Poor Krishna

 

Scene I
Aisle 13: Produce Section

  Looking for baby spinach and zucchini, an Indian couple catches my eye.  The wife is beautiful.  Long, lustrous hair pouring down her back.  Exotic, intricate tapestries adorning her gorgeous figure.  Looking at her rogue-stained lips, I couldn’t help but wonder, “I wonder if she tasted my flavor on his kiss?”  A week prior, while she was at the salon, her husband and I shared an afternoon together.
     He looks so worried.  Keeping his eye on me, praying I do not say “Hi”, while pretending to not notice me at all.  I find it comical that his wife is so concerned with choosing the right mango, that she’s oblivious her husband’s paralysis.  Should I push my cart elsewhere?  Should I hurry and grab my cilantro?  No, I am enjoying the tension.  Grabbing his arm, she asks, “Do we have any onions at home?”
     Watching me without looking at me, he stutters, “No, I think we have onions at home already.”  The dissonance is palpable.  On one hand, he has his wife gathering ingredients to feed his family, and on the other, he is in the presence of a man who holds his deepest, most guarded secret.  He likes the way cock feels in his hands.  He loves when erections grow from within his mouth.  He loves to savor and indulge in the distinct flavor of ass.  “I wonder if she tasted my flavor on his kiss?”

Scene II
Check-Out #5

     I don’t know why I enjoy torturing him.  Perhaps, because I know I'll never see him naked again.  Deciding to stand behind them, I waited to pay for my groceries with the same cashier.  Occasionally glancing over his shoulder, I’d scratch my crotch for his eyes to see.  I remember how he marveled at my dick.  It was much different from his.  Much darker.  Much bigger.  As if he was handling new machinery, he awkwardly stroked my cock with care.  His eyes were frozen and fixated.  His hands were ripened with repression.  I was getting turned on replaying the memories in my mind.
     “Krishna?”  Her Indian accent chimes, breaking my daydream, “I forgot to get milk, could you run and get it?”  His lips were stiffened by hesitation.  Much like our kiss.  The narrow line makes our crossing paths inevitable.  The smirk on my face doesn’t make matters any better for him.  Poor, Krishna.

"Am I Still Human?" (Inspired by Samuel R Delany)

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Ap(art): "Stalk"

     Flesh made from blood and ghosts, hair stolen from golden stallions.  Mama told me about them.  I was warned to stay away, but I can help but lean closer.  I want to see them....  smell them... taste their language as it echoes through the depths of our homeland.

     In spite of their proud, upright stance, the air reeks of their pungent fear.  A second thought follows every step of their stride.  Watching them turn their head like night owls, observant yet oblivious; they have no clue how close I am to them.  How can eyes that shine so brilliantly be so blind?

     Treading deeper into Mama's womb, they're now walking in darkness.  The branches and leaves block The Sun.  The winged ones are feasting on their bodies.  I could have their lives if my curiosity turned hungry. I could free the bloody ghosts from their skin.  I could adorn my home with their golden stallion mane.  I am close enough to taste the pink of their lips, snatching the red from their cheeks, but I'll let Mama deal with them.  I was warned to stay away.

"Stalk" by MimWeisbard / Model: Forbidden Light

The Rack

      Her back arches, sending her tail into the air.  Her ankles latches onto my legs as she leans her hip closer to mine.  The slapping of our skin fills the air with echoes...  My fingers digging into her ass fills her white cheeks with blushes of red...  The rhythm drives me relentless.
     Pounding her harder and harder, the head of cock punches the very end of her cunt.  Her tail: still airborn.  Her feet: still drawing me near.  Her legs are completely contradicting her upper body.  Her fingers are clawing at the bed, trying to escape.  Her jaws are unhinged as a silent scream shoots from her cherry red face.  Her arms are squirming and her torso twists.  One side of her faithfully accepts my driving erection, while the other fights to get away.
     Turning her over, I take her ankle into my hand and lift her hips from the mattress.  Thrusting.  Hammering. Banging.  Her legs spread further, her pussy gushes as her hands push me away.  Her toes points, the walls forcefully constricts as she punches my chest.  She rapidly fingers herself, begging me to stop, "Please!"  Sobbing and crying, she reaches for her Hitachi wand.  Tightening the muscles in her legs, she sets the vibrator on max power and presses it against her clit.  Her scream runs dry as she wets the sheets, soaking the bed.

