Aphrodite's Table

Bones

2009-12-01T19:43:00.000-08:00

The open road beckoned and so we went there. We sang along with Johnny Cash and ate pork rinds washed down with whiskey. Before sunrise, I woke up with my heart pounding. Morning light. Must capture it. The thick, mineral water of Alvord Hot Springs seeped deep into our bones while the ice-cooled wind shifted across our bare skin. We emerged reborn, truly. Our torn fibers healed. Sunshine and salt on our cracked lips. Storm clouds spun out of nowhere, then flew off into the night. When we awoke, there was nothing but ground and sky and brilliant snow-covered peaks. The mule deer stared at us, unblinking, before they bounded away out of the thicket of trees. The coyotes barely looked up while they circled and chewed on the bloody carcass. Did the ranchers feed them? Were they being poisoned? A couple of golden eagles studied the scene from a distance, waiting for the chance to move in. The buffleheads in the pond gave me a warm feeling, as did the fat otter when he broke through the ice. The enormous herds of elk and antelope give me hope for everything that is bigger than ourselves.

Tonight I looked up at the fat, bright full Blue Moon through the brittle branches. Bones. I stood in the park and watched the moon rise above the stiff, dark houses. The air smelled like concrete, wind, and woodsmoke. Back inside, after a big bowl of stew and a bottle of frosty, rich Oregon microbrew, I held a tear-drop shaped chunk of obsidian in my hand. It's been shaped and chipped on by Native Americans. They lived thousands of years ago along the lakeshore that is now a bone-dry desert where we explored by truck and by foot not far from Fields, Oregon near the Nevada Border. It had been carried there a few hundred miles from Glass Butte in Central Oregon by Paiute Indians. I held the volcanic glass, touched by ancient hands, carried in pouches, dropped into the dust. I looked up at the moon. I licked my lips. And I thought of bones. Your bones. Your limbs. Your hips and heels, elbows, spine, and ribs. I thought of how you hold me up, how you are the architecture of my hope. I slid the obsidian into a pickle jar, half-filled with a few square feet of lakebed treasures -- hen's teeth, agates, crystals, blue opal....and screwed on the lid.

And then I filled my bowl again. A simple, hot meal on a cold night. Satisfying, and good.

Paiute Lamb Hater's Stew
From the Trail Boss's Cowboy Cookbook

2 lbs Lamb, cubed
Vegetable oil
Yellow onion
Garlic
Mushroom soup
Sour Cream
White wine

Brown and cook meat until cooked through. Add onion & garlic halfway through. Add soup, wine & sour cream. Simmer about 15 minutes. Serve over noodles or potatoes.

Whole-body perceiving machines

2009-11-30T07:54:00.000-08:00

There was a time in my life when I wanted to eat rocks for breakfast and drink the sky as if it were a mug of something good, topped with a dollop of clouds. I wanted to stuff myself with ferns and suck on ice from frozen creeks to quench my thirst. All of that seemed so much more satisfying than food.....or heartbreak. And without the touch of human hands on my skin to keep me grounded, I turned to nature for sustenance. Then the sun came out and stayed high in the sky. Now I have the earth and the salt of the earth, and warm hands on my body at night. I have kisses and dancing, art, science, a real live boy of my own dreaming, and not even the sky's the limit. There are no limits.

Getting um, frisky in the great outdoors may not be your thing, but for me, feeling the rush of warm wind against my skin, running along a sandy beach with nothing between me and the sky but sky, and howling at the sun on a deserted sun-baked high desert plateau is about as close to heaven as this bad girl will ever get.

Thank you to Ms. Shannalicious Germain and her brilliant creation, Mind Fuck -- http://mindfuckfiction.blogspot.com/ for publishing my collection of sensual stories, "Opening Eden: Fucking in the Weeds and Other Tales from Paradise." Woo-hoo! Thank you to my beautiful BAK for inspiration, encouragement, and big, huge love. Special thanks also to my "brothers in crime," Craig Sorensen and Jeremy Edwards for suggesting ever so sweetly that I get off my ass and publish some smut.

Now get outside and make some noise!

ps -- I may not be all that crazy, for this sensual life I believe in and need so deeply.

Check out this fascinating story from NPR and the journal Nature about the relationship between listening and touch: Sense of Touch Can Help Hearing -- "From my point of view we are whole-body perceiving machines."

Saturday groove

2009-11-21T09:59:00.000-08:00

End the week with a naked Scrabble victory and falling asleep across a lap, drooling, just before the end of The Sound of Music. Start the weekend with sex, French roast, the New Yorker, erotic photo books, poetry, eggs & crab, porn, a swig and some funky music.....and a reminder that bad can be very, very good.

