Category Archives: Erotica

sleepless thoughts

insomnia… when you’re alone, you feel more alone. when you’re not, embracing a little mischief goes a long way. some thoughts of mine just now:


3:59am. insomnia. and i’m thinking of you.
a distraction. that’s what you’d be. plain and simple. a way for me to take my mind of what i’m really wanting, sleep.
if i can’t have that, maybe i could have you. you’d do. but you’re sleeping.
still. you could just lie there. i entertain myself well, a body at my disposal.
where to start? i have notions, but i’m open to suggestion.

Confessions of a Serial Kisser

Nice, full lips: I can’t get enough of them. I bite, nibble, and suck them with little regard for consequences. I acquiesce to an invading tongue like a defenseless village against raiders. Enter at will, I silently command, unwilling to put up a fight, but ready to engage regardless.
I nibble, bite, lick, and suck my way down his torso, enjoying it as much or more than he does. It’s my land, my territory, and intimate knowledge is my only goal. There’s no part of the body safe from my probing, and I’m an explorer with abandon, navigating first with my hands, then staking my claim with my lips. A nibble, a bite, a suck… all aphrodisiacs for yet another.
Like an addict, one is never, ever enough.

A Game For New (And Old) Lovers

Part of the fun of a new relationship is that of getting to know each other. We get to make a mental checklist. You learn their mannerisms, routine comments, favourite phrases, what their contemplative expressions are, how they look in that moment where they’re truly relaxed, and so forth. In the bedroom, it’s no different.
(But let’s be honest. The beauty of a great relationship is that you continue learning about your lover over the long term. Hell, we never stop learning about ourselves, so how could we ever stop learning about them?)
We forget, sometimes, how truly expansive the land of lovemaking is. It covers vast territory, and the amount of activities at our disposal is legion. Sometimes, it might be nice to have a map at our disposal.
Enter this little game I’ve thought of. Let’s call it “School Me, Baby.” It’s a lusty little literary exercise, the kinda thing that turns a geek like me on.
You and your lover go to the bookstore and you each pick out a book on sexuality that best appeals to you. Now, it’s not rocket science, this book-selecting thing. Most of them will cover all the basics, but the question is whether or not it covers the best for you. I mean, self-help books are like underwear; almost any will technically do the job, but which best fits you is a highly subjective matter. In this matter, you want to ensure that the book covers everything from foreplay to positioning. If you’ve got kinks, you may have to buy a second book to reflect that, too, so go right ahead.* Take the time to scan through books. If you’re not really pro at deciding what books work for you, simply pick one subject to look up in each; say, oral. Read. Whichever passage evokes the experience best for you, that’s the book that best fits you.
So, you pick a lazy Sunday morning, head into the bookstore together, and spend an hour or two just browsing through sex books in the corner together. Decide which one each of you wants to take home, buy them, and head back to the pad.
Now you get to either head home to read in different parts of the house, or you can separate for the day and read in different areas. The only thing is, you’re going to decide how much you’ll be reading, and if you want to, what sections you’ll be covering. (Foreplay? Oral? Anal? Kinky? Old-fashioned lovemaking? Something rougher? Waterplay?)
You’ll make arrangements to meet again soon – that night, the next – for dinner.
Between now and then, your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to read the required readings with a highlighter in hand. Anything that turns you on, gets you revving, or has you touching yourself, you highlight.
You can make an evening of reading the passages together, if you like, or you can trade books and get together again the next night, after you’ve done your homework. I think it’d be kind of sexy and hot to get a bunch of candles going, toss a blanket on the floor, scatter pillows about, and open up to, say, the highlighted section on oral. Naked, sprawled on the floor, the receiver reads the passage out to the soon-to-be-giver, and when the giver’s suitably inspired, they get down to work – possibly even while still being read to.
I have this image of the guy going down, hearing about, oh, say clitoral sucking techniques, and after he gives it a valiant try, looking up, and saying “Like that?” This is one of those times you can have a dialogue while you’re doing it. Have fun, exchange feedback, make it a game where you try slight variations of each technique, and see what one provokes the best reaction. Call it the “compare and contrast” segment of the evening.
Any which way, the point is that you learn from your lover’s perspective, in clear and certain terms, what it is that they find works for them, or what it is they’d like to experience.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, no two bodies are the same. There is no one surefire just-add-water instant-orgasm trick. Everyone has different needs, and for many people, it’s really hard to express exactly what it is we’re desiring. This is one of those little tricks designed to take care of those differences between us all.
Not only can you highlight what turns you on as far as having done to you, but you can also highlight, in another colour, the things you’d love to do to your partner.
You can buy the book for your lover, highlight all the things you’d like to have done to you, and put Post-It notes opposite those sections with little suggestive notes, such as, “And in return, I would pin you down, and then perform – turn to page 94.” On page 94, you’d highlight raunchier parts the passage of what it is you’d do. Use page tabs to mark sections.
When reading your lovers’ book’s highlighted passage, if anything smacks of something you’d like to experience that wasn’t covered in your own book, underline it and mark the page for your lover.
As mentioned above, there are kinks in the world. Kinks are made, not born, and if you’re entering a new phase with your lover where kinks are something you’re wanting to explore together, starting that phase with an exercise like this, except using books focusing on BDSM and other alternative lifestyles, might ensure you’re both on the same page when you’re starting out, or give you an overview of the possibilities the new lifestyle you’re considering might offer to you as a couple.

