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| Blogs > Mariana_Trench_ > poetic disambiguation |
The Words
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The Words In the beginning was the word. Well, to be precise - words. As a younger woman, she flailed about, seeking out various sorts of men for various sorts of exchanges. Ideas. Fluid. Anxious dry humping behind the bar. The way a certain ethnicity or a certain aged man might fuck her. Later, she learned a bit here and a bit there, and she grew more reckless – began to play with fetishes and dangerous – ideas. She learned about toys, latex, the things people don’t talk about in Sex Ed. Class. She learned about herself. Her limits, and most importantly, her deepest desires, began to crystallize. She was learning herself. What she could not tolerate, and how to recognize when a man was fucking her over, not merely fucking her. She learned the quietly whispered words for the lifestyle of decadence, of skin on skin, and of sin- the Lifestyle. She passed through dark corridors. She fucked in the park, under a large rose-covered hedge. She experienced Saturday night extremes with that quiet man in the well-pressed gabardine suit, sitting just over there. Finally, she knew enough to feel what in saying “I know what I like. I know how to do it properly. I know how to make your dreams come true. I know what most women don’t know, which is why some men pay some women…I know those things.” Her lovers agreed. Some offered high praise. She became supremely confident in her way of moving, speaking, tasting, kissing, watching, bending, giving, and receiving. This brings us to these words. To all words. One thing she knew – the right words at the right time were intoxicating. She got off on language. Poetry could do it. A well-turned phrase overheard at a coffee shop could make her pussy drip. It’s not the most obvious fetish, nor is it the most awkward. Or maybe I should say, these things bring us to these words and this man. The man who lived across the map. The one who lived across time zones. His soul poured through his words. It reached out and traveled across the miles in an instant, like a lightening bolt on acid. It sparkled and shimmered like the sun, dancing upon a glacier fed lake. His words were alive. His soul beckoned. It rose up its pointer finger and did a come-hither motion towards her. She felt it. She longed. She hoped. She learned to read the map. She bought a compass. She waxed her pussy in another time zone. She bought elaborate luggage. She bought a better long-distance calling plan. She consulted travel websites, and pondered her frequent flier miles. She longed for his eyes upon her wrists as she jerked his hard cock off under the table of some four-star restaurant. She yearned to taste his cum, to open her lips and drip it down her face onto her body, while he watched. She envisioned scooping up some of this warm, slightly acidic, slightly salty cum of his off her chin and stomach, and swirling it around her nipples. In her daily commute, she began to ask questions, to store up a stockpile of things she passionately wanted to know, or say, or discuss. Because when they spoke it was all thick, hot, and humid. When they spoke it was New Orleans in August. She wanted him everywhere. The dairy aisle and we're out of milk, and that's the real world. Now we really know one another. Back she went to the word. He said ‘mine,’ and she was his. He said ‘come,’ and she came. Hard. The questions swirled around, as her train leered it's way across the river. "Do you have any siblings?" "How old were you when you lost your virginity?" "What are your thoughts about Pro-Choice vs Pro-Life?" "Do you wear contacts?" She fantasized about his voice. She heard his voice. They fucked each other raw. Twice. Three times. Voice to voice, moist and wet and black, just words traveling across wires through space. Zig zaging disembodied - did the aural sex they have make her more or less horny to fuck him in his entirety? Is wanting not wanting? She wanted. Him. Again and again. Take me, she said. She screamed it to him. His place on the map became desire. She heard his cock pounding 'mine....mine.' It seemed to work, her mental typewriter, because he was bouncing the same message right back at her. They must have been attempting some telekinetic mind-meld transmission of pure thick uncut lust. Silently, their bodies cramping up with orgasms, stomping, clamouring - release release. Fuck me till I ooze our mingled sweat and cum drips down my thighs, her body begged. Fuck me till I walk and it smells like a bordello at closing time. His body, rigid and quivering, echoed back - yes I will. I will do it. I will...bend you and turn you inside out like a leather glove. I will suck on your clit till you beg for my cock.       |