___________________________________

“ The woman who needs to be liberated most is the woman in every man, and the man who needs to be liberated most is the man in every woman."
— Magnus Hirschfeld

i like my body
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh…And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you quite so new

— e. e. cummings

Images: http://www.realprincessdiaries.com/ and http://realprincess.tumblr.com/

ps -- Thank you to PDX photographer Andrew Kaiser. He does very fine work. More here: http://www.absoluterealitystudios.com/

I'd be a good animal

2009-11-18T08:10:00.000-08:00

Seasonal Dis-affected Disorder
--by Fainting Goat

The air smells clean and sharp like minerals, tastes like new snow eaten from a mitten. I can hear cars up on the road above the river, but we are alone down here in the firs and hardwoods. Wet ferns are brushing my fingertips. I touch them back, wanting. Always wanting. I wish I knew what season it is, but I have no idea. My breath is coming out in little puffs while he fingers my waist band and reaches down the back of my jeans to squeeze my ass. But the sun is warm on my face and heats a little triangle on my chest that is exposed when my boy reaches inside my silk thermal shirt to pinch a hard nipple. The moss is bright green. The leaves are gold, bronze and yellow. A little snow has dusted the distant hills. It could be autumn, or maybe it’s spring. I don’t care. It’s not raining. I am outside and the river is singing as it curls around the bend and froths and pools against basalt boulders.

We were driving along looking for mushrooms, drinking wine and eating pork rinds when he yelled, “fuck stop!” Of course I yelled back, “fuck yeah!” and we headed off through the trees.

There is a shotgun blast in the distance. It excites me for some reason. Bear season? Deer season? I imagine myself playing a game where I am running naked through the woods. Running away from hunters. Playing hide-and-seek for real, following the deer trails high into the mountains and bleeding a little onto the snow to throw them off. I’d be a good animal.

“You are an animal,” my boy says, licking at my earlobe and unzipping my pants, his warm fingers probing deep inside. “A very, very good animal.” I hear a fish jump in one of the pools nearby. I can see the ring of ripples out of the corner of my mind and their glossy, smooth humps excite me. “What kind?” I ask, taking his balls in my hand through his faded denim and holding them tight in my fist. “A fucking beast,” he says, “A horny little fucking beast. An excitable little fainting goat.”

The word goat – fuck! That makes me horny. Like the sound of a fish jumping and the smell of snow-chilled air and yellow leaves and river currents. But a fainting goat? Ummmm. My pants are now around my ankles and my silk thermal leggings are now halfway down my ass. A sunbeam is warming the edge of my thigh, but my nipples are as cold and hard as rock hammers. He is kissing me gently while telling this tall tale of excitable fainting fucking beast horny goats while rubbing my clit. Steam is puffing from my mouth. Another car rolls down the road. A cold breeze flutters the leaves and ruffles the water. Another shotgun blast and a couple of ducks take off from the shore. His face is between my legs. I am arched against the base of an ancient moss-covered oak. There are oak galls scattered everywhere. They are the most beautiful found objects. I want to gather them up and store them for winter. My boy lifts his face from my wet crotch, his lips and the tip of his nose shiny with cum. “You are a very good animal,” he says. “Good for eating.” Then he chops me up and makes a stew out of me right there against that tree.

Then he spins me around and takes me from behind. His cock is hot and hard. My face is pressed against the damp moss of the tree trunk. A squirrel crouches on a fir branch and chatters. His strong hands are gripping my hips while he pumps wildly into me. In my mind, I am running naked through the woods. I am a very good animal. We are crashing through the trees, scratched and bleeding from the branches and thorns. He is moaning as he pumps me fiercely. Little bits of moss are clinging to my lips and it turns me on. His hands, his hot cock, the river, the sunbeam on my neck, the smell of his skin. He cums hard, pulsing against me, screaming. The poor oak shudders and a couple of galls fall to the ground. This makes me want it all over again, of course, the galls falling like that.

We rearrange our fabric and head up the hill. My crotch is sloshing with every step. From the road, I look down towards the river and spot the tall oak. I can see a patch of matted ferns where we were very bad animals. Somebody had a nice view. This, of course, makes me wet all over again. I look over at him and the boy is grinning, having just realized the same thing. The sun angling through branches makes me want to spin. What time of year is it, anyway?

__________________________

P.S.:

Coming soon! MindFuck fiction fun -- "Opening Eden," my collection of outdoor adventure stories. Truly, I sent the thing in for real. MindFuck is brilliant -- thank you Ms. Germain! http://mindfuckfiction.blogspot.com/
Also working with BAK on submitting some sweet smut to the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival. Here are the guidelines if you're interested: http://seafartist.com/exhibition/requirements
LOVE this site -- it's interesting, literary and beautiful. This month's issue: "How we reach altered states through sexual play." Ooooh! Too bad I can only afford to read the headlines ;-) http://filthygorgeousthings.com/euphoria

Wishes

2009-11-08T20:44:00.000-08:00

He Wishes for Cloths of Heaven

Had I the heaven's embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

--William Butler Yeats

Sometimes the stars truly come into alignment -- a day or two off, maybe, but aligned, finally. All dreams. No tread.

http://cleansheets.com/exotica/lick_11.01.09.shtml

Everything I ever needed to know I SHOULD have learned in kindergarten

2009-11-02T16:06:00.000-08:00

But I didn't. Everything I ever needed to know I actually learned Saturday night.

