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Archive for the ‘Love’ Category

Suzanne Portnoy recently acquired a Kindle and rather fell in love with the format. She’s asked a few of her favorite sex bloggers to contribute to a new erotic magazine she edits, available on only by subscription on Kindle. I’m among the contributors, who include some really fine smutmongers. Here are the details:

SexBlogyssey is a Kindle-only compilation of the best erotic blogging, bringing together smart, smutty writing from both sides of the Atlantic. Our contributors write about real experiences and their real lives, with a little fantasy/fiction thrown into the mix. We regularly publish new material, drawing on both new writing and the archives of our contributing bloggers.

SexBlogyssey was created by Suzanne Portnoy, author of a popular but now-retired blog describing her double life as a middle-aged single mother and entertainment publicist with a lively swinging lifestyle on the side. Other contributors include Jefferson, Bad Influence Girl, Joanne Cake, Todger Talk, Kitty Stryker, Mon Mouth, Elegant Slut, among others.

You can purchase a subscription here.

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Leaving the big bad cat after a rendezvous of particularly spine-tingling intensity, I view the world with different eyes.

Prior to stepping out of the magical world, in which no one exists but us two, I make myself ready with humdrum yet essential preparations, since walking the streets naked and glowing is not really an option.

Oh shhh. You know it isn’t.

I look in the mirror, and stifle a squeal of horror at the birds nest my carefully coiffeured thatch has become over the space of a few passionate hours. Working my much-practiced magic, using weapons of mass destruction, I manage to subdue and restrain the frightwig on my head until I once again resemble the ordinary, working mother so beloved of my vanilla acquaintances.

I turn to the Big Bad Cat, and ask him whether I still have sex hair.

He laughs.

“No, you don’t have sex hair, my darling, but you do have sex eyes.”

And it’s true. I know that to remove the sappy, happy, sated and blissed-out grin plastered across my face, it will take time and much concentration on matter of extreme mundanity. I’m floating above the earth, although my feet make contact with the metal, concrete or gravel that they encounter, but I’m still a passenger on the Sub-Space Express, and there’s not a lot I can do to change that.

Not that I would want to, as I’m sure you can imagine.

But from the inside — and I believe I have mentioned how the events that go on around me, and involving me, are all taken down and noted by the little man in my head, the quintessential documentor who is a constant passenger on my shoulder — the world from inside looking out is a very different place when I look out through sex eyes. I half-expect people to stop me in the street, ask me for tips on having their eyes glow tawny gold as mine feel as though they do, or tell me how blissed out I look.

 No one ever does, of course. Which is fine.  I’m quite happy to radiate the love and peaceful tranquility that I feel, with no specific payback.

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The NEMRF is a huge catalyst in my day-to-day humdrum existence.

Yes, I have a day-to-day humdrum existence, doesn’t everyone?

Every so often, someone plugs me in and I light up like a Christmas tree. I sparkle — sometimes, I even go as far as to expound a shiny little rain shower. Usually it’s the Big Bad Cat. It’s hard to spend even a minute with him without my glowing from the inside like a Jack O’Lantern.

But other than that, I’m just me.

I do not complain, please do not misunderstand me. Once, years ago, there was no enlightenment. I floated from day to day, week, to week, month to month, year to year. I was not myself, I had lost the essence of me. I was buried and smothered under a sea of mundanity.

And then I rediscovered life.

I found myself through a process of awakening that began over five years ago, that was catalyzed by my falling in love. I have been in love several times since then, and am still in love in certain of these cases. The true love of my life, prior to meeting the Evil Rotten Cat, who is a deeper and no less true love and Cat-of-my Heart, was and remains my love.

This is what they call polyamory, folks. Living and breathing. Loving more than one person.

I speak now of the love I mentioned, the one who came before the Cat. We are barely in touch for a number of reasons, mostly involving his own personal hell, which has effectively straitjacketed him to the extent that we communicate rarely and sporadically. On paper, that is, or rather on screen. We still have a degree of telepathy that is frighteningly effective. He will think of me, and I of him, and then we will find out letters crossing in mid-stream. He traveled to this region last year, not actually to this country, but over the border.

He wrote to me:

“When I stood on the eastern shore of the lake and gazed toward your country last year, I called your name.  Didn’t you hear me?”

I checked my diary. I’d written of him on the day he mentions. He’d been in my head the way he usually is in my heart.

He is older than I, by 17 years. He has experienced life to the full, in both the positive and, unfortunately, most negative sense. He owned my heart as he was the first to fully expose it, to tease it, to provoke it to love harder, deeper, fuller than ever before. He encouraged me and my creativity, he dragged me with him on eternal flights of fancy, he opened my eyes to real erotica and all that lay beyond.

He wrote to me:

“I miss you more than you can possibly comprehend.”

Really? He’d be surprised at how much I can.

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How strange.

Familiar rope,
Identical manner,
Different hands,
Different eyes,

Increased concentration,
No less concern,

Twinkles of —
if not love —
Then certainly affection,

How very familiar,

And yet,

How strange.

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He stayed where he was in suspended animation, remaining poised above me, and looking down into my eyes.

I turned to suppress a small sob, but he wasn’t having that.

“No, look at me, Tabby. I need to see your eyes, and I need you to see mine.”

Ever the obedient submissive kitten, I did as I was told, even in the knowledge that the look in his sparkling baby-blues would be too much and I would likely dissolve.

