Erotic Poem: “These Things”

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It’s been a while since I’ve posted, but this little nugget popped into my free write this morning, so I thought I’d share.


He’s the guy who works for your dad, at the auto repair shop, who wouldn’t turn you down if you hit on him when you were sixteen.

Fifteen, he might raise an eyebrow. Depends on how many beers he’s had. He’d offer you one. Maybe a cigarette, too.

He’d make fun of you a little, quirk his lip around the bottle, and stare openly at your breasts. If you kissed him, he’d kiss you back, but not first. Never first.

Sometimes, these things just happen.

He might finger you, but he wouldn’t go down. Not this time.

At least he’d let you look into his eyes while he fucked you. And he wouldn’t ask “Was that your first time?” until after he’d already come.

The One Lovely Blog Award

One Lovely Blog Award

This post has been a long time coming.

Exactly one month ago, I was nominated for the One Lovely Blog Award by the fabulous, Lace Winter. Then, less than two weeks later, I was nominated again by the marvelous, Felicity Johns. I am beyond touched that these ladies chose to include me in their nominations alongside so many other amazing bloggers, a few of whom I’ve come to consider blogger-buddies of my own.

I must admit, I was a little (okay, a lot) intimidated by this award. Having only launched this lil’ ole’ blog exactly three months ago, I’m constantly blown away by the quantity and quality of fiction, poetry, and personal narrative being posted by those who’ve been at it much longer. It’s both daunting and inspiring, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. By engaging with one another’s work, we push each other to be better. I’ve learned so much since I set forth on this blogging journey and I’m grateful to each and every friend, unbeknownst mentor, and follower who has chosen to come along for the ride.

So, first, an introduction to the remarkable women who’ve so graciously nominated me:

Lace Winter: Romantic Novels with an Erotic Edge

Lace is an aspiring romance novelist who has quickly become one of my most cherished blogger-buddies. I can always count on her for a thoughtful, insightful comment and a sexy, sensual read. I’m a huge fan of her flash fiction, poetry, and general writer-musings, and always look forward to reading excerpts from her novel-in-progress, Switch, and her current, shorter project, Partners and Crime, both of which I strongly urge you to check out. She’s a genuine, longtime fan of the erotica and erotic romance genres, and it shows in both her knowledge and execution of the craft. Thank you so much for the nomination, Lace. It’s been a true pleasure getting to know you and your work.

Felicity Johns: The Dark Night Chronicles

Felicity writes dark, sensual, passionate poetry and prose. I am constantly blown away by her level of mastery and boundless creativity. While I can’t recall exactly how I stumbled upon her blog, I do remember thinking, “Wow. This is definitely one to watch.” At its core, her work is primal, vulnerable, and deeply relatable. She’ll soon be joining the ranks of the self-published with her debut ebook, Erotic Passages. Be sure to follow her so that you can snag a copy for yourself. Thank you so very much for the nomination, Felicity.

All right. So, the rules for the One Lovely Blog Award are as follows:

You must list the rules to the One Lovely Blog Award (Like this).

You must thank the person(s) who nominated you and include a link to their blog (Done and done).

You must add seven facts about yourself (See below).

You must nominate 15 other bloggers and let them know they have been nominated (See below).

You must display the award logo and follow the blogger who nominated you (Done and way ahead of you!).

Oh, dear. I’m afraid my personal life isn’t nearly as exciting as my fiction, but them’s the rules, so here are seven facts you might not know about me:

1. My pie crust always comes out tender, flaky, and perfect. (The secret ingredient: booze, of course!)

2. I love to sing and have been told that I have a pleasant singing voice, but you won’t hear it unless I’m really comfortable around you.

3. I have difficulty envisioning my characters from scratch, so I tend to use celebrity (usually actor) visages when crafting fiction.

4. When I was sixteen, I had maxillofacial surgery in which my top jaw was broken, moved forward, and then screwed into place in order to correct a rather severe under-bite. The first thing I mumbled to my mother upon seeing my swollen, post-surgical face in the hospital bathroom mirror was, “Look, mom, I have porn star lips.”

5. I could eat Japanese food, especially sushi, every day for the rest of my life and not get sick of it.

6. I adore boots, especially the high-heeled, over-the-calf variety. Yeah, I know, they’re bad for my feet, but paired with a short skirt or skin-tight jeans, they make my legs look awesome.

7. I’m terrified of spiders and I can’t stand flies, but I love snakes and rats and mice and other misunderstood critters, including seagulls, pigeons, racoons, and skunks (at a safe distance).

Now, onto the nominations! First, I’d like to state that being nominated does not require you to participate. I am simply listing bloggers whose work I’ve come to eagerly anticipate and admire. If I’ve included you in this list, it means that I think you are deserving of recognition and want to share your brilliance with my little corner of the Internet. I do not automatically follow everyone who follows me, so including you here means that I genuinely appreciate your content and look forward to seeing your posts in my feed.

Again, do not feel that you need to participate or even acknowledge this nomination. My love for your blog is unconditional and without expectation. (Plus, I would bet that at least a few of you have been nominated for this award more than once.)