1. Chew your food. Even Fido puts more teeth marks on his pork chops. Jeezus, woman! You frikking pig!

2. When a cute girl with feathers for eyelashes and sparkly red baby fairy wings offers you treats from her fairy pouch, kiss her on the lips and then run! Run far, far away!

3. Always ask what it is BEFORE you put it in your mouth. Actually, I should have learned that one in pre-school.

3. Don't drink straight whiskey out of a pint glass. EVER. WAAAAAY worse than drinking straight from the bottle. I'm sure Mrs. Bonar taught me that right before she told my parents I should repeat kindergarten for being short and left-handed (not kidding, true story). I must have forgotten.

4. Take note of everything that makes you horny: Him. Figs. Beetles. Chainsaw gas. Curls. Warm sand. Cool sand. Sand. Hummingbird wings. Frog feet. Full moon. Any moon. His hands. Books. Wet wool. Woodsmoke. Dry grass. Crickets. India Ink. Slippery mushroom heads. Turtles. River shallows. Lollipops. Hay bales. Peppermint lip gloss. French roast. Scarves. His legs around my stomach. Running. Cargo nets. Wooden boxes. Parchment. Trapeze artists. Fried corn. Lemon meringue pie. Clouds. His eyes. Spiral bound notebooks. Live music. Freshly cut alfalfa hay. Elk meadows. Truck tires. Cracked earth. Snakes. Piss and sunshine in my hair. Wood piles. Dried beans. The last leaf. Caterpillars. Blue cheese dressing. Cartwheels. Fishing. Moss. Huckleberries. Old car smell. Typewriter keys. Burn piles. Octopus tentacles. Happy people. Gosh, just about everything. And definitely his everything. Makes me horny.

5. Forget about the things that don't: Mean people. A really good partially chewed pork chop dinner sacrificed to the party gods. Right wing homophobic nut jobs. That's about it. Fuckin'-A!

6. Put it all into perspective.

7. Party on!

________________________

ps -- guess what? Tonight is the FULL BEAVER MOON! Letting out a big ol' howl for that one!

And then it was spring

2009-10-30T05:49:00.001-07:00

A leaf fell from the sky, spiraling down, and hit me on the head. I saw it right before it struck, a flash of orange and red, but it was too late. I passed out and had some crazy dreams.

The squirrels surrounded me, splashed puddle water on my face to wake me up, and carried me off to a tree hole that turned out to be quite the party pad. Martini bar, live jazz. Those squirrels really know how to get through winter in style.

Then they tied me up and cracked acorns on my belly. They fed me gin and tickled my feet. The wind began to howl and they wrapped me up in a big down blanket and gave me hot toddies with honey and ginger and put me in bed.

All that tickling made me tired. It felt so good to give in to the weariness, close my eyes, and fall asleep surrounded by acorn caps, fur and singing (showtunes mostly).

And when I woke up, it was spring.

Self-digestion to release their basidiospores

2009-10-27T13:15:00.000-07:00

The rain is coming down in a steady torrent, heavy drops smacking on thick maple leaves outside my window. I love the way it sounds. It is the sound of change, the rhythm and melody of natural chimes. There is almost no light coming in -- the sky is heavy and sodden. But there is an altar candle burning on my desk, a wam, purring kitten on my lap, and my tongue is happy and tingling.

I can still taste the thick, buttery juice in my mouth and the warmth in my belly from last night. Thick, white stems and spongy caps, handpicked alongside the road by a denim-clad hunter, sliced neatly, and sauteed to golden brown perfection in sweet, creamy butter. Soul food of the highest order. Joy!

Wild Supper

Entering the laughter softened
space of our cluttered kitchen
he shakes the cold from my hair,
wraps me up in that big lover’s
greeting, all musk-scented skin
and flashing eyes. Proudly, he holds
out the offering of the roadside
harvest, freshly killed.

Sharp knife through pale shaggy manes
Slicing thick flesh of stems and caps,
gills splayed in perfect symmetry
and we are bent together
over the stove inhaling
forest and field, butter foaming at
the mouth of the sauté pan.
Sizzling from deathly white
to summery golden brown.
Bone dry to drenched in hot juice.
Finger food steaming on
the plate, we reach across
the table in unison, and we eat.

Shaggy Mane Soup
Telluride, Colorado Mushroom Festival

Ingredients:
3/4 cup choped scallions
1/4 stick butter
2 cups chopped shaggy manes (Coprinus comatus)
Garlic totaste
2 tbsp flour
1 cup milk
1 cup chicken broth
Salt to taste

Directions:
Combine scallions and butter and saute for five minutes. Add shaggy manes and cook for three minutes. Add fresh garlic. Add flour and cook for three more minutes. Add milk and chicken broth. Cook on very low heat for 10 to 20 minutes.
__________________________

Oooh, ahhh!
This is so cool -- the self-digestion of shaggy manes to release their basidiospores.

