight of your cock on my tongue as I swirl around the head and lick the length of you, devilish smile in my delighted eyes. Taking you deep, inch by inch, because you love it when