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Thank you. I did not mean to offend you. I just see something I wish I had, and you have it. Kindred...I am glad you see it that way. I will try to refrain from superfluous compliments. I do think I would enjoy talking to you about writing or anything else that you might find helpful, and I am sure I would also appreciate your constructive criticism. Seriously? OK I see lots of typos when I read most of your pieces. For example "your" when it sometimes ought to be "you're." Or leaving off a word. The most blatant issue is in your serial with the character named Cindy. In at least one installment, you keep calling BOTH women Cindy. It's confusing as hell. Check through it. I'm sure you'll see what I mean. And if BOTh are named Cindy, it's STILL confusing as hell. Taking this into consideration, please know I would not keep reading if... they were not well-done they were not arousing I was not into your writing and I did not enjoy them overall, in spite of these small issues MT
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2/12/2011 11:42 pm |
You work hard and some of your writing is really amazing. You sell yourself short, my friend. I do not for one moment plan to ignore you. That would make me a real fool. And, an egomaniac. Which I hope I am not. We are kindred spirits in writing. Some of my work is really poor. Don't kiss my ass about it. That does nobody any good.  And thank you for remarks related to structure such as tempo and rhythm. Those help me. MT I did not mean to offend you. I just see something I wish I had, and you have it. Kindred...I am glad you see it that way. I will try to refrain from superfluous compliments. I do think I would enjoy talking to you about writing or anything else that you might find helpful, and I am sure I would also appreciate your constructive criticism.
 It's never the same thing twice... [post 2477869] [post 2800527] Current series: [post 2910971]  
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MT, I feel silly almost when I read your work and then I think of mine. Your use of tempo and imagery...  Of course I will stay tuned. Its a beautiful symphony. I feel like I stood up and touched Bernstein's shoulder between movements. I interrupted just by placing that comment. I should never interrupt the maestro. Please...Ignore me. I do not for one moment plan to ignore you. That would make me a real fool. And, an egomaniac. Which I hope I am not. We are kindred spirits in writing. Some of my work is really poor. Don't kiss my ass about it. That does nobody any good. And thank you for remarks related to structure such as tempo and rhythm. Those help me. MT
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words fail me j xox My dearest friend, XOXO E
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When a stone cutter cuts a gem, they must be very precise to achieve the most beautiful angles and to retain as many carats of stone as possible. It's a precise, daunting and somewhat elusive talent, as I am sure you realize. I imagine it's a bit like seeing the beautifully chiseled stone 'within' the uncut cabachon. A zen approach. Releasing this smaller stone from it's burdensome shell. And, I imagine a novice would tend to accidently make one two many chips, inadvertently destroying what had begun as a wonderful piece of work. Language can do that. It's powerful taken as a whole, but subtle one letter at a time. Chip chip chip... And, we're both water signs. Water can do that too. Drip drip drip...Look at The Grand Canyon. But I do not mean to evoke waterboarding. MT
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2/12/2011 11:30 pm |
I think I need to work on it a bit more. I found several typos. Not my best. I'll probably tweak it tomorrow. So far though, I am glad you are pleased. Stay tuned! MT Your use of tempo and imagery... Of course I will stay tuned. Its a beautiful symphony. I feel like I stood up and touched Bernstein's shoulder between movements. I interrupted just by placing that comment. I should never interrupt the maestro. Please...Ignore me.
It's never the same thing twice... [post 2477869] [post 2800527] Current series: [post 2910971]
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My Dear Winged Victoria: You are one of my dearest friends and it pleases me when I please you. Love, Your Lasagna
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Cake-lover! Blah MT
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I love the phrase "audible vibrations," and the other phrase "trembling recovery." You really ought to have a blog, pookie. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! MT
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Exceptional. I love the play with rhythm. Simply exceptional. So far though, I am glad you are pleased. Stay tuned! MT
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Not for my pie recipes? HA! OK, fair enough. It's coming when it comes. MT
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words fail me j xox
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Hey sweetie... that's a real cliffhanger, eh? I'll be back. WW.
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2/11/2011 9:00 pm |
Exceptional. I love the play with rhythm. Simply exceptional.
It's never the same thing twice... [post 2477869] [post 2800527] Current series: [post 2910971]
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