How often are we torn this way?

Split between pleasure and pain...

Split between logic and madness...

Split between self-preservation and masochism...

The be human, is to be eternally on The Rack.

Images taken from the blog, "Unnaturally Bound"

Mirror Taboo

      Bound in rope.  Wrapped in his big, strong arms.  Concentrating, so I wouldn't forget to breath, I looked down at my swaying erection. If my arms weren't tied behind my back...  If he hadn't commanded me to not move "a fucking muscle"... I would've touch myself.  Or, at least, sent some spit down to cool myself off.

     His voice whispers in my ear, "Look in the mirror, Beloved."  (I love when he calls me that!)  Without my glasses, I couldn't believe what I saw in the mirror.  If I didn't know any better, I would've sworn I was in my own embrace!  We looked so much alike!  Two naked, six-foot giants.  Two towering, sex-ruffled afros.  Two bearded faces, both punch drunk with passion.  Without my glasses, I was staring into my own reflection twice over.

     This is a new experience for me.  Typically, I find myself in stark contrast from my lovers; relishing the opportunity to experience bodies that are much different from my own.  Looking at us together, something in heart warmed, "So, I'm not alone.  There are others out there."  My erection got harder.

They say, "opposites attract"

So what is this?

     Kissing his thick lips with my eyes opened...  Watching him throw his head around in an orgasmic frenzy... Looking up at him as his dick slipped inside me, I saw my face between my own feet.  I am so intrigued to explore our similarities further.  Our hips are perfectly aligned...  His arms are strong enough to lift me up by my ankles...  Catching a glimpse of what it would be like to fuck my future-self, I liked it.

"Opposites attract"

But in this case, brothers push against each other...

 Never pushing each other away.

Images taken from 1980's Hardcore Magazine: "Twins Together"

      

Life From The Top

You won't be able to sit next to the phone anymore,
waiting for it to ring.

You'd have to spend the extra money on a long distance plan,
because you'll be making the phone calls.

You won't be able to leave your wallet at home,
confident you'll be fed.

You'd have to schedule your dates on pay day,
because dinner will be on you.

You won't be able to conceal your blemishes with foundation,
looking flawless in photos.
You'd have to face him raw,
because you'd be doing the sweating from above.

You won't be able to too particular,
certain you'll get your way.
You'd have to let him have his way,
so you could have your way later.

     I have a friend who is a bottom with versatile ambitions.  Growing more and more curious of life on the top, sweet, curvy asses have been catching his eye lately.  Making a decision to finally be the pitcher, he asked me for some advice.  I think the mechanics are simple and naturally occurring, but I felt the need to warn him of the shift in power dynamics when the roles change.

     He's the type to leave his wallet at home, giving off an unconcerned look when the check arrives.  He's the type that doesn't have a long distance plan, because he's used to men calling him.  My experience says, another bottom wouldn't accept this kind of behavior.  In my humble opinion, he'd have to make a shift from passive to initiating, in order to top anyone.  (Anyone who wasn't desperate.)

Am I wrong?

What do you guys think?

Psuedo-Narcissus

 

Scene I:

The Locker Room

     He appears to be such a cocky asshole, to undress himself while looking into the mirror.  Removing his clothing.  Flexing his muscles.  After his workout, he'd return the same mirror, reversing his performance.  Stripping from his workout attire, flexing and returning to his clothing.  So narcissistic.  So pretentious.

Scene II:

The Front

     He isn't watching himself.  Flexing his chest and abdomen, his interest doesn't lie with his beautiful reflection.  His interest lies with the eyes gazing into his mirror.  The stolen glances.  Some eyes are staccato, quickly bouncing from his nude body onto the floor.  Others, take a long, studying gander.  Assuming he's too pre-occupied with himself, they travel from his heels to his backside to the lovely front reflected in the mirror.

