in the quiet house

2012-05-05

i almost always prefer the demo version of songs over the final recorded version. and though it pains me some that there may be a closet music snob somewhere in me, i’ve done some fearless, self-searching on this one, and i’m fairly certain it’s not elitism that’s at work here.

there’s usually a stripped down quality to demos—a kind of stark quintessence. it’s a moment in creation time where everything is less grandiose, and yet still up for grabs. a chance for the song to be without getting overrun with all of these more self-conscious ideas of what it should be.

the vocal, the arrangement, the production—i like to think of them as hewing more closely to what the writer was really feeling and thinking when they wrote the song. what we make of ourselves, for ourselves, versus what we make of ourselves—how we make ourselves—for other people.

i want to live in that place—that demo space—metaphorically.
it always feels like home to me.

2012-04-26

OK look. i’ve got some new followers and i just want to be upfront with you.

i know you think you signed on for the porn. but the thing is, i really can’t afford to have a cat. so until my lucrative dream job becomes viable (paid to watch men masturbate), this space is going to be a cat blog AND a porn blog. with some occasional textiles and buildings and music, too.

ps: what little porn writing there is, is generally of the grief-stricken, doom-filled variety.

honeymoonred:

eee.

Source: z-o-o-m-b-i-e-s

2012-04-22

God I love these two. Just fucking whenever and wherever the whim strikes them.

Before the recent partial freeze up of my libido, I had locked in on two very similar fantasies. In the first, we’d be shopping for groceries and he would suddenly bend me over a produce display or come up behind me on one of the aisles.

I’d see myself pressed atop layers of apples or firm, cool grapefruit. Back curved, bottom raised high. Or hanging by my hands off a high shelf, my legs slack and bowed apart.

He flips up the back of my skirt and sinks himself into me.

People wander past, watching us. We’re like animals, grunting, oblivious. Utterly focused on one another.

In the second fantasy, we’d be at a friend’s house, watching a movie with six or seven others. I imagine us laying on our sides, his body close behind mine, his hand resting on the back of my neck.

This time I’m wearing pants. He reaches around to unzip them and peels them past my hips, roughly, awkwardly. Then he spreads my ass apart and takes me there.

It’s then, when I lay alone on my bed touching myself that I can’t help it. I gasp aloud. I imagine the warm push of his cock stretching me open. Gently invading me. I feel the carpet burning into the side of my thigh. I see the blue light casting over us from the tv and the faces of everyone watching.

But more vivid than anything, I hear his voice in my head. Matter of fact. Unapologetic. When our friends give us the WTF look, he calmly tells them, “She’s been without sex for too long.”

“She just needs to be bred.”

unimportantart:

just a few minutes before mr. oberförster came along…

watch our amateur pics at http://unimportantart.tumblr.com/

Source: unimportantart

2012-02-22

i want sweetness and filth now, in equal proportion. it feels like the most impossible equation—one i have yet to solve in my life.

i see us fucking and talking, and we’re talking about things that matter to us. we do it simultaneously, the talking and the fucking. i can feel the faint vibration of his voice in the once broken bones of my chest. the tight ache there. the unbearably sweet pitch. he tells me what scares him, and his lips form the words against the thin skin above my breasts while his cock moves slow and thick inside me.

of course, i wish that i just wanted to fuck. the more exacting the criteria of my desires, the more torturously slow the progress in this part of my life becomes. i see what i don’t want to see and i can’t look away. i make myself look at it, every day.

*****

i’ve been given this friendly advice from more than one person: that after such a catastrophically long and soul-rending sexual drought, i need to go out and break the spell. to simply fuck someone.

the man who installed the cable in my new house was lovely. tall and broad, late 40s, nigerian. and though he had terrible taste in music——he was scrolling through the music channels and he told me that his favorite was the smooth jazz station—-there was still an easy charm to him. he was so relaxed. maybe it was all of that awful jazz.

he was also unhappily married, and thought of himself as a bit of an expert in these matters. i discovered this after answering his question about what it was that brought me here to this new place. he began to politely and not unkindly lecture me, and it was then, out of pride——because i can’t bear that people might think that i don’t have what it takes to endure the inevitable difficult spaces of a long-term relationship—-that i bluntly and succinctly told him more of my story than i perhaps should have. later, he wrote his cell phone number on my contract and told me to call if i needed anything. i realized that he would have gladly done this for me—-broken the dry spell. all of this, despite what i consider visual deterrents. my physical limitations. evidently he was not deterred.