First, my fellow sex, erotica, and romance bloggers (some of which may be NSFW) in alphabetical order:

Aaron Causer: erotic fiction, sexy stories and the occasional image that turns everyone on

Abezure’s Diary of Being Owned in the BDSM Lifestyle

Anna Bayes: Writer of Erotic Romances for the Fiercely Loyal

Bree Guilford Erotica

Delilah Night

Flowers and Floggers: sub, dreamer, lover, writer

Illicit Thoughts

Malin James: Erotica. Sex. Culture

MrFoxwood: 13th Step Study (Tumblr) | MrFoxwood’s (WP)

Tamsin’s Superotica

Tara Crescent

These next four bloggers straddle the lines between the romantic, erotic, and platonic. Some write poetry while others dabble in experimental prose. All of whom write bravely, passionately, and wholeheartedly:

Another Bad Conversation

DragonflyLady’s Writey Ramblings

Mytwosentences

Writing in Airplanes

Again, please do not feel obligated to accept this award. I’m simply expressing my appreciation and gratitude for all that you do.

Guest Poem: “Heels and Scratch” by MrFoxwood

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Happy Friday!

This past week has been chock full of writing and revisions, both for my WIP and my short story submission to Frisky Feminist Press’s Coffee Romance anthology. Unfortunately, that means I haven’t had much time to work on other things (like blogging).

Fortunately, I have a madly talented writer friend who is willing to donate his well-crafted verse in my stead!

MrFoxwood, or Will, as I’ve come to know him, is an erotic poetry and fiction writer with whom I’ve had the immense pleasure of corresponding and workshopping. His work is vivid, lyrical, and oh-so-stimulating. I encourage you to check out his primary blog, 13th step study, where he posts poetry and other literary musings; his secondary blog, not so secret stash, where you can find a sampling of his original artwork and photography, plus other titillating visuals (often NSFW); and his Literotica profile, where you can read some of his short erotic fiction (FYI, some of the banner ads are NSFW).

This poem is one of my favorites.

Heels and Scratch

Heels on marble floor,
all prim and purpose,
prick my ears,
raise my head from the paper,
you’re immaculate,
you’d lick your hand to remove a stray seed from your shirt.

I don’t want to hear you purr,
I want to lose your control,
I want cat-scratch and scream.

I want one heel lost,
and a hell of a lot more than one stray seed on your shirt,
I want fingers fumbling fastenings,
and digits duelling underthings,
and under things.

I want perfume that intoxicates,
stubble on your throat,
scotch exhaled over your ear,
and hands pinned.

I want dog chase cat around your hotel room,
I want you to give as good as you get,
bite for bite,
scratch for scratch.

For the Love of Poetry

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Shortly before the end of my first semester at college, I became acquainted with an English teacher who self-identified as “hard to please.” A polarizing force, students either loved or hated her—most often the latter—and for some mysterious reason, she took a liking to me.

I remember sitting across from her in the café of a bookstore that no longer exists on the corner of Church and Cherry. We ordered tea, chose a seat by the window, and chatted for a solid hour about various topics pertaining to writing and academia. A published author herself, she was remarkably encouraging.

At the time, I was writing a lot of poetry and personal narrative and she had asked me to bring along a few pieces she hadn’t already read for class. She noted that the majority of my poems were about love and then made the casual remark that love was a common theme amongst young people, as though it were something that one would naturally outgrow.

Seven years and two degrees later, I still think about this comment.

I went through an extended creative dry spell after transferring schools and switching majors, but on those rare occasions when I felt the tug of the elusive muse and put pen to paper, out would pour those old, familiar sentiments: love, lust, heartbreak. The phrasing was different (as were the subjects) but the desire to gather my emotions and translate them into something tangible was still there.

Love, passion, intimacy—these are the things that stir my muse; the forces upon which I’ve chosen to construct my creative foundation.

I’ve heard it argued that all writing is an act of love, whether it’s love of another person, an ideal, or a deep appreciation of story. By that logic, even hate mail can be construed as an act of love and most certainly an act of passion—albeit perverse—for what is hate if not the space between the way something is and the way we wish it to be? Hate requires a great deal of emotion and care, unlike indifference, which is arguably harder to stomach.

Perhaps all poems are love poems, in a sense.

I don’t think I will ever outgrow love poetry insofar as I do not think it is possible to outgrow love. I’m not talking about infatuation, though even that has its virtues, if only to remind us that we’re still bleeding and breathing. No, I’m talking about the kind of love that seeps into your bones and lingers for years, even decades, long after the initial belly-flip has flopped and butterflies have flown. I also do not limit my definition of “love poetry” to romantic attachment, since one could argue that poetry pertaining to friendship and filial tenderness is just as valid and potentially longer-lasting.

The English teacher and I have since fallen out of touch. I like to think that she’d be glad to know that I’m writing again, even if my subject matter has only gotten—ahem—more explicit as I explore the deeper, darker corners of love and intimacy.

I’m curious. For those who write about love, sex, passion, attraction, etc., how has your work changed over time? Were there periods in which you found yourself veering away from these topics, consciously or coincidentally? What sorts of reactions do you provoke when you explain (or even show) you work to others?

Body Language

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Those words, not mine, I covet

These hands, not yours, I feign

If twain should e’er meet and trade places

They’d parley a language, profane

Musk

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You slink through the doorway, soaked

smelling of sweat and dog and river

Sleeping under stars

turns men into boys

Yet, you return to me

Animal

 

I’m gross, you say

I unzip my dress and let it crumple

onto the hardwood

I want gross

 

I want matted fur on brackish skin

and soil-caked claws

Stained feet and detritus stench

10:00 shadow and haven’t showered

in days, unless you count

the rain, the falls, the river

 

Tangled hair and wrinkled shorts

yanked off in fervor, frenzied mouths

and teeth and glands—

Rediscover these here lands

 

Haven’t seen a woman in days?

Well, honey, come

and let me show you

what Mother Nature can do

with these two hands