Scene III:

The Parking Lot

     Those eyes were unforgettable.  The way they hungrily roamed his body.  The way the hairs on his body stood on end as goosebumps populated his skin.  It was amazing to him to see those eyes peering out from a mini van's windshield.  The eyes that devoured his naked flesh so exhaustively were aimed affectionately at a woman sitting in the passenger seat.  Those eyes were replicated and shined from the small faces of his children.  Goosebumps resurfaced.

     He isn't watching himself.  Flexing his muscles, his interest lies in the stories behind those hungry eyes.  The stolen glances.  Why do they quickly study only to become purposely distracted?  Why do they stare in segments?  Why haven't anyone followed through with their curiosity?  Stripping from his workout attire, flexing and returning to his clothing.  He goes home alone.

Pioneers by Rick Day

Fetish #205408

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"Hogg" by Samuel R Delaney

      I am currently reading "Hogg" by Samuel R Delany.  Nuff said.  This novel has gone down in history as one of the most unpublishable works of literature.  Repugnant.  Grotesque.  Violating.  It is a slow and detailed tour of the profane.  However, what makes this novel disturbing isn't the subject matter, but the readers' response.

Allow me to rephrase:

My response to "Hogg" disturbs me.

     Delany sets the course for a smooth yet vile ride through the 31 flavors of disturbing, deviant sexual behavior.  All through the eyes of an impressionable orphan.  I feel soiled by this journey.  I feel confused by this journey.  I feel compelled to finish this journey.
     Not even halfway completed, I am gripped by the observing character that is myself.  How his logic objects as his erection sustains.  How his cock and character part ways, confusing himself.  As the reader, I am in utter suspense to discover my own boundaries and liberties.  Shame.  Arousal.  Dissonance.  A tangled web of values and visceral responses coats my experience reading this story.

Never say never.

     I thought I'd never find certain themes sexy; but I did.  My erection has betrays my morality... Its firmness suggests a likeness to the monstrous characters...  A deep part of me prays that Delany is just a good writer.  It is my wish that I'm just a victim of some kind of erotic alchemy, where he spins shit into gold.  Hopefully, I can walk away from "Hogg" soiled but unchanged.

This material contains graphic acts of:

 

Biastophilia

Coprophilia

Pedophilia

Mysophilia

Urolagnia

Incest

Necrophilia

Anticipation

Blame the three thousand miles between us...

     Every step he takes closer to my hotel door sends more blood to my already painfully erect dick.  Throbbing with every thought, my slacks develop a wet spot at the crotch of my pants.  I can hear your smooth New York accent in my ear...  I can remember verbatim all of your erotic threats...  Damn, I can't wait to introduce your scent to my nostrils.

     Each text message, "What's the name of the hotel?"  Each question, "Which BART terminal would be the closest?"  A paradox of paralysis and jittery nerves stiffens my entire body.  He's coming.  Chugging down a glass of Fernet, I try to wash the taste of anxiety from my palette.

     Blame the build-up.  Reading his book.  Cyber conversations on Facebook.  Late-night chats.  Erotic exchanges.  Mid-day sexting.  My asshole winks as I read the text, "What's the room number?"

     My fantasies of him will mingle with memories for the first time.  Soon, I'll be testing the merit of his kiss; tasting his flesh on my tongue.  Soon, my calves and ankles will feel the warmth of his neck and shoulders.  A second glass of Fernet makes my lips tighten...  Ready or not: he's coming.

'Mirage' by Exterface

 

Too hot to touch

     Blame Japan.  It is getting extraordinary hot in California!  Temperature’s climbing… Sweat’s gathering around my neck and brow…   After a week of wind chill and reoccurring rainstorms, we abruptly exchanged our umbrellas for air conditioning.  My work shirts are developing sweat stains… My girlfriend’s complaining…  But, I love this kind of weather.
     I love the saltiness of her kiss as her sweat flavors her lips.  My touch slipping off her slick, perspiring skin.  She avoids my inescapable contact…  The humidity flares up her asthma and allergies…  My affection is making her miserable.
     .