Guest Posting: EA's Account of His First Self-Gratification

One of my favourite male erotic bloggers is Easily Aroused. I like him for his lyrical prose that often, for me, evokes the intimacy of the encounter. The reason why you go over for one blogger, one author, over another is pretty simple, really. It comes down to style. Some have it, and some wish they did. He does, and I’m feeling quite privileged to have him along for the self-love ride.
With his ode to discovering how good he could make himself feel through exploring his body as a teen, here’s Easily Aroused. (Thanks, EA.) For obvious reasons, the photo is clearly not of a teen.


My love affair with my cock started in earnest after my twelfth birthday. However, my desire for women (a desire that I anticipate prevailing until my final breath slips from between my lips) began to crystallise a little earlier than that.
It’s quite possible that its origins lie in the moment that I saw Sean Connery using a dermatome to cut the straps on Anna Dor’s evening dress in ‘You Only Live Twice’. As I watched him ease her zip down the line of her spine, the camera teasingly fading out just before her waiting buttocks were exposed, I was captivated.
I’ve been bewitched ever since.
It was at middle school that I first sought to emulate the brawny Scots spy. From somewhere deep in my genetic makeup came the nascent desire to explore and enjoy women with the same philandering style that Bond did. The problem was: how to do justice to such grandiose designs when you’re only ten years old? Beyond kissing – and by ‘kissing’, I don’t mean something Valentino would have nodded approvingly at – I had little idea what I was meant to be doing with the girls I dallied with; no concept of the true effect they were meant to elicit in me.
In senior school, the real differences between men and women started to become apparent to me. For one thing, girls matured faster when it came to sex. Much faster. It wasn’t long before the fairer sex was turning its collective attention towards older boys. By the time I’d reached my teens, the more sexually assertive girls in my class were dating school leavers, surly youths who sported Don Johnson stubble and driving licences. How the hell could my peers and I possibly compete?
And that was a problem. The girls I stood the best chance with were shy, demure creatures. They didn’t share the adventurous appetites of their more desirous sisters. They wanted to hold hands and giggle, to kiss with tightly pursed lips and their tongues safely out of reach. They swiftly moved your hand away if it got within a foot of their bosoms, slapped it sharply away if it dared stray towards their thighs. The sad truth was that they couldn’t hold a candle to the bad girls. Not at that point. So the mere fact that the bad girls had less than zero interest in me didn’t deter me from being drawn to them like a moth to the scorching dangers of a naked flame.
I don’t recall how it started, but I began writing fantasies about the girls who piqued my interest the most. My scribblings were confined to a hard-bound book which I secreted at the back of my wardrobe. There were no real favourites as such: my lustful attentions tended to flit between the most pronounced objects of my adolescent desire. I don’t remember the scenarios as being especially explicit, either; they were mostly concerned with undressing the girls to their underwear (and beyond) and indulging in some foreplay. Either I lacked the knowledge – or the confidence – to take things further, even when my desires were confined to the literary world.
Yet despite the naivety of my written fumblings (who knew what was to come, eh?), I found myself aroused by the words dancing across the pages, by the images that accompanied them in my mind. They provided my first self-delivered, earnest erections. I’d be lying on my bed, or sometimes the floor, my ears ever alert for sound of feet ascending the staircase, writing feverishly away. Without realising it, I’d be pressing my pelvis into the mattress or the carpet, my cock hard against my belly, trapped, squirming and thrusting as my excitement built.