Time lapse is so sexy! http://blog.mycology.cornell.edu/?p=91

How to get a good manicure

2009-10-25T11:43:00.000-07:00

One time I tripped over my troll feet and fell backwards, spilling the polish and leaving a permanent stain on the wall of the ginormous jetted tub that I wasn't supposed to use because "baths are expensive." So why buy a house with a ginormous fucking tub then? I'm glad the polish stain is still there. May it live long and prosper. And anyway, I did take baths, in secret, and had a great time with those powerful jets, too. Muhahahaha!

But that's all a crock, so I walked away from the tub and tiled kitchen counters and a back yard and a writing shed and herbs and flowering cherry trees that bloom twice a year. I donated my Kitchenaid mixer to a great guy in the office who has been using it to make loaf after loaf of homemade bread with his new bride and can't stop smiling.

I can't stop smiling, either. I walked away from powerful jets and spilled polish and the word "no" and I finally learned a thing or two about beauty treatments.

Wanna know how to get a good manicure? Find a man who's not afraid to show the lady a little love...and who knows how to keep the squirmy ones from making a mess.

"Don't mess up your polish now......hold very, very still.....or else."

ps -- powerful jets ain't nuttin. sing it, ladies! R.E.S.P.E.C.T.!

want, wanting, wanted

2009-10-20T21:11:00.000-07:00

Want. No rest until. The coarsely chopped cruelty of that aching. The strung-out longing, desiring, craving with a fury, to taste, just one lick. Just one! The pure bliss, tender-crumbed angel food, devil's food cake of an intangible thing that is human connection. Because once it goes missing, you will do anything. Fingertip to tonguetip. Kiss. Stroke away the urgent, rough, ancient, heartless want.

The need that is always there but is suddenly there and THERE and oh fuck, right there, that smacks right into you when you're just lounging about in your old yoga pants, minding your own business, acting mostly completely rational, paying bills, reading books, folding towels, when it hits you with some kind of sucker punch that leaves you wet and hot and burning and completely noodled. Wanting. The ridiculously urgent urge to touch. Sometimes it hurts in a twisted up nonsensical kind of way. Wanted. To be. To be Wanted. Not in a stark raving mad bank robber kind of way. Or an oh, that's so sad past tense sort of way. But in a heart-stopping "yes, you" kind of way. Wanted. Impossible, simply impossible at times and implausible too. So out you go, into the night, searching, focusing on the infrared glow of falling leaves in sodium lights, the beaming of beams, the barking of dogs, the falling of stars. Catch one. Curl up with it. Dream. And want some more.

______________________________

Photos:

Alvord Desert Oregon -- Wanted woman's hair doused with ancient lakebed mud and left to its own devices.

The desert beetle that wanted -- and got -- all the wine.

Bottom photo: http://www.redbubble.com/people/nagillah/art/2470050-3-sensual-salmon-gums-c

Bel Canto. Delicioso. Bravo.

2009-10-19T13:02:00.001-07:00

First, there was a washed-up clam. He sprung a leak and was eaten by gulls or some other sort of greedy beaked thing.

Then a barefoot girl came along the shore and found him there and seeing him splayed wide open like that, all clean inside and shiny and bitter-salty-sweet in the river brine, made her think of this.

Chanterelles, tossed into a hot pan with butter and garlic, manhandled with rough tenderness, sizzling, heated to perfection, juices bubbling.

All that juice in her mind made her think of how the roughly handled man got her juices bubbling, barefoot in the kitchen, steam rising, pine-scented candle jumping inside of smokey glass. How he would turn on her in an instant as she bent, bare-assed, to pick up a sock or lie on the couch to read a book or head down the hall to pee or finish some chore in another room, and he would reach out and grab her just as she put one foot outside of the kitchen boundary. She thought of how he would lift her by her waist and fling her to the counter top. Effortlessly. How he would spread her legs. How she was always glad that there was no rustling of clothes or tugging at snaps when he did this because they were always naked. Always. And he was always ready to eat.

She dug her toes into the cool sand on the river beach and picked up the little shell and put it to her ear. She could hear the sound of juices thickening in the pan as he lowered his face between her legs. She thought of how his tongue felt as hot and satisfying as a flame and how the sound of the chanterelles in the pan and sound of his lips tasting her arousal mingled so richly together. Bel canto.

The girl took a deep breath of cool, damp air and could smell his sweat in the breeze, taste the salt of his neck, see the shine of lust in his eyes as he looked up, a hungry animal lapping at warm blood, tearing at freshly killed flesh. Survivor.

She tossed a stick into the dark water and watched it as it bobbed in the current, westward, until it disappeared around the bend.

Then, there was a flower, curled up tight and hoping against hope that the first frost would never come, hoping for spring and a crushing victory the fight against evil. The creamy white and purple curves of the bud's tight petals made the girl think about how he would take her by the shoulders. She closed her eyes and shuddered there on the path, praying before that hopeful flower and thought of how much she loved it when she could feel her hair brushing against the small of her back as she arched backwards and he lifted his wet lips to hers and thrust himself in deep. She thought of the mushroom steam rising above his head and the smell of garlic and delicate apricot-scented chanterelles and cunt.

