Now despite the title, I don’t have kids. That being said it still brings up an interesting quandary for me.
From the feedback that I’ve received and the positive words of encouragement I’ve really thought about pursuing writing a full fledged erotic novel. However I’m left with the curious situation that I have no idea how to handle this side of me in my real life. What I write is graphic pornography, but without the visuals. The visuals are created in your mind. Regardless, I’m essentially a pornographic wordsmith. So what do I tell the kids, assuming there are some in my future. How do you tell them “daddy writes erotic lit to help pay for your college”. It seems like it’s only a step down from “mommy dances for men to pay the rent” sort of cliche.
So what do you tell the “kids”? Or the parents, or the coworkers, etc?
Or do you tell them anything at all?
This is part of the reason that I’m reluctant to release any truly personal and identifiable information.
So I guess that’s the question I would ask you guys….what do you tell the kids?
As the night drifts over the city I’ll drift into your room. Softly, quietly, like a thief in the night. I slither up to your bed in silence with my eyes fixed on your sleeping face. You look so peaceful as you rest in the pillowy softness of your bed. Gently I kiss your forehead, then your cheek, and as your head slightly turns I kiss your sweet strawberry colored lips. Unconsciously you smile and I see your eyes flutter without waking. Tenderly and with slow deliberate patience I pull down the fluffy duvet that covers your sleeping body. Inch by inch I reveal you to the night air. I smile to see my good fortune as you’ve gone to bed wearing only an oversized t-shirt. The shirt rises and falls as you take deep slow breaths. The shirt tight around your ample breasts pulls up and relaxes with each breath. I pull the duvet completely off now and take up station on the bed. My hands on either side of your hips, my body face down between your legs, my face mere inches from your unsuspecting sex. Continue reading “Happy Birthday”
That night we enjoyed dinner at a little Spanish restaurant in a small nearly unknown section of the city. Throughout the night we were treated to live music and occasionally one of the waitresses would get up and showcase her talents as an amateur flamenco dancer. I had to smile as we both took the show in, equally admiring her dancing talents as much as her other assets. Flamenco is an inherently sexual dance, as most dances are, and this delightful waitress oozed sex from her every pore. We clapped politely, tipped highly, and left together arm in arm. We strolled down the street which was becoming less busy as the sunlight slipped away and the moonlight teased its way over the horizon. The warm summer air began to slide aside to be replaced by the refreshed cool night breeze. I felt you shiver slightly and I pull you closer to my warm body. You look at me and smile, mouthing the words every human wants to hear. I mouth them back to you and then lean towards you to kiss your waiting lips. As we separate from our kiss we both smile. Your smile one of contentment and satisfaction, mine one of the realization that the desert I promised was coming all too soon. Continue reading “Chapter 4 – Light as a Feather, Hard as an Anvil”
For me Christmas is not about what’s under the tree
It’s the small simple gifts that you give up to me.
Daily or nightly I enjoy the unwrapping
And squeal with delight for the joy that is happening
So tonight as I slumber with a smile on my face
I won’t be dreaming of brand new trinkets in a bright shiny case
Nor on candy canes or stockings …other than lace
I’ll be thinking of you and your soft sultry skin
The shine in your eyes and the beauty within
The smile on your lips as you whisper to me
“Merry Christmas my love…now give it too me!”
Merry Christmas to all those that celebrate and to all those that don’t merry everything else. Take this time to give someone that extra hug. Give a dog an extra treat. And reflect on the love you being into this world
Sometimes I get asked how I’m able to write, or what makes me write, or what inspires me. Honestly it’s quite hard to say. Perhaps if I really look at myself I have to say it doesn’t take a whole lot.
I’m naturally a creative and extremely sexual person. In my every day life I work at a job that lets me flex my creative muscles, but the canvas on which I’m asked to paint is limited by logic, reason, and above all else; budget.
My rampant sexual desire is something that I’ve had to tend to for quite a long time. I’ve always considered it to be a detriment to my life in general. It hinders me from concentrating when I need to. If I have tasks that need to be done and I’m unsupervised, it’s quite possible for me to day dream off into my own mental erotic movie.
So what inspires me to write? Continue reading “#Inspiration”
The steady clack of the keys drills into my brain and the day is moving so slowly it seems almost reasonable that time has actually stopped. I glance down to the beady clock on the computer screen and hammer away at the keys in frustration. For the fourth time in as many hours my phone silently vibrates in my front pocket. Casually pulling it out again I see yet another text message to motivate my day to end quicker. I can clearly see you dressed in very sultry garb standing in our bedroom. A black lacy push-up bra, your favorite thong, garter and sheer black stockings, and to complete the look your devastating five inch black suede heels. A mischievous look on your face and the devil is in your eyes. Something catches the corner of my eye in the picture. This picture is different. I can see someone in the mirror’s reflection. Someone looking at you slightly out of the cameras view. There isn’t enough to identify but one thing’s for sure, it’s another man.