Enter: Ice

     With ice cubes between my lips, I begin to cool her body with my kisses.  The combination between the warmth of my mouth and the frozen water melts and freezes her flesh.  Her nipples screams, jumping off my bed.  Her armpits sizzles, melting the ice immediately.  Her toes made good friends with the ice chilling in my mouth.  She likes that.  Returning the favor, she showed me what  having a freezing-hot foot bath feels like.  We soon found each other sucking each others’ toes with ice in our mouths.  Fuck Eskimo Pie.

Getting inside…without touching.
Deeply penetrating while remaining separate.
It’s too sticky…
It’s too sweaty…
It’s too fucking hot…

     We invented ways of fucking while being apart.  Sprawling her legs across my bedroom, her pussy needed space to breath.  Thrusting our hips to a punctuated rhythm, our bodies never meet.  Her arms, trembling and rushing, manage to close the blinds and open the window while bouncing on her backside.  My Baby is very talented when she uncomfortable.
     I was made for this.  My island ancestry.  My long arms.  My spider-like legs made sense in this moment.  I was designed to fuck from afar…  To provide space in between.  However, in spite of my design, she hates me.  It’s too fucking hot…

Images by Armin Morbach

All gold doesn't glitter...

     I've always had a problem with the saying, "All that glitters is not gold."  My mind always find more truth in the reverse, "All gold doesn't glitter."  The longer I live.... The more people I encounter... The more experience I get under my belt... I am really learning that the purest gold actually looks gritty to the naked eye.

     Typically, this piece of wisdom is used in reference of people and appearances.  I have learned firsthand that the glittery, unicorn-chasing boys can be evil, too.  But, more so, I have seen how many people are mistakenly appraised and overlooked.  All gold doesn't glitter, it can be rough and dirty without losing its integrity and valuable nature.

     In the kink community, I've found gold under every stone.  From the surface, dirty, twisted and/or problematic people, have proven to be authentically precious.  Trustworthiness and talent can exist within a person with sadomasochistic proclivities.  Alternatively, just because a person's an optimistic, politically conscious lovechild doesn't mean they're inherently good.  Furthermore, the biggest assholes I've met in life have always came for the latter group.

Just a thought...

"Nightingale" by Robert G. Bartholot

0k Marathon

      I have a challenge for you.  Are you up for it?  I hope that your stamina allows you to sustain the distance. It’s my wish that you endure.  My challenge for you: love me…without “loving” me.  Are capable of running a marathon without steps or strides?  Swim the seas without a single stroke?
      Let your hands itch with latent action.  Let your body become impregnated without the promise of life.  Let the nature of love remain a spacious mystery… a joyful gamble… a marathon ran in stillness.  It's difficult, I know, to let something so divine remain nameless...  To let a force so powerful go without harnessing. 

Are you up to it?

     Allow the love to swell within you.  Allow it to do its own bidding.  Aimless.  Chaotic.  Painful.  Love always takes it own course anyways…  Can you step aside?  Can you love without demonstrating its existence?  Can your tongue babble nonsensically, betraying your need to be understood?

Are you capable of running a 0k marathon…

With the knowledge it may last forever?

"I've have a package for you" by Phillip Riches

An American Fantasy

7:00 a.m.

1/2 liter of Syntha-6 protein shake

with almond milk

12:00 p.m.

Weight training

1:00 p.m.

Kale salad with cantaloupe and chicken breast

6:00 p.m.

Another helping of Syntha-6

and a egg white and spinach omelette

10:00 p.m.

Pass out in a hunger-induced slumber.

     There was a time when I thought Exterface's "Picnic Warriors" set was absolutely disgusting.  Big Macs.  Analingus.  French Fries.  Finger fucking.  Something rubbed me really wrong about the mixture of oral sex and hamburgers.  I've always found this collection a little gross.

That was until I began dieting.

     Since I've been eating clean and working out five days a week, I've been so damn hungry!  Nowadays, seeing images of physically fit men binging on fast food and dessert arouses me.  Seeing commercials sexy surfers eating hamburgers on the beach...  Kim Kardashian rolling around in her lingerie while chewing on some Carl Jr's...  If only I could fool myself into believing these people actually eat this shit.

It's the American fantasy:

We love the notion of beautiful, gluttonous gods.

    

"Picnic Warriors" by Exterface