Then the girl turned back the way she came and ran home for supper as fast as she could.

The End.

Fallen

2009-10-11T15:32:00.000-07:00

Second to Last Day of Summer
--Gina Marie

Dying grass tilting
sky against my lips
pool of concavity
hips twisting. Angled bones
curled, cracking blackened
fiery starlight. Clay-tangled
strands snaking, curled hide
sopping bracts and branches
flashing particles of long light.
Rubber on rock and truck door thud
hopelessly spread all painted wing.
Yellowed seed heads prick.
Cloud strings rain-streaked
dust tracks down fused spines.
Trembling, molten, quaking
me, flailing into fall

_________________

Many thanks to you, BAK, for helping me to listen for the rhythm and have the patience I needed to get this poem from draft to completion. You are a strengthening force that goes way beyond poetry, and I am so appreciative.

Submit, dammit!

2009-10-10T15:19:00.000-07:00

On your knees, bitch!

Hey, I hijacked a computer! Meanwhile, I wrote an entire feature length film, er, short story, and no way, no how am I allowing myself to post it on the blog. Bad girl, bad girl! Must. Send. It. In. I have tied myself up and am being flogged into submission.

A snip:

Into the Lens

Suddenly, I am brought into the foreground when a thin, sharp tool slides across my skin. The sensation is slightly electric, both cool and hot, just painful enough to make me horny as hell. I imagine a blade or a key. I wonder if it is marking my skin. It burns and tingles. Electricity? His cock brushes my ass as he moves around me. Power. Muscle and bone. Animal. The sharp thing cuts patterns into my skin and scatters the colors across the ocean of my mind’s eye. Waves of light become water spouts and the electric intensity grows, connecting nerves from breast to ass to back to neck, lighting them up. The tool nears towards my swollen pussy and then….I can feel the photographer’s presence and hear the camera clicking near my thighs. My nipples are aching.

Coming soon.....as technology allows: A new collection for Ms. Germain's Mind Fuck Fiction.

Down for the count

2009-10-04T20:44:00.000-07:00

Blasted machine broken. Give me paper and pencils. Sharp ones. So I can poke this thing's fucking eyes out! When life gives you lemons, find someone with a paper cut. Working on vacuuming and poetry and going back to school and photography (oh, the stories!) and having sex in real life (whoooppeee!). Hope to be back with good, dirty smut soon. Look! A merganser! And maybe even a plate of fresh plums and a story about my new knife, the one that makes me hard. But since each letter takes four seconds to type, I must depart before I self-destruct.

Until then, a musical interlude. One of my favorite road tunes. John Prine and Iris Dement. Ain't it sweet?

Human Sexuality 101 Continued: The Lip and the Cock

2009-09-25T08:07:00.000-07:00

Good morning class! If you missed the first lecture, go get wet at BAK's place: The Tongue and the Clit

Today's lesson: the Lip and the Cock

The higher the levels of estrogen a woman has during youth and puberty, the fuller her lips and larger her eyes. Scientists believe these features are universally attractive to men as a biological indicator of health and fertility. Lipstick visually “tricks” the male into believing that the woman has more estrogen than she actually has. I prefer to paint my lips with cum, but that’s just me. I also like to pee standing up -- and on his head. But I do have full lips and large eyes. Maybe we really can have it all.

Lips, like the fingertips, are an erogenous zone due to their high number of nerve endings. The skin of the lips is stratified squamous epithelium. The mucous membrane is represented by a large area in the sensory cortex, and is therefore highly sensitive.

Lips are very sensitive to touch, warmth, and cold. They are documented by science to be an important aid for exploration and seeking pleasure.

When I lower my lips onto it, my lover’s cock flowers into my moist orifice, becoming engorged with blood until it is perfectly matched to the soft, wet "o" of my mouth and ready to be taken deep inside and stuffed by my blood-plumped and pleasure seeking hole deep into my throat. The smooth, sweet-smelling, succulent head, when grasped between my lips, sends shivers of hormonal bliss directly into my brain, blood, heart, bones, and cunt, and causes my lover to utter deep, guttural sounds while his own lips and vocal chords form words like, “fuck!" and "oh baby, you are the world’s best cocksucker,” which, considering I have no formal education or special training in said activity, makes me smile and hop up & down and clap my hands.

Lip memory is an incredulous thing. My thick, cock-loving lips have mapped every region of my lover’s penile organ, memorizing and cataloguing the finest geographic details in the glorious, intimate detail. The sensitive skin of my lips, in contact with the similarly nerve-packed skin of his cock, which, by the way, is also constructed of stratified squamous epithelium, causes a chemical pleasure reaction in my vaginal region that makes my pussy cry big, fat crocodile tears of clear, sweet cum. Once, while sucking on his cock as he blasted down a country highway at 70 miles per hour, with the warm summer air rushing across my naked body, I lost so much bodily fluid that I had to down an entire cooler of beer and several shots of whiskey to regain hydration. That was such a great day.