Inevitably, on a warm summer’s evening, my excitement reached an entirely new stratum. The sensations emanating from my loins went from being ‘good’ to being unbelievably good, utterly consuming in their deliciousness. I began to thrust harder and faster as I wrote, until I reached for the first time what is now an unmistakeable peak. I didn’t realise what had happened right away. I saw the semen squirting from my cockhead and wondered, “Have I broken something?” But how could something that had damaged feel *so* good? And finally, the light bulb flickered on. I’d done it, achieved that mythical goal I’d heard about in the locker room. I’d ejaculated. I’d *come*.
Of course, in doing so, I’d circumvented the more traditional route to masturbatory success. The next step in my private education was to learn how to produce the same effect by using my hand.
And that is a whole other story…


BACK TO ME: I must say, EA, I’m always quite the fan of a good tease. Nicely done.

Lights, Camera, and… Action?

I don’t know about you, but January’s traditionally a month I stay home a lot in an effort to get my bankbook back in black after the excesses of the festive season. So, I was thinking, hmm, what little project can I propose for my readers?
In the last posting, I suggested doing performance report cards with each other, checking in with your partner to see how well each of you are doing in the pleasing department. This time, I want to suggest getting into visuals — taping your lovemaking — but with a twist.
We’ve all seen sex videos gone awry, whether it’s Paris Hilton’s tapes getting released to the world at large, or some couple down the street who accidentally turned their video into the rental store instead of the copy of Forrest Gump the family had been renting. Yes, these things can happen, and that’s why you need to be careful.
But you can get hit by a vehicle crossing a street, yet you do that daily. Take the chance, explore it. Be a star, in your own way.
Naturally, a lot of us don’t like seeing ourselves on tape, but it’s an important thing to get over. A sex video isn’t jalways smut, it can be an erotic record of how you feel about your lover, and evidence of how you display it. When incorporated back into the relationship as visual foreplay or a romantic night in, it can help spice your sex life like nothing else, provided you’re willing to embrace it.
Imagine you’re a woman with insecurities, and you’re sitting there, watching a DVD of some sexcapades with your lover, and he starts getting aroused just watching you. This time, it’s not some blonde bimbette with triple-D boobs getting him rigid, it’s you, in all your simple, real, attainable beauty. For once, you’ll feel like the bombshell you deserve to be. Take the chance.
If you have insecurities, then there are some approaches to lessen ‘em. Spend a quiet night planning the activities with your partner. Script it, as it were. Decide some of the things you’d like to do to each other, but don’t worry about order, just go with the flow. If planning it to the T will help you lessen even more of your inhibitions, then go for it, but don’t feel restrained by it.
When you’re getting down to the nitty-gritty, you need to keep a couple things in mind. Technology’s important. What is your camera capable of doing? What kind of lighting will it need? You want to ensure you’ve got a camera that can perform in low-light situations, especially if insecurities are present. The control of the lighting is what differentiates the romantic from the pornographic. Camera angles are important. If it gets you hot, explore your lover’s body with a handicam. If your lover’s going down on you, you can hold the camera and capture it from your perspective. If you like, get your lover masturbating on film. Whatever occurs to you, you can do.
Nowadays, the home sex video can be done better than ever. Home editing technology is more sophisticated, yet more user-friendly than it has ever been. My Mac, for instance, comes with iMovie and iDVD. The first allows you to take different tracks from different digital videos and edit them together for a digital film. Then, you can mosey over to iDVD and lay in an audio track. You can speed things up, slow them down, stretch ‘em, lay in colour filters, whatever turns you on, whatever makes the mood better. I don’t know what Windows programs exist, but I’m sure they’re every bit as simple.
So, here’s the twist, which comes after you’ve done the playing around on camera.