Tearing through my papers like a man possessed I finish my work in less time than it takes a ravenous monkey to strip peel a banana. Thats how I felt at the moment. Primal, animal, and a bizarre combination of angered and turned on. The next thirty minutes was a blur. I scantily remembered any part of the drive home. For all I knew I had ran every red light and ran over three grandmas and four squirrels. It was as if the rage monster inside of me was capable of time travel. Arriving at our house I blasted out of the car like I was shot from a cannon, bounded up the front stairs reaching the front door only to stop immediately catching my breath while gripping the cold hard brass of the front door knob. Gingerly I turned the knob to ensure I was quiet as possible. I eased my body inside and went about the daily routine of arriving home as if I was an assassin out on an assignment. Extracting each foot in turn from my boots I then walk through to the kitchen grab a glass of water and silently make my way up the stairs to our bedroom. Continue reading “Chapter 3 – Calm Before the Storm”
“Sit down and relax” is all you said.
I did as I was told, still in my suit and tie. The large front window was open, and the midday sun was shining through the sheer curtain. It had the wonderful effect of lighting the room naturally, and the delightful side-effect of turning your sundress perhaps a little more transparent then you would have assumed when you bought it. I could see the combination of excitement and nervousness pulsing through your body and manifesting it in your facial expression. You undulated between a mischievous smirk and a nervous lip bite, or had I mistaken nervousness for simple sexual urging. Your eyes twinkled as you were staring at me like a lioness stalking her prey. As you walk up to me ever so slowly I see the outline of your form. Your shapely legs, your curvy hips, your more than adequate breasts and that sexy smile compete with delectably kissable lips.
It was wrong what we were doing. Wrong on a societal and cultural level. But it didn’t matter to either of us. Our nature had taken over. A chance meeting. A small exchange, “How are you. How have you been?” all the small and paltry pleasantries. “We should catch up sometime.” a simple suggestion, benign and plain. “Yes we should!” came an over enthusiastic reply. Plans were made. Phone calls exchanged. Plans were altered.
“My son is sick.”
“My wife made plans I didn’t know about.”
A month goes by, then a second until the stars aligned. “He’s going on a hockey trip this weekend with my son.” you say, “So I’ve got nothing else to do.”
“I’m free on Friday evening” I respond nonchalantly.
The date is set. The time is set. The place is set. Yet we, the people involved, are surprisingly unsettled and nervous. It’s been years. It’s been a lifetime. “How does she still make me feel those butterflies.” I say to myself. “How does he still make me melt inside when he smiles.” you say to yourself.
“If I had to do it over again….” Continue reading “A Lunchtime Affair”
My heart absolutely bursts for the poor families going through this unthinkable tragedy. Today put a little more love into the world to help heal the hole that this event has drilled through our collective souls. Turn to your partner, your friend, your lover, your child, your dog, your cat, to any and all companions you may have in this fleeting existence; turn to them and embrace them. Cherish each moment you have.
This song seems to speak to the situation. I believe that it was written originally to a lover, but the lyrics are easily transcribed into a parent and a child. Listen to the lyrics carefully and feel free to cry. I know I did.
I awake to the smell of fresh flowers mixed with vanilla or is it coconut. My eyes slowly open, the blur of the world slowly coming into focus. Its a classic lazy Saturday morning in the middle of spring. I can smell the fresh air newly cleaned by a midnight rain wafting in through the open window at the foot of the bed. The sheer curtain flowing in and out like a silk impression of a single ray of sunshine cutting through the clouds. My eyes adjust to the morning light and I see the source of the flowery aroma that I woke to as you have left the ensuite door open and I can see you bending over our Victorian style claw foot tub, testing the water and stirring it with your soft delicate hand. You turn to meet my gaze and smile devilishly. Slowly you drop the comforting terry cloth robe revealing the sensual beauty that is you. I blink a couple of times while smirking trying to clear the rest from my eyes and focus on you just in time to see you mouth the words, “my turn” and then step into the tub already victorious. Continue reading “Chapter 2 – Honored Guest”
When I’m writing I don’t like names. I prefer pronouns over anything else. If you’re wondering why, the answer is quite simple. Every name has some baggage attached to it. If I call a character “Sarah” you may think of Sarah; the girl you knew in high school that treated you like dirt. If I call a character “John”, immediately he may be a WASP in your mind’s eye. If the characters are he, she, they, them, etc, you fill in some of the details yourself. You can now fill in some of your own details where I have missed some, purposefully or otherwise.
The trouble is that when writing a longer piece of fiction I’ve found this becomes nearly impossible to maintain. Names have to be used, and the fantasy that may be shared now becomes one that you’re simply observing. If you like what I write, and enjoy it, I encourage you to do your best to cast away previous experiences and preconceptions that may be associated with names. I think this is the best way to envelope yourself in the fantasy and become a part of the story.
Of course, this is simply my opinion on the matter. If you agree or disagree you’re right. Feel free to let me know what your opinion is as well. I think that sharing, observing, and learning from others is the best way to experience life, and the quickest way to becoming a more loving, understanding, and wise person.