Let’s quit this place now

before we get drunk

on sunshine

and I fall into

the stupor of love again.

Quickly.

Sometimes it scares me, how easy I am to live without.

At this point, I would love to hear that you hate me. I would love to hear that you (at least) hate me.

You say I can leave, but I wait with you in the cold for your ride. First the tease, then the one that carries you away.

Five minutes later a Radio Cab cuts me off as I bike into my driveway. For a moment, my heart jumps. You’ve followed me home to surprise me! The nerve! The balls! The night suddenly shifts as do my intentions.

The cab pulls away and I pull in. The night shifts back. I walk upstairs to read myself to sleep. It’s better this way. It’s better.

You sit in the chair. You are wearing your tuxedo underwear, quarter sleeve black shirt, black to-the-knee socks.

I am wearing my black corset with the half bra, my breasts spilling out, black garter, stockings, heels.

You sit in the chair and wait.

I put on my harness, slowly adjusting and securing my strap-on (also black). You don’t make a noise. You don’t make an expression.

The girl sits on your bed. Naked. Anxious. Nervous. You nod to me. I bring open the silver case. You point. I take out the requested tools: rope, vibrating nipple clamps, blind fold.

You instruct me, step by step, on how to tie her. When I am done, she has a corset, breasts exposed, with her hands behind her back. You tell me to, and I put the blind fold on her. You tell me to, and I grab each nipple with my thumb and forefinger and tighten the clamp down. You tell me to, and I turn the on the clamps and watch her nipples get harder. I throw her onto your bed, face first. I tease her, tugging at and stroking her pussy. She starts to moan, I slap her ass and watch my red hand print rise out of the white skin. I yank her by her hair, up and over. I spill some lube onto my strap-on and slide it in. Force it in. She gasps.

You tell me how to do everything, every squeeze, slap, and thrust. I turn the vibrator that’s against my clit inside my harness on. Every time I lunge into her, it pushes back on me. I imagine this is my cock. That with it I am feeling everything inside of her tighten and accommodate for me. As we push together, I lean down and dangle my breasts against her vibrating nipples. At times it is too much for her and she struggles. I press my hand down into the ropes, into her belly to keep her there.

She is getting close. You tell me to pound her and I do. She tenses and I push and she tenses and I push until she cries out. I go all the way inside her and move in circles so that the vibrator is rubbing against my clit. Again she struggles, cries out that it is too much, but I force her to stay until I come and shake and fall on top of her.

I want to stay down, but you order me up. You stand up from your chair. Your erection is barely contained by your underwear. I follow your commands. I help you out of underwear and stroke your giant, amazing cock. I grab her hair, pull her up, and force her mouth around your cock, ignoring her gagging. Still using her hair as a handle, I bring her forward and back and forward making sure it goes all the way in. Drool forces its way out of her mouth and down her chin. Tears form in her eyes. I wipe her face and tell her it’s ok. That I understand. When I see you getting close, I pull her off. I wrap my hand around your still wet cock and pump you until you burst onto her tits. I lick them clean and she arches her back as my tongue crosses her raw nipples.

Here’s the situation. Two couples meet. Out to dinner. Double date. Hang out. Whatever you want to call it. Polite the whole time. The girl eyes the other girl’s man. The men check out the other’s woman. Not too bad. Not too bad. Interesting how he passes the potatoes. Interesting how she talks to him. Do they always do that? Do they always do the small pat on the shoulder? Will they fuck tonight? Will they think of anyone else? Anything else they could be doing?

Here’s the twist. Or maybe it’s not the twist. Just life. One man and the other woman are old lovers. Not old, just previous. Not just previous, good. They both imagine the conversation the other is having with their other. “I could never live like that…” “Did you see they way they…”.

This is the ritual. It is true. Don’t worry. It’s all true. As true as sacrifice. As true as innocent animal blood on your clothes. Or the defensive excuse you really do believe. You do. As long as you don’t sit with it too long.

Move on. Get to fucking the one in front of you. The one you really love. You don’t need any excuses. Any assurances. The balances are set. You are in the right place. Make your lover come. And say good night.

I want to crack you.

I think we are the same. Both got enough monster and man in us. Both got enough nerd and sexual deviant.

arms raised above shoulders

and thick fingers over thin wrists.

The Secretary is one of my favorite movies, but I don’t watch it often. The first time I watched this movie, I was slowly teased to climax in a room full of my friends. It was a game we used to play in high school. All watch a movie, lined up on the bed or couch. I would sit between his legs, leaning my back against his chest. The blankets would creep higher. His hands would creep lower. I would tense up and not make a sound, no matter what he was doing to me.

The last time I watched the Secretary, that’s a different story.

Is it a breakdown to call your name?

Or to dial each number in succession without breathing?

It is this surrender that makes me

store up excuses to walk to your door or

to say, “I cannot stay. I’m only here to drop off your shoes?”

Am I meek to be here

treating this moment like it’s got something it isn’t giving?

Even so, I will always succumb

and against all will I will run to you.

He walks you

to the door. Like he used to.

Like it was six months ago.

And when he hugs you

you feel the valley in his back.

How your fingers fit perfectly.

No love handles, but a hand hold to steady yourself

while walking or to keep your bearings

while fucking.

And while he’s there,

pressing his body against you-

every part of which you named

and claimed with bites and bruising

and kisses and drawing- you think

this is when we used to bang,

now what?