Inspiration photograph by Karen at Draw and Shoot. Click the photo to see her original post.
What becomes of the busy ones? The ones who rush through life filling every moment? In the end are they happier than the ones who didn’t say yes to every invitation, who refused to go out when they were tired?
There is, within me, a longing for simpleness, a desire for the uncomplicated. But it seems like everything I touch gets tangled. And I’m the constant factor.
So simplify, I tell myself. But it’s not that straightforward. Don’t you see… it’s complicated. Irony, no? Simplifying is complicated. And scary. What happens if I’m still? Will the world blow by in a hazy blur and leave me behind? Surely somewhere in the bramble there is a middle ground. I just have to find it.
—part of The Words and Pictures Project collection— _______________________________________________________________________
Inspired by the photograph above, taken by the uber talented Karen over at Draw and Shoot. If you want to see some amazingly beautiful ethereal images, her blog is the place to go!!
I’m going through another metamorphosis of sorts. Life is going so very fast. I’m trying to keep up. Fighting for some form of control. Yes. Control. That’s a common theme for me.
I chopped off five inches off my hair. It’s now about four inches past my shoulders rather than grazing my nipples. Oh… and platinum blonde rather than the darker honeyed blonde I had been for years and years. I feel like a walking exclamation point.
I have gone all OCD on what I eat. I can’t control the world that is spinning around me, but I do have jurisdiction over what I put in my body. And judging by the scale and the mirror, living on lean meat and veggies does a body good. Continue reading →
He brings her leaves. Look at the lace on them, he says. Grubby little fingers point to frosty patterns on the crimson and amber treasures. I picked them off the ground for you, he says. I got the very best ones! These—he says, waving them high above his head—these were the prettiest of all of them. Thank you, she says, kissing the top of his brown, closely cropped curls, breathing in the dirty little dog smell that is hard playing boy. I’ve never seen prettier leaves, she says. His chest puffs with pride. And he leaves.
Gnarled fingers covered in translucent skin trace the veins. They follow the lines, remembering. The lace is gone as is the richness of that autumn’s jewel tones. But safely preserved between pages of Longfellow’s prose, the pressed leaves carry a memory. It was just yesterday, wasn’t it? I remember giving you those, he says. She looks at the man. No, my stinky little angel gave me these, she says. He swallows the catch in his throat before kissing the top of her silvery white curls. And he leaves.
Without fail he visits the morning of the first frost of every year. Arthritic fingers clutch the bouquet of oak branches he carefully trimmed himself. Only the prettiest ones make the journey. It’s a long walk to her place at the top of the hill. But he has time. Nothing but time. And memories. He slowly stoops and places the token covered with nature’s lace at the base of the white granite pillar that has marked her grave for almost two decades.
And he leaves.
Hold me without weighing me down.
Lift me up without letting me fall.
Cover me without blocking my air.
Invade me without forcing my surrender.
Fill me without making me explode.
Be my center.
Wait for me while I go and do.
Pursue me so I know I am missed.
Open your arms and give me a safe retreat.
Laugh with me over silly things.
Brag on me to those you revere.
Be my axis.
Kiss me so I know mine are the only lips you want.
Touch me and feed our desire.
Understand when the pressure I put on myself breaks me down.
Shelter me from loneliness.
Love me with all of your being.
The notorious bellman, Robert Hookey, (known throughout the blogging community as The Hook) has been doing a neat feature on his blog called the 5 x 5. There he asks five well thought out questions to the bloggers he chooses to spotlight. And it’s a pretty impressive list. So I was beyond honored when he asked me to be a part of it.
I feel like I hover on that line between creative blogger and sex blogger, and because I do write sexy sometimes (ok… a lot) some of the more mainstream bloggers shy away. But he didn’t. And that means a lot.
For those of you who’ve landed here because of Hooks post… Hi! Thanks for stopping by! And so just so you know, though some of what I write can get a tad steamy, all the photography I include is tasteful, safe-for-work imagery. So please, kill some time digging through my archives, which is basically just peeking into the most private corners of my soul.
And Robert, thank you again. You have a true gift for making people feel special.
Meg lay curled on the bed turned away from him, trying to gather her thoughts. He had twisted her words again. It didn’t matter what she said. He had a better parry for it. This was why she hated arguments with him. Her feelings didn’t seem to matter. As long as he won. He made her feel… less than. But that wasn’t right. Her counselor had said no one had the power to make you feel a certain way.
So why did he always seem to know exactly what to say to shut her down? A dull ache just beneath her collarbone began. It constricted, making forming words difficult. She wanted to hit him. Lashing out would feel good. But only make her look childish. As if curling up in a half-formed fetal position didn’t.
His mouth worked at my nipple. The hard tug combined with the flick of his tongue… nirvana. He lay on his back, while I rode him, both his hands around my full breast while his mouth continued to suck. My middle finger rubbed rapidly on my clit and at the same time his cock thrust against my g-spot. All of my pleasure sensors were being stimulated at once bringing me closer and closer to the edge.
The general term for a sudden pain that radiates through one’s head during orgasm is simply called a sexual headache. Way too mild a term in my opinion.
So close. A low moan built inside me, bubbling up into my throat. Almost. There. Continue reading →
The silence on the way to the airport today wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just sad. The time leading up to the Woodsman’s visits creeps, like refrigerated syrup. And then, when as last he is here, I blink and it’s time for him to return to his home, his life, his job, his responsibilities. Continue reading →
He comes in like the tide. Steady and strong. Crashing upon my shore in a beautiful rhythm. The warmth of his love coats all my grains, soaking in before flowing back into the ocean of depth that is him.
With each return he carries a little of me back with him. My tiny crystals of love. I see them swirling in his waters, twisting and turning with his churning. Until there is a calm. And they settle, slowly creating a foundation.
Sand isn’t the best metaphor for a foundation. But sand turns to rock given enough time and pressure.
Lovers on the steady rock of each other’s passion.
A rock of my being; she’s there. Not getting worn down by my tidal inner self, but standing strongly, quietly, boldly accepting my nature. And feeling how that nature of my being isn’t a harsh clash against her, but a warm glow of envelopment. Protective in ways, but mostly to feel that envelopment of her. With her. Because without both parts – the rock and the ocean, there would be no enveloping.