Vorarephilia: Love is...

Love is marinating in citrus.
Love is bathing in hot water, seasoned with rosemary and mint.
Love is throwing salt over your shoulders, liberally sprinkling some sugar and spice.
Love is coating your body olive oil.
Love is pre-setting the oven.

Love is being cooked, burned even.
Love is stewing in your juices.
Love is keeping your tenderness.

Love is being raised and fed for this moment.
Love is the flavor blossoming from your bones.
Love is the fragrance announcing to his neighbors, you are ready.
Love is the fork piercing your flesh to confirm.

Love is waiting on cold porcelain until he is also ready.
Love is the meal too large for one man to eat alone.
Love is the hope he doesn’t share.

Love is being pinched between his teeth.
Love is being chewed.
Love is being swallowed.
Love is the pleasure filling his palette.
Love is the wish he’d savor the next bite a little longer.
Love is the dash of salt to make you even better.

Love is the second and third helping.
Love is the dirty dishes and stained shirt.
Love is the sandwich he makes with the leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch.
Love is the nutrients, the nourishment.
Love is the prayer you never reach his rectum.
Love is the foreknowledge that you’d end up on cold porcelain again…and marinating anyways.

Melolagnia: Bitter Funeral Beer

 

         I wanted to write something clever.  Creating a metaphor that tied together chocolate and rhino horns...  Funerals and Orgasms...  Africa and this big man raining sweat from above me.  My memory couldn't quite capture the dual sensation of Don Cherry's trumpet in my ear and nine inches in my ass.  All I could do was sing along with the mourning women.

     I wanted to correlate our fucking and Bitter Funeral's composition.  The way we climbed walls.  Smoldered.  Wilted.  The way we left behind a strangely sweet scent.  What an amazing score?  Accompanied by exotic tones, I felt inspired to snake my spine and touch him gently.  In this moment, his body was an instrument and I just wanted to play him skillfully.  Appreciating the slip of his sweaty skin... The taste of salt from his nipples... I just wanted to play him with precision.

     The slightest touch brought about noise.  The tip of my tongue summoned eruptions.  Subtle squeezing stole his breath away.  I wanted to write something clever.  Something about, both, jazz music and my heels greeting my ears simultaneously...  Creating a metaphor of melting horns and whitening chocolate.  All I could do was listen to the harmony between his panting grunts and their twisted wailing. 

One-Way Street

     He loves to fuck bareback...however, in the event he ever bottoms, a condom is a must.  He's a daddy, knowing best...or, at least, better than you.  A very kinky man, he's into fisting, bondage and flogging...from the top.  He's a one-way street.
     He loves having his cock sucked...but he's very sensitive to scents and tastes.  He's a sadist, causing pain, but never feeling anything.  He's a dom, tying subs down, yet remaining free.  A very kinky man, he's interested in cumming, pissing and spitting...on you.  He prefers to stay dry.

Have you ever lost your way?

Too distracted by the map to see the roads?

     My gut told me to pump the breaks and make a u-turn into oncoming traffic.  He set my course.  He set my speed.  He made me cum everywhere...but home.  "Going with the flow" lead me deeper into his trap.  Thank God for guts, Heaven only knows where that road would've sent me.  (I apologize to those I cut off.)

Looking in my rearview, my vision is 20/20

     Who did he think he was?  Loving the taste of his cock on my kiss, but shuddering at the thought of dick in his mouth.  Loving the taste of my cooking, but shuddering at the thought of washing my dishes.  Standing with his arms folded across his chest, he wanted me to run towards him with mine open.  Who did he think I was?  I am a very kinky man, I'm interested in cumming, pissing and spitting...and everyone gets wet.

Queer Heterosexuality

      "I can not believe this is happening between a man and woman."  This thought swells in my mind every time I'm with her.  My hard, black cock dangles from between my thighs.  At the same instance, her small white wrist does the same as her fist makes it that much deeper inside.  Heterosexuality is redefined for me with every thrust.  Masculinity and power becomes disassociated, as I keep my manhood intact as she takes control.  Who says men can't moan in the fifth octave?
     I thought I would only find total worship in the company of men.  But, she loves my asshole.  She loves my toes.  The soles of my feet.  All the nooks and crannies that make my voice whistle.  Furthermore, she finds my cocksucking adorable...
     I love that we can relax the fixed, traditional dynamics of heterosexual relations....and just play!  She can peg me with her strap-on without being feminizing me.  She can tightly grip my hips without adding bass to her voice.  We can be ourselves: two queer people making a connection.

How beautiful?

     Queer heterosexuality interests me.  The idea that dykes and fags can become comfortable enough to connect and explore one another.  The idea that men and women can relate beyond the old in-and-out... relating beyond the old me-Tarzan-you-Jane... After my handful of experiences, I can never return to my former understanding.  I need a woman who isn't afraid to put her foot up my ass.......literally.

"Forbidden's First Pair of Stockings" by Boistrous

Somnophilia: Snooze

Photography by Angelito

     I can't recall what I was dreaming about..something involving spears, penguins and Aretha Franklin.  The alarm clock failed at its function; more annoying that awakening.  However, I couldn't hit the snooze on his touch.  Firm and hungry, I woke up with his hands wrapped around my ankles.  My dreams of The Queen of Soul was interrupted by his tongue raking against my soles.  I remember being unsure.  Uncertain whether I was actually awake or if my dreams jumped to another station.

     In the brief moments where my flesh wasn't between his teeth, he said, "You're going to be late for work."  Gnawing at my legs.  Sticking his nose inside my briefs.  Sucking at the stiff bulge begging to be released from the black cotton, his voice vibrated at my crotch, "I'd hate to see you rushing out of here. Do you see what time it is?"

Snooze

     I open my mouth wide to get some air.  All I can see is his abdomen as his morning wood crams itself down my throat.  Gasping.  Sucking.  Breathing around his thick cock sounds ironically like I'm snoring.  Choking.  Slurping.  I feel like he's leaning all of his weight into my face as he pumps his hips.  Prying my mouth open with his fingers, getting his dick in there good and deep, "What time does your office open, again? Nine? You really should be getting up, baby."

     Getting out of bed.  Brushing my teeth.  Showering.  Jumping on the BART.  This all feel impossible without busting a nut.  Eating breakfast.  Putting on my tie.  Signing in at work.  None of that seems feasible without spilling this load.  Stroking my cock.  Pinching the head.  It's 7:45 a.m.  Salivating.  Scheduling my next breath on his out-swing.  If only I could schedule this orgasm.  The sooner, the better.

Snooze

Love Spell

Peppermint Oil

Sage

St. John's Wort

     Those pretty eyes of his glare in my direction, "Are you casting a love spell on me?"  Swishing around the flavors of Fernet Branca, Alice Coltrane and every rumor he's heard about me, skepticism and arousal becomes the cocktail of the night.

     Pouring him another shot, "What if I was? Would you stop?"  Taking the small glass from my hand, his head snaps backward to gulp down my bitter potion.  He's committed.  Doing the research.  Reading the testimonials of both favorable and....

"Forbidden Light is a monster.

He is the worst person I've ever had the misfortune of meeting."

- Toddy English

     Emptying the contents down his throat, "I'm not scared of you."  Whether to green pastures or the slaughter house, he is committed to see where this thing goes.  But, he isn't the only one embarking on a new journey.  I've learned that a new companion can make a beaten path fresh again.  I am equally aroused, yet suspicious.

Ginseng

Quinine

Echinacea

     More drunken, the bitterness from his cup translates into his gaze, "You aren't the only one with love spells."  I know this to be true.  He doesn't know how often I recollect his hands gripping onto my legs.  How the sensation of his teeth sinking into my soles stains my every dream.  I'm not the only one.

     Every night with him, I become more and more aware of how magical sex can be.  I've spoken in tongues, came into paper so I could set my prayer on fire.  I've channeled his aunt and gave him advice as his tongue plugged by asshole.  He cries in his sleep and I dream to comfort him.

Absinthe

Bay Leaves

Wormwood

     Swishing the flavors of Fernet Branca, Alice Coltrane and every rumor I've heard about him.  I realize that the tables have turned.  The hypnotist has been transfixed.  Intoxicated.  My vision doubling.  I squint to find his true location, "Are you casting a love spell on me?"

'The Fernet Fairy' by Forbidden Light

Daytime Kink

What happens to kink during the day?
Does it retreat into the closet?
Does it lose it charm?

     There was a time when I was strictly anonymous.  Fronted by an avatar, I enjoyed a great deal of creative freedom.  I had no fear of being found out.  My voice translated to readers much clearer with the omission of personal details.  At a time in my life where I felt so stifled, repressed and misrepresented, “Forbidden Light” was created to be sacrificed.

Or, so I thought.

     Writing and experiencing, I am learning that this character isn’t fictional or an alter ego, but a malnourished aspect of my whole self.  “Forbidden Light” is just that.  He is the dark place within myself who finds his own dawn.  Living to be inspired… Connecting with readers…. Finding community…  My daily life, little by little, in beginning to resemble posts from “Journals of an Intelsexual”.

What happens when perverts become real?
Does our hot flesh cool to 98 degrees?
Do we become ordinary?

     I foresee a shift occurring in my writing to come.  Still perverse.  Still charged with wanton sexuality.  But, more whole, more inclusive of the man my Mama raised.  Hiding less behind poetry and metaphors, it’s becoming pivotal to reach out from the darkness and profess life.  This time, the “Forbidden Light” shines unto the truth that perverts can love God and start families.  Perverts can be good, loving people.  Perverts are people.

What happens to kink during the day?
It becomes translucent.