You get together with your lover, put all your different sexy video tracks on your computer, crack a bottle of wine, and as a couple, watch the clips and make decisions about what segments are the hottest, and then you create your own DVD with montages of your lovemaking sessions. Find music that sets the pace for your visuals — if it’s down’n’dirty, something like INXS or Nine Inch Nails might hit the spot. For something romantic, pick any cheesy diva you like. It really doesn’t matter. (Personally, I’d be wanting to find a little classic bassy porn soundtracks from the ‘70s, just for the fun/humour factor.) You can even intellectually elevate the moment by recording poetry or erotic writing and dub that over the tracks, too.

The great thing about doing something like this together is that the creation of it (via the editing) becomes as much a part of the experience as the action performance is. And if you’ve taken the time to talk and “script” what sort of activities you’d like done, then the entire thing, from start to finish, becomes an experience that you’ll always be able to enjoy.
There’s another bonus, too. Like I suggested last time, the performance reviews, they become so much more tangible if you’re sitting there and analyzing your clips and cutting/pasting them together. You can talk about why that move got you so hot, what you’re feeling when your face is screwed up in agonizing pleasure, and how it could have felt just a little better if done slightly different.
As a society, we’ve so many hang-ups about seeing ourselves on video, sexually, as if it’s pornographic and crass. It’s not. It’s a record of how two people express their love for each other. And while it’s easier for something like that to escape out into the world than ever before, it’s also easier to turn it into a beautiful work of art that you can enjoy time and time again as the years pass — just be careful with it, that’s all, and make sure you trust your lover on every level.
Speaking of years passing, every relationship has its phases where the sex might dwindle. If that’s the case, something like this can serve as a tangible reminder for just how good it was, and provide inspiration for getting back to that kind of feeling once again.

wishing otherwise

wistful jazz wails in the background. the drive bustles with beatniks and bohemians, baddies and babes. stale cigarette smoke wafts towards me. i see the source. you.
i only glance at you for the briefest second, but you catch my eye. that smoldering look you got’s really something else, i think, returning to my book. while i reread the same passage, i sense you watching me. this time, looking up, i slowly take you in.
you’ve got crumpled olive green cargo pants on, but they’re just tight enough around your round bubble ass. you’re wearing two tanktops, layered, one white and one black, and a leather jacket’s slung over your forearm, obscuring some of your tattoos. surprised at myself, i openly admire your breasts as i continue up you and meet your glance.
“glance” is too light a word for that look of yours. your eyes are locked on me like a fighter plane acquiring a target. so brazen, so bold. so intimidating.
i find myself wishing i had that in me, but today i don’t. i smile weakly, then break the gaze, dropping down to my book, back to my safety zone.
out of the corner of my eye, i see you shoot me a final glance as you join up with your approaching friend. sad to see you leave, i at least watch you go.
now, days later, i revel in my regret for the courage that came too late, and for the chance squandered so quickly.

momentary distractions

it’s the little transgressions that sometimes bring, for me, the deepest flares of desires. a passing glance, a mistaken brush… hopefully this evokes the mood of exploiting that ever so slightly.