Very quietly, he waited until my sobs had subsided, and then bent down gently and kissed me on the nose.

“I love you. I love all of you. I love fucking you. Your cunt, your ass, your mouth, your boobs…. your mind. I love every bit of you. What we have is ours. It’s special. Nothing that goes on anywhere else can ever touch what we have.”

I felt a tear wend its way down the bridge of my nose, and then fall sideways onto the pillow.

He continued.

“Look into my eyes. No, don’t turn away, look into them. What do you see?”

A trifle sheepishly I looked into his eyes again. It’s often said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, but I’ve never been very good at interpreting a “look”. As a trained actor, I’m far more adept at deciphering the strange convulsive ability of the facial muscles than the somewhat nebulous quality of pupil, iris and retina.

However, this time, to my astonishment, I saw love. In his eyes. Almost tangibly radiating out of them — I could see it, feel it, sense it.

“Well? What do you see?”

An all-purpose sniffle, a deep breath and then, very quietly:

“Love.”

“Yes. Know that this is true. That this has been true for… how long is it now? Since we met and fell in love? Know it. Internalize it. Believe in it. You are not a dalliance, you are not tertiary, you are my sub, my Pink Tabby, you are someone I care for deeply, respect enormously and love very, very much. Nothing else has any effect on that. Nothing, ever.”

Through my tears, I felt the sincerity of his words resonate somewhere deep inside me. Trite though it may sound, I felt a peace spreading through me, emanating outwards from where I imagine my soul to live, nestled somewhere snugly behind my heart and ribcage.

He finally lowered himself onto the mattress next to me, and gathered me close to him, stroking my hair until my tears subsided, planting tiny delicate kisses wherever he could find skin that wasn’t obscured by my tangled mane of pulled and disarrayed hair.

As tight as he held me, I held on to him even tighter, wanting to absorb his inner peace and calm into me, wanting to meld with him, wanting the moment to be endless. He held me tighter, winding his fingers through my tangles and pulling my head back, eliciting the requisite squeal of pleasure-pain that it always does, and causing a potential pool to collect down south.

We kissed, a kiss of intensity and love and pain and pleasure and longing and lust and meaning and feeling and deep, deep desire. And then, even more intensely than we had kissed, we fucked. Fucked hard, fucked long, fucked each other until we sweated, panted and cried out in ecstatic joy. A fuck, in other words, to write home about.

And a vanilla one at that.

Post-orgasmically, I roused myself from our tangled stupor to laughingly note this to him.

“We just had vanilla sex! That’s hilarious!”

He cackled in his most evil, rotten, flower-wielding feline manner.

“Not exactly vanilla, dear. There was kink.”

“If you say so, darling.”

“There was, definitely. And as you well know, once you kink you can never go bink.”

“Well, I’d hate to go bink at any rate.”

“Zigackly.”

There you have it, people. Once you kink, you can never go bink. In case that was your dread fear in life. 😎

(I love you, evil, rotten cat. <3)

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Time spent apart only increases the intensity when we re-connect.

On the rare occasions that the time between our special times together gapes wider than usual, the joy of re-connection is virtually tangible. Like two randy teenagers, our skin is always in contact; his body all over my body, entwined and intertwined, wound around each other like softly tangled strands of suede leather.

The passion rises, skin on skin, leather on skin, moulded kitchen plastic on skin, hair tugged, wrists and ankles cuffed, eyes covered, and then revealed — I reach my apex again, and again, and again. My body writhes and gushes, my inner child screams a release, and I soak everything within a four foot radius, then collapse in a heap.

The afterglow — the panting regrouping of our embrace that is part-cuddle, part-rest, and all about physically being as close together as we possibly can be — is one of my favourite rituals.

Pulling me up from cuddle-position, he peruses me from his lazy and relaxed stance, yanking my head back by my hair every so often to look at my eyes. Each time he smiles and says the same thing.

“That look, that wonderful look in your eyes. I love that look. Are you here, my sexy tabby? Or should I leave a message?”

Then he smiles that killer twinkly blue-eyed smile, and oh-so-gently kisses the top of my forehead, or the tip of my nose — with a gentle grace that belies his evil, flower-weilding nature.

“My gorgeous little perverted kitten.”

I raise my eyes to his, knowing that the look in them says much, much more than that of which I am currently capable. Speechless as I am, I can only be thankful that my eyes do the talking for me, and convey how I feel.

Diana Krall employs a more verbal method of communication, but she gets it. She understands. She knows.

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Is there anything better than lying in bed, naked, spent, cuddled up to the biggest, baddest, rottenest feline in the yard, as he breathes softly into your neck and strokes your hair, and kisses teeny tiny butterfly kisses along your shoulder and up the side of your neck?

What’s that you say? No?

Well, there is, but the only differentiating factor is when you are doing this listening to the most fabulous music, that just happens to be one of the basic tenets of your connection — the common denominator that you discovered when you were first getting to know each other.

That is pure heaven.

So today, on the worldwide designated day for showing love and affection — which I confess I have no real need of because I show and am shown the depth of love and affection on a constant basis (and sorry if I sound like I’m bragging, I’m not, I’m just so happy with Purrrrvert) — I share with you the latter part of our last session.

No words are needed, since none were spoken, other than “Oh my god, I LOVE  this song!”

And “I love you so much.”

And “Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

Happy Valentine’s Day, angel. No massacres, only love.

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