According to scientists, kissing may tell us what we need to know about compatibility. “Kissing,” said evolutionary psychologist Gordon G. Gallup of the University at Albany, State University of New York in an interview with the BBC, “involves a very complicated exchange of information—olfactory information, tactile information and postural types of adjustments that may tap into underlying evolved and unconscious mechanisms that enable people to make determinations … about the degree to which they are genetically incompatible.”

I have the postural adjustments down, all right. Down, down, down. And the moment my lips touched his highly evolved organ, it was written. My lips and his cock were born of the same young star. Genetically compatible doesn’t even begin to describe the effect of this comingling of nerve bundles, olfactory joy, and hormonal bliss.

Damn! Where’s the beer cooler?

Silver buckles, miraculous blooms & bunny places

2009-09-16T17:15:00.000-07:00

“Alice falls down the rabbit hole and her dress poofs up like a parachute] Alice: Well, after this I should think nothing of falling down stairs.”
--Alice in Wonderland

Something like a thousand years ago I stripped down and climbed into a garden shed and shoved off with nothing but a paddle, a candle lantern, and an old typewriter. I had no idea where I was going, but the salt air against my bare skin was enough. I knew I was going somewhere.

Fuck it. Might as well get to the good stuff.

Right this very instant (as in right fucking now) there is a really sexy MAN with a very dirty mind (tall, strong, beautiful arms, sexiest fucking torso I have ever laid breasts on, strong, gorgeous legs, handsome, striking face, many, many dirty thoughts, and a low wolfish voice that makes me howl about twenty times a day even when I’m trying very hard to be a lady, like when making toast with orange marmalade or sitting cross-legged in a golf cart) sucking on my clit like it is a tiny penis. Suck, suck, suck! His warm, wet lips are bobbing up and down on it’s tiny, slick, screaming pink head. “Yesssssss! My hard, swollen, penile little clitoris is screaming with primal volume. “Yesssssss! More! More! Never fucking stop ever!”

Yes, that beetle drank all the fucking wine and I didn't even care.

Shit, there is no context here. Apologies. Crawling back into the sea.

So we (the shed, paddle, candle lantern, typewriter and I) bobbed across the ocean and finally came to rest on a distant and rocky island after a couple of righteous storms battered us around for a few hundred years. One sunny day when the sharks were busy eating coconut shrimp and SPAM & beans, I finally decided it was time to sink or swim so I said hasta la vista to the shed, the paddle, the lantern & the typewriter (I know, a little sad but computers had arrived sometime while I was in survival mode on the rocks and you have to admit.....) and hurled myself back into big, black froth and body surfed on a heat wave to this desert where I am now sprawled, legs spread, head tossed back in ecstasy, my cunt nourishing the parched, cracked earth with a steady stream of hot, sweet cum. There is now a large field of sunflowers blooming where this event occurred (See Exhibit A if you don’t believe me).

Exhibit A

Now it’s getting juicy. And now you know why.

The night is vibrating with wild abandon and lust. Even the air is bright. Our skin is dark with radiation and shining with sweat. My thoughts are neon. My smile stretches across the sky. In fact, my smile has become another being entirely and is skipping around in circles. There are five dancing smiles, to be exact. Spinning! Skipping! Leaping! The smiles are ecstatic. I am transformed somehow, inexplicably, magically, into something indescribably iridescent. I am the embodiment of lust and joy. My stride lengthens and I really, really love the sound the buckles on my boots are making. I’m hardly even touching the earth as we strut and stroke our way through the city, but the buckles sure are musical. They are jingling some kind of catchy show tune, but my nipples, which have hardened in the night air and have now multiplied like the smiles are distracting me. I can’t recall now what the hell those darling buckles were singing. It is so wonderfully maddening to have an unknown song stuck in one's head.

My iridescent self is practically bursting with desire. I am walking backwards, looking in disbelief and wonderment at the beautiful, naked man happily following me wherever I lead him. There are adventures behind every red velvet curtain and inside of every mysterious entrance. I can barely contain myself and considering what is happening to smiles and nipples, I am certain I won’t contain myself. Why would I ever do such a ridiculous thing? Letting go is half the battle…..and we are gone.

“Follow me!”
Tomorrow is the full moon. Tonight she is VERY fat and all wet and quivery. There are people everywhere, thousands of them, all humming about the city, but somehow you and I are alone and naked in cool blue rabbit hole of moonlight and devouring each other like hungry beasts. We are twisted up like human bondage ropes atop the cracked earth. We may never figure out which end is which. We may be entangled in one another’s damp limbs for all time. The eternal kink. Oh well!

Back on our feet, my hand slips into yours. The high, heavy electronica dance beat shooting into the atmosphere from three hundred sound systems at once pumps my blood. Your iridescence pumps my soul. I look up, the sweet, rhyming jingle of the silver buckles on my boots making me wet all over again, the look in your eyes making me drip. And drip. And drip. And explode from my sparkle painted toenails to my pixie dusted eyebrows. Gush! Sploosh!

“Follow me,” one of my smiles says, in a voice that sounds remarkably like a silver buckle. “Follow me. Over here. Come this way…..I see a bunny place.”

To be cuntinued.....!

Return to the Default World

2009-09-12T12:50:00.000-07:00

Our camp was located on a corner at this great intersection where the world seemed to always be rushing by in all of it's magic, hilarity and wonderful, bizarre wackiness. I could sit on the dusty couches for hours and just watch people. Human Beings transformed into Humans Doing, without television or computers or even cell phones, roaming about the streets of Burning Man, everyone part of the most brilliant organized chaos I've ever seen, 55,000 people forming a city filled with communities and villages in the middle of an ancient lakebed in the Nevada desert. A city where freedom of expression is the law. It was like living an entire perfect lifetime in one week of existence. My brain is struggling to return to the "unreal world," the default world as they say. The experience was incredible and set between two perfect weekends in the Alvord Desert of wild Oregon. I've wanted to experience and explore both places for so long, and as soon as my bare toes touched the cracked earth of the playa, I knew I was home.

Stories soon.....for now, a few of the nearly 600 images, though they sure don't do it justice.

Or Bust!

2009-08-27T14:53:00.000-07:00

The Amelia Earhart sand goggles arrived! The platform boots with silver buckles are packed, along with three wigs, a bunch of really tiny skirts, duct tape, whiskey, grape soda, beef jerky, electrical tape, cowboy boots, a fringed leather belt, reflective tape, Daisy the rockin' red bicycle, peanuts, vodka, hula hoops, Arabian nights pillows, a roll of tapestry, frozen corn, SPAM, pirate bandanas, headlamps, and a truckload of other essentials, including a really fun, awesome guy willing to drive, naked and singing, all the way to Nevada and back.

I'm taking a blog vacation for the next week as we head out into the wild blue yonder for the Alvord Desert and the Burning Man festival.

There will be plenty to write about when we return, but until then, here's some soul food -- a sweet little dish that lifted me up and over a bump in the road the other day. Hot, simple, goodness. Garden fresh steamed buttered beets with salt and pepper. Pure love in a dish!

ps -- I'm working on a selection of stories for MindFuck Fiction that will have you running for the nearest meadow! Coming soon!

__________________

Top image -- Burning Man "Philosopher" found here.

Live Wrong

2009-08-24T10:36:00.000-07:00

A stiff wind blew my nipples hard. “Arrrggghhh! he said, “Aarrrrrgggghhh and ahoy!” The pirate King stood tall at the base of Cock Rock, pissing in the warm shallows, scratching his balls with my tongue and laughing my ass off.

“Oh, them are some hard nips me dirty little whore! Them are some ship-building nipples!”

Our laughing made the wind blow harder and toppled a few mountains and scared the eagles away.

Then we flopped like mud skippers into the dark, briny goo and scooted our bodies across the muddy, sandy flat, squinting and splashing. Animal dreams. Evolution fish re-entering the sea. No religious texts necessary. Just do it. Just did it. Live Strong. Live Wrong. My fingers opened and closed deep into the mud and I couldn’t stop the urge. I lobbed a mud bomb at the Pirate King’s back. Splat! Another one dirtied his ass. He returned fire, of course, with perfect aim.

We are turtles in the sun. We are monster sturgeon gliding along through the depths. We are the last creatures on earth. We are eating the sky with our laughing and tasting the earth with our toes.

I don’t ever want to leave. I want to go native. I want to bury all of my clothes in a deep, sandy hole and live in a tree above the dunes, spear fish, fuck endlessly, gather wild mint, roast roots over the fire, fart and scratch and kiss and spin ‘round and ‘round.

But we must depart and re-enter civilization. Thankfully, there is a strong, warm shoulder and a cool leather couch, and there is cuddling up to watch Young Frankenstein (Frahnk-en-steeeeen) all sleepy tired and happy relaxed with the Pirate King’s hands in the wench’s hair and we hang on tight to all the sweet, simple goodness because we can. And it’s good to relax because building ships with hard nipples is hard work.

It is good to drift awhile here with you and just be. Thankful.

The King and I

2009-08-18T16:22:00.000-07:00

Above: Portland Rose Garden at it's finest

Above: D.L. King at the Q Center in Portland

Sunday.

What weekend! The sun has busted out of a marine haze on the way to our reading at the Q Center in Portland last Sunday afternoon. We have a small but friendly audience. The amazing D.L. King and I read and, along with the others, BAK and our lovely friend E are here to cheer us on. The rest of the group is attentive and appreciative and I really enjoy talking to them afterwards. The Q Center space is bright and light, filled with gorgeous local art and great energy. I manage not to be too nervous. D.L., of course, is a polished pro. She reads her piece, "Tasting Chantal" from Girl Crazy and "The City Pony" by Roxy Katt from Where the Girls Are. Afterwards, we all tromp down the street to a little hipster bar for a round of spiiiiccccyyy Bloody Mary's. Yum!