hot, hot heat engulfs those on the bus.
every window cracked, every jacket removed, but still the swelter wears on.
the bus rumbles along the blazing city streets, lurching in and out of stops, constantly upheld by construction crews struggling with upgrades plaguing the town. stagnation is the order of the day and exhaustion seems inescapable, universal.
the redhead in the pink tank top exhales wearily in her outward-facing bus seat and rolls her head around, stretching her neck. looking down, she studies her bare arms. beads of sweat cling to her. she smooths the moist beads along her forearm, then changes songs on her mp3 player.
her legs are damp with sweat, like the rest of her. a warm breeze blows in from the windows, causing her inner thighs to tingle slightly. hoping for more of the same, she half-stands, reverses her crossed legs, and shimmies her floral miniskirt back down before resuming contact with the sticky vinyl seat.
she glances up, still shifting herself, and catches him staring at her. she peers over her light sunglasses at him: sexy, full lips, thick dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin… and a wedding band. she looks at the band and then his eyes.


he keeps her gaze, as if dominating her with his eyes, and twists the ring slowly around his finger, sliding it half off before putting it back in place. he presses his wide strong hands flat against his seersucker pants, letting them slip sideways slightly, each inching slightly lower on his inner thigh, as he lustfully looks her over.
her lips are slightly upturned with interest now. she pushes her sunglasses higher on the bridge of her nose. she subtly runs her tongue over her teeth with her mouth slightly open as she traces a finger under the strap of her tank top down towards her sweaty breast. she looks back to the man across the aisle.
he shifts in his seat, inhaling sharply. he eyes her, biting on his lower lip, his irises as dark as his imagined intentions. with his fingers, he makes repeated strokes along his inner thigh.
breaking their gaze and glancing down, she understands his motions. she knows what those fingers would be doing to her if they were inside her right now. what she would be doing.
she brings a fingertip to her lips and nibbles playfully. her full pink lips encase the tip perfectly. she nibbles her nail and he stares hungrily as she begins to further toy with him, subtly flicking her tongue lightly back and forth over her tip with serpentine skill. all the while, she gazes tauntingly at him.
glancing around, noticing no one seems wise to them, he picks up his leather attache and places it over his lap, where one hand remains resting atop his stiffening member, and he shifts himself awkwardly, having lost himself in the beads of sweat clinging in her cleavage, trickling down, and down…


he’s fascinated by her pale breasts bouncing with the rough ride of that bus over the unfinished roads. he imagines that this is how she would look riding him — sweating, jiggling, wearied, still wanting, but wasted by the heat.
he looks at her, that desire playing in his mind, when his head dips weakly to the side and drops as he remembers that small matter of his life.
he glances down at his left hand spread flat over the black leather case, the gold ring gleaming on his olive skin. his face clouds in disappointed resolution. he sighs and smiles sadly at her, extending the ring finger and the band, flicking the gold almost derisively with his thumbnail.
she shrugs indifferently and smiles. she mouths the words, “my stop,” as she reaches up and pulls the bell cord.
she stands and smooths her crumpled sweat-dampened miniskirt down her bare thighs. she dips her sunglasses and winks coyly at the man and goes.
the doors close.
the man turns around and stares through the pane, watching the redhead swagger down the sidewalk, as if she even remotely senses the damage she’s done.
he sighs, leans his head back, closes his eyes, and under the attache, he rubs… imagining a different kind of cord in her hands, a different kind of release, a different kind of life.

Damien: Concludes

(To join the party where it starts, read part one here and part two here.)
When we left off, Damien was devouring me with oral. If you don’t want that, don’t read the earlier parts (you silly). We pick up well into his muff-diving ventures, where I’m on the verge of reaching my very happy place.

clutch your pictures of the pope
pray to god for love and hope

I didn’t care about potential spectators now. All I wanted was to come. Gasping, I let go of him and clutched the counter’s edge as I leaned away from him, spreading my legs the little further they could go. His tongue plunged into me, flicking and darting, as his thumb began feverishly massaging my clit.