*****

i cried when I read joan defers‘ virginity story. i saw too much of myself there and it took me off-guard. my ob-gyn told me after an exam, in wry and bawdy language, that a critical part of my body has wound back the clock. it dawned on me—painfully, and somewhat embarrassingly—-that there is an accompanying emotional rewinding that has occurred along with the physical one. at this relatively late stage in the game, i’ve become a virgin of sorts again. fucking for sport seems ill-advised under these conditions.

i know i will cry this first time. if i am lucky, it will be tears of joy. but either way, it kills me that even the most sensitive and enlightened of men are so often bewildered by this response in a woman.

the thing i want to say to them is this: i am letting you inside of my body. even if a part of me just wants to be fucked, and fucked senseless, i can’t pretend to not want these other things, whether i want them with you or not. i can’t pretend that the last decade of my life didn’t happen.

the thing i want to say to myself is this: i can’t pretend.

libraryvixen:

couch

source needed

(via theladycheeky)

Source: libraryvixen

2012-02-13

interiors: the sex tour, continued

it was an ugly church. we vowed to eviscerate it ideologically by having him sodomize me against each of its eight walls.

the irony that philosophically, its structure embodied socialist utopian ideals was not lost on us. this mostly amused me, but for him, it was all the more reason to revile the site and its occupants. as i lifted my skirt over my ass at the first wall, he was still railing and spitting epithets out through his hot breath and into my ear.

i spread my cheeks and turned back to take his mouth in midstream of words. i could feel his body soften slightly. when his tongue began to move in ways that suggested a derailment of thought, i let my mouth slip off of his and asked him to fuck me.

somewhat unconsciously, i thought this act of ours might somehow change our thoughts about the building. it’s the part of me that wants to see all sides. geometry as a challenge of the mind and the heart. i had hoped that the memory of me holding his cock in my ass while my chest hugged the cold, brutalist interior walls would help us to understand how such a building could come to be built. to even be conceptualized. or maybe i just hoped to supplant one thought, one feeling with another.

but this was blind faith meeting blind faith. and anyway, he held no such hope. his semen slowly trickled down the back of my thigh as we walked out the front doors. i looked up to the silent bells and felt a longing to say a prayer, but i did not know how to pray.

Third Church of Christ, Scientist, Washington DC

2012-01-31

[Flash 10 is required to watch video]

He Wants to Jizz on Your Face, But Not Why You Think

I wonder (cautiously) if the idea of degradation and affirmation can co-exist in some healthy manner. What I’m getting at is a both/and approach. Motivation and gratification in sex can be very layered and complex—-or very simple.

If you come on my face and in some pocket of your mind, you are turned on by the idea of degrading me, the fact that I’m willing to accept that degradation could be both an affirmation for you, and a willing gesture of love and acceptance from me. Both/and.

But in my book, it’s just as likely that the next time you come on my face, it could be a very simple, joyous, sensual act for both of us—much like what it looks like for this woman with her amazing face.

I reserve the right—for myself— for it to be all of these things, and more.

link to jezebel article via totheteeth

video via prowlingman

(via prowlingman-deactivated20120209)

2012-01-05

oh hey. so i wrote something for this other blog—a sort of sex writing collective that i started with a couple of friends. i’m moving house now and there’s not enough quiet these days to write, but i hope to get back to working on this blog soon.

ps: eventually i will coerce my comrades into some kind of anonymous signing of their posts. for now, it’s a free for all. but this is all i’ve written.

apreslaguerre:

“I like you. I’d like to know you. And, of course, fuck you.”

He had his cock pressed so tightly into my thigh that it almost hurt. I had forgotten how hard young men can get. I eased back some and felt the emptiness, the phantom ache of that pain. Without thought, my hips arched up to meet him again.

I wanted to feel the rough weave of his trousers on my bare vulva. To rub my cunt over his thigh and his cock. My leg snaked around his as I lowered myself over the thick, hard line of him and rocked back and forth, lightly. I felt his breath part my hair just before he whispered in my ear, ‘Your pussy is marking me.”

My face grew hot. All of that wetness and want slipping out from inside me. It unnerved me. He bit my ear lobe gently. “I can smell you. You’re perfect and ripe.”

Even with his words, his breath on me, it still wouldn’t be true to say that I felt wanton or that I didn’t care about his age. My chest beat too fast and hollow. I wasn’t prepared for where we were, in this alcove between rooms, in this museum where I’d gone for the day to escape the closeness of people. To seal myself off in thought. After his words, I couldn’t look him in the eye. I stared down, to where my foot mashed the crease of his pant cuff over his green suede Adidas.

“Nice trainers,” I said, nervously. I could hear the slight edge in my voice. He reached under my skirt and trailed his fingers lightly down the damp slit of my ass. Then he grabbed a handful of my flesh and yanked me closer. It felt like his cock could sever my leg at the hip. I let out a quiet gasp.

“Don’t make me tell you that I don’t care when you were born,” he said. One lithe finger slid easily between the open lips of my pussy. The wet, swollen flesh parted as he sunk in deeper and a long, low groan escaped from his body. We were so close, it felt as if the sound had come from me. From my lips. From my mouth. From deep inside my cunt. I felt the ache inside me swell and my legs gave way beneath me.

******

We’d been standing in front of a Rothko, on the second floor of SFMOMA, but we were talking about Turner. There was something in that soft, orange light that reminded him of a painting back home, at the Tate, one that he’d visited often.

I could tell how much Turner meant to him. I liked this strangely poised man of a boy, with his tight, proper accent, and his smart, unaffected charm. I liked the way flashes of a loose, rangy confidence in him warred for effect with that modesty. And I wanted to like Turner, too. Or at least, I wanted to see Turner through the softness in his grey eyes. So I did what I always do.

“That’s the problem with nineteenth century painters,” I blurted out. “I can’t look at them and not see the prophecy. The train wreck of what’s to come.” He laughed and looked at me with something close to sympathy, but his eyes quickly moved back to the canvas in front of us.

“It’s not all train wreck,” he said. He was so earnest, that I felt like my words had sullied the air between us, ”And anyway, the trains, the storms, the light… there’s something rather tender and hopeful there, don’t you think?” He turned and frowned a little as he glanced across the room at the inky black circles and columns in Motherwell’s Elegy to the Spanish Republic, No. 57. “I’m not saying there’s any merited hope to come,” he added, looking back at me. “I’m just saying…it’s there, nonetheless. Just sort of…resting. Inside the moment.” —-itqh

SFMoMA - Mark Rothko, No. 14, 1960 by Spiral Cage on Flickr.

Source: apreslaguerre

2011-12-28

my desire, which left for a while, has returned. i attend to it dutifully by masturbating daily. it’s the most perfunctory and utilitarian of acts—a simple release from the ache between my legs.

he’s a placeholder now. i think about him. i imagine his cock inside me. i come quickly and intensely and i choke back a half sob and then feel nothing. i get up and brush my teeth.

as for the rest, the real pain that sits in the center of my body, for now, i mostly give it free rein. i let it split me into two and three and five pieces.

i’m accustomed to working with physical pain. i like to think this is an advantage that i carry, but when pain becomes indistinguishable from any other feeling, perhaps mastery is not the point.

he was always an experiment in loving and letting go. i try to remain unattached to this outcome.

(via m6gnetic)

Source: singlechair

2011-12-19

it hurts to look at these images sometimes. a kind of bone-wrenching pain. i know i’ll have sex again. it’s just difficult to imagine having it with someone who will move me and intrigue me in so many other ways beyond sex.

i used to think that it didn’t matter—that i’d had enough love in my life, and that i just needed to fuck and be fucked.

i wish i could become that woman again.

(via pornlib, chagrin)

Source: