Thursday, January 1, 2009

Beribboned with a double helix


I've never been to Burning Man, but it is on my list. The 2009 theme is "Evolution, the tangled bank." Isn't that glorious? The tangled bank.
"In 2009, the Burning Man will rise above a 'tangled bank' consisting of irregular wooden triangles. No two elements of this organic composition will be quite the same; together they’ll create what’s best described as a chaotic truss. At night the tangled bank will come alive with luminous life forms scratching, crawling and slithering their way through it. This space will also house a pond known as the Gene Pool. Strange Ur-creatures will peep outward from the surface of this primal soup. The central tree supporting Burning Man, beribboned with a double helix, will exist in flux: switching on and switching off, changing colors unexpectedly."
My blogger friend BadAssKona recently posted a fantastically naughty take on Burning Man with his "BMan Fantasy." I love the sense of freedom, the machinery, the metal and leather imagery, and the heat and rawness of his story.

I went slithering around the tangled bank in my dreams. If I could set this dirty dream to music it would be one of my favorite hippie bands, "Dead Meadow."






A Wet Dream
"The old church vibrates with sacred energy"
--KM

When M. enters the room, I am waiting beneath the black drape, watching through the peephole, carefully focusing the lens with the precision of an ophthalmologist.

She will never see my face tonight, but by dawn she will surely know who I am. He leads her to me by a silver chain hooked to a thin leather collar. She has the most beautiful smile, thick red lips spread in anticipation. She is not nervous at all, only shaking a little from excitement. She is blindfolded and bound by thick, soft black hemp rope tied in intricate patterns across her damp, lightly tanned skin. She takes small, careful steps across the warm sandy floor.

He is nude except for a belt of silver bells hung low around his waist. I cannot see his cock, but I know it has been hard for hours. M.’s lips are winter berry glazed by spring rain. His bells are water music in the glow of a hundred black candles, flickering wildly in the hot, dry desert night. A warm breeze blows through the open window, fluttering a white gauzy curtain that flutters against red adobe walls. The old church vibrates with sacred energy. The air smells like juniper and sage and sex.

I am nothing. The smell of wet grass. A drop of dew. A shaft of sunlight. A drip of hot wax melting along her spine into the gorgeous wet seam between her ass cheeks. I am nothing but the heat she feels between her thighs. I am the nerves that connect nipple to cunt to heart to brain. I am her sighs and his groans. I am so small that I hardly exist. Mist. Feather. Birdsong. I am the sticky wet pool of lust that drips honey onto thigh.

He leads her to a large wooden bed in the center of the room -- where the altar once stood. My lens is focused on her perfect ass, her smooth, hard stomach. I capture each breath.

The bells stop and I emerge from the drape. He takes his place behind the camera and I go to her. I kiss M. full on the lips, sinking into her heat, trace the curves of her body lightly with my finger tips. She moans and shudders. She tastes like rosewater and mint. I spread her legs wide and tie her by the ankles to the thick bed posts. I am nothing. I am everything. I tickle her thighs with the shimmering tip of a peacock feather. Her pussy drips into the night as I tease her with fingertip and tongue, feather and whip. She is whispering nonsensical things, writhing atop white sheets. Still smiling. Moaning. Begging. Warm wax drips across her full, round breasts.

I can hear the shutter, the grinding of the lens. An occasional masculine groan. The music of bells.

Moonbeams streak across M.’s body. Her thick, wavy hair is wet with perspiration, her forehead creased with desire. I massage the wax into her hot skin slowly, tenderly, then roughly. Slap. I whisper into her ear. “Turn over lover.”

“I can’t,” she trembles back. “I can’t. Unbind me.”

I bite her lower lip and slide atop her, my own body oiled and wet with sweat.
“Not yet.”

I untie her ankles and turn her over. The sensual wax is molten butter. I massage warm wax into her ass, kissing and blowing, licking her delicious skin, tenderly nipping at her hips and thighs.

Such soft torture. “Please, God please,” she moans. “I want to touch you.”

A nighthawk screams, the sound echoing across the desert.

I laugh a little and begin to untie her. But she will not be allowed to touch me. Not yet. Not tonight. I am the singe of flame on flesh. Glow. Muscle. Bone. I am nothing but the start of something.

Hands tied above her head to the headboard, she yells out as I drip circles of warm wax in serpentine patterns across her entire body, then lie atop her and massage it in slowly by rubbing myself back and forth, up and down across her quivering form. I want to bring her to the edge, the knifepoint edge of it all.

I lower my breasts to her mouth, a taste. She sucks at them hungrily, need and greed and want taking over her existence. I pull away and slip a gleaming glass dildo between her thighs, fucking her to the edge, to the knifepoint edge.

“Hold back,” I whisper, thrusting hard, teasing her clit with the soft tip of my tongue. “He is waiting. He is watching.”

And then I fly away into the night. I wake up in the half-light of dawn feeling so tiny and fragile that I wonder for a moment if I am real. My heart beats wildly beneath tangled bed covers. I am a breath. Footprint in sand. Moonflower. Bird’s nest. Beach glass. Snowflake. Nothing and everything. A single musical note. A seed. A letter. The letter O. The letter S. A drip of hot wax. A finger tip. A kiss.


__________________________________

Just for fun -- it is a stormy New Year morning here in Washington State. The view and sound of wind and rain from my writing shed.



6 comments:

BadAssKona said...

I had a pair of jeans on; now they're off...

Kirsten Monroe said...

Sweet! Glad my crazy dreams are good for something!

Craig Sorensen said...

Hey Kirsten!

I liked the music of "Dead Meadow" and loved your little dream. That bit of T'ang poet in you comes through in your images. Excellent.

But what I loved the most was the view from your writer's shed.

You have bamboo wind chimes! I do too, on my front porch. They are my favorite chimes, and have inspired many poems.

The combination of the bamboo and rain and thunder from your writer's shed gave me a chill up my spine.

Excellent post. Chock full of good stuff.

Neve Black said...

Kirsten,
I loved this! I really enjoyed the image from the infamous shed too.

Awesome post!

BTW: Thanks for the tip on Burning Man. You never know...maybe that's where a group of us writers will meet...someday, eh?

Kirsten Monroe said...

Hi Craig and Neve!

Wow Craig -- you have the bamboo chimes too -- now I have a chill up and down my spine. We bought those chimes six years ago at the coast. I loved them so much that I couldn't wait to get home to listen. So I hung them up in the back of the car and we rolled all of the windows down!

Neve -- all of us meeting up at Burning Man. Oh, joy! That would be a blast.

Yikes -- my spamword is costslit :)

Thanks for your kind words all. I was actually a little nervous about that post because it seemed kind of weird. Notice how I posted a recipe right away afterwards :)I tend to do that when I'm scared of my own posts. Now I'm the weird one! I'm glad it made some sort of sense out there in the world.

Craig Sorensen said...

I got my bamboo chimes a few years back at Pier 1, of all places.

I think it's lovely that you take chances in your posts, and that you even try to gently mask them!

Weird can be wonderful. Keep experimenting!