I accidentally bit my lip so hard it bled as my body shook its way to orgasm. Coming, I shuddered violently and collapsed against the wall. He continued sucking and nibbling, which was becoming unbearable now that I was through, so I forced him off of me, pulling his head up and away from my mounds until he was eye-level with me.
Still looking hungry — famished — he gnashed his mouth against mine. Our tongues began fighting with each other as he leaned his still-hard cock against me.

bring the virgin home for luck
bolt the door down, keep it shut

Biting my lip and taunting me, lightly toying with my pubes, he dug into his pocket and produced a condom. He tore the packet open, and before he could proceed, I took it from him.
Gripping his shaft’s base and tugging slowly, but hard, back and forth with my left hand, I used my right hand to slip the condom on his throbbing cock and unrolled it as slowly and deliberately as I could, tugging all the while, until the rubber extended fully.
He kissed me hard as I stroked him a few times more, but then he again pinned my arms behind my back as his cock fumbled its way to my vaginal opening and then, with pressure, slid tightly between my swollen, shivering lips.

i tried hard to mend my wicked ways

We fucked fast and furious, knowing the partygoers lingering across the lawn, seeing them flicker their flashlights on the leaves in the forest, past the greenhouse, the sounds of their shallow, distant laughter contrasting with our slurping, thumping, and the smacking of rapid fucking, all rounded out nicely by our endless gasps and groans.

the damage done
there’s nothing left to save

Neither of us were interested in making this a long, meaningful encounter, and that much was clear as he held my legs up and thrust deep and long into me, over and over and over and over again.

and i tried
and i tried
and i tried
and i tried

I’d never had such a frenzied, semi-public session of sex like that before, being only 20. Judging by Damien’s fevered thrusting, it was a new experience for him, too. I was so riled, so ready to come.

nude (53)

He bit his lip and gutterally groaned, moving his hands around my ass, and pulled me as hard onto his cock as he could, holding me there as long as he could, throbbing hard inside me, as he gyrated his cock ever so slightly. Mere moments of this, and I couldn’t help but orgasm. Gasping, I shuddered violently during that hard, sustained thrust, tremendously weakening his resolve as I collapsed against him.
He groaned and gritted his teeth, slowly pulling his cock out, then forcing it back in, hard. And again. And again.

and i tried

and i tried
and i tried

And I moaned. He thrust hard into me a fourth time, but this time, was rocked with convulsions and crumpled against me, coming almost painfully, groaning, with his neck and face covered in sweat as he gasped for breath, his mouth cupping my neck. “Mm,” he chuckled weakly, now wasted and spent.

clutch your pictures of the pope
just like i told you
pray to god for love and hope
just like i warned you

We stayed there for a few minutes, slumped, still wet, against each other, just getting our breaths back. I noticed the partygoers hadn’t advanced one bit.
“We could’ve taken our time after all.”
Damien looked outside, looked at me, and laughed.
“Mm, god, no. I wouldn’t change a thing. We did just fine,” he sighed, still exhausted.
“Beats the hell out of lame techno, at the very least.”
“Oh, hell, that might even beat the shit out of the Beasties, you know, and they rock. Hard.” He groaned softly, and nibbled my neck, softly singing their anthem. “You gotta fight for your right — to par-tay…”
I chuckled quietly.
With that, we tidied up at a nearby sink to return to the party. We kept the conversation light. Neither of us mentioned seeing each other again.
After that night, we ran in the same circles occasionally, and always shared a knowing smile, but nothing more. As cool as he was, you just knew he couldn’t be a “boyfriend.”
Didn’t matter. Before long, I was back with T. anyways.
T., who never did find out.

bring the virgin home for luck
just like i told you
bolt the door down, keep it shut
just like i warned you

Which is just as well… considering.

anonymous encounters

i awoke from a dream in the dead of night. this on my mind.
* * *


shared moments in darkness
suggested, stolen
but always squandered.
a refuge
in this detached loneliness,
you’re nothing of permanence
just fleeting
in the stupid immature hopes
something more might be
but in reality
nothing can be, nor will be
as all things end
just beyond that door.



Sleep unable to find me, I lie naked under my sheets, a hand across my breasts, the other stretched atop my thigh.
The dim streetlight filters through my cotton bedroom shades and its shadows dancing on my ceiling are all I see.
For I know that when I close my eyes again, you’ll flood back in front of them. Like you always do.
In imaginings of those things soon to happen. Of ecstasy. Of this moment we’ve spoken of for so long, as those miles pulled us apart all that time.

it’s been a long time comin’
it’s been a long time comin’
i’m gonna stab your kissy-kissy mouth

My mind swirls with thoughts of the warm wetness of your mouth. How your kiss will leave me tingling and weak from my torso to my knees. How I’ll weaken in your possessive grasp. How I long to breathe you in and taste you.
And now, mere hours separate us.

it’s been a long time comin’

All those conversations about wanting. Promises made. Events foretold. Fantasies divulged. Talk, that’s all we’ve had.
And all of it to blame on my kissing you on a whim that night, moments before you left. When I broke that boundary between us. You surprised me. Overcome, you forced me against the wall, kissing me as if you were already penetrating me.
That night returns to me so often, stirring desires.


So many bitter-sweet memories of arousal. So many moments left satiated by myself, and never you. So many wrongs. So many regrets. So many things to make right.
And yet that night is all I recall.

it’s been
a long time comin’

How hard you felt. The way you pinned my arms to the wall, pressed into me, restraining me. The distant droning as your cab driver laid intermittently on his horn out there in that shadowy cul-de-sac, and despite it, you continuing to probe me intently with your tongue. The sound of your devastatated gulp when finally you knew you had to pull away.
The feeling then, knowing that a plane was to steal you away to London, where a year of university awaited you. Knowing that you were leaving me for that year with nothing but a kiss, a grope, and that feeling of being overpowered against a wall to tide me over.
And now, nothing but a jet over the Atlantic keeps us apart. In less than eight hours, you’ll be in my arms. Now, at the mere thought of you, my heartbeat collides upon itself in a cacophony of expectation and need.

it’s been a long time comin’

And now, nothing but a jet over the Atlantic keeps us apart. In less than eight hours, you’ll be in my arms. Now, at the mere thought of you, my heartbeat collides upon itself in a cacophony of expectation and need.

i’m gonna stab your kissy-kissy heart

The need to fuck you, the tease finally done. To have you within me — thrusting, holding, lasting. To finally know if it’s to be everything it was promised to be during those expensive, desperate, by-the-minute sessions spent gasping, wanting, yet denied, on the phone.
I know it will be. I knew it would be when I was pinned against that wall, wanting you as badly then as I do now. As badly as you clearly wanted me. It overwhelms me to think how that desire has since grown, and how forcefully you might take me eight hours from now. And how much I desire you to spend me utterly.
Never have I wanted a man like this, like I want you now.

it’s been a long time comin’

*The lyrics included are from Kissy-Kissy, a dirty blues-rock/punk ballad by a guitar duo fittingly from both sides of the Atlantic called The Kills. Live, this song was one of the most erotic, driving sexual things I have ever, ever witnessed. I felt dirty and abused at the end, and wanted nothing more than to not go home alone. The gentle licking of guitar strings and steady throbbing beat coupled with wistful, pained Velvet Underground-ish vocals tinted with a touch of PJ Harvey gets me hot every single time. The duo endlessly repeats the same lyrics over the five minutes, and it ebbs like the slow rhythmic cadence of two experienced, passionate lovers in no rush to reach their destination.