Above: Some kind of amazing hangly dangly ginormous flower in the Portland Rose Garden's Shakespearean Garden

Above: Gina Marie, the writer also known as Kirsten Monroe, trying not to fidget

Sunday night.

I'm barefoot at "The Beach" (the name of BAK's palace of lust, snicker), the sun starting to set. BAK's apartment is filled with the sounds of youth, as we'd gathered our Burning Man entourage collective to discuss final travel and packing details. The rest of the group is very high energy, with no-one over the age of 19 in the bunch. There is laughing and chatting and suddenly I'm having this very surreal moment as I look over and see D.L. King sitting next to me in a low-slung beach chair eating macaroni salad and chicken legs. Soon after the "is this real" feeling returns when the teens are trying on their "Burn" masks that BAK and his daughter made out of hand painted cow skulls and bones. My mind flashes back to Roxy Katt's story and the leather-clad girl who's been locked into a horse head. I imagine us all walking into a restaurant in platform boots and skull masks. And leather collars, of course.

Monday.

The Portland Rose Garden is ABLOOM. The scent of a bazillion roses fills the air. Seriously. This is the Rose City at it's finest. Fine, very fine! After sniffing our way through the rows, we head down into the city. We zip over to Powell's City of Books where, I am very sorry to say, the erotica section sucks the big one! I did a little research and found that the stocking lists online do NOT match the shelves. Rrrrrrg! The only new erotica selection at the so-called book city was Susie Bright's "Bitten." Otherwise, the entire row was outdated. I'm on a mission now.

Above: The King and I

Monday afternoon.

A glass of Oregon pinot at the Beach and we're off to Seattle where we point out mountains to our friend from New York through the summer haze. We show D.L. the conservative wacko billboard and the Toutle River where piles of ash from the Mt. St. Helens volcano eruption in 1980 are still mounded along the shore. Traffic is a little slow but not too bad and we get there with time to spare. NOT! Turns out we are missing a single directional letter in our address for the Seattle Center for Sex Positive Culture and get a little lost. Just a little. Just a lot, actually, but it worked out juuuuussssst fine. That place is fucking awesome! Sex parties and events every night, a new dungeon, an old dungeon, bondage beds, sex swings, a medical play room, a huge library, and most of all, acceptance. For. All. The quote of the decade from our wonderful tour guide at the CSPC: "My daughter identifies herself as YES." Unfortunately, no-one shows up for the reading, but just seeing the place and a fun roadie is worth the trip. Thanks to BAK for driving, cooking, not texting while driving (much) and being so supportive of me and creativity in general.

**********************

The past weekend inspired to work a little harder to make some new writerly connections in the upcoming months, put more effort into getting my work out in the world of publishing, and keep stepping up to the podium, smut in hand, with confidence, like the brave, bold cowgirl that I really am inside.

___________________________

p.s. -- D.L., I am so sorry that I let that fucking little bird out of his cage and that he bit you on the neck. He has been taught a lesson. He is now wearing a black velvet collar that says, "Dirty Slut" spelled out in rhinestones and is being paraded about on a silver leash. The crows can't stop laughing.

Come play with me

2009-08-13T20:32:00.000-07:00

The weather is pissing me off. I love football. I love everything about it, watching and playing. A muddy, nasty, sweaty flag football game with the homies on Saturday morning is pure heaven. There's nothing like the sounds of a game and a party crowd and the kitchen table loaded with tailgate food. Better yet, a tailgate party at a big university (Go Ducks!) Nachos, lil' smokies, grilled brats, macaroni salad & homemade apple pie. Yum! Falling leaves, yes! Vineyard crushes, mmmm! Spiderwebs outlined with dew, so pretty! Artisan cheesemaking party in the buff, oh yeah! Fall is absolutely gorgeous and brilliant and fun and refreshing. But it's NOT autumn yet! Rain, rain, go away!

Thankfully, the sun and summer is expected to make a glorious return this weekend, which is critical since there is sand and olive oil and naked frisbee and much frolic in my future if the weather allows.

Just to make sure, here's a little something for the weather gods from the Alison Tyler contest archive. Some smut to keep fall at bay for just a little longer. Flannel and nuts. Girls and lust. Please? Pretty please? Just a little more summer? With a cherry on top?

Bushy fluff & goosedown

“The squirrels’ tails are extra bushy this year – just look at all that fluff.”

Lucy said this out loud while she walked arm-in-arm with Sasha to the café for their morning jolt.

“Yep,” Sasha said, kicking a rock off of the cracked sidewalk and the bushy fellow high-tailed it up a golden-leafed maple. “A fierce winter is on the way.”

“Is that why you’ve been crawling into bed all wrapped in flannel – all wrapped up like a Norwegian at sea?”

“Maybe. Our blankets are thin. I like to feel like I am inside of something. My dreams are cold and black and white without a wrapping. Read my dream journal if you’d like – my flannel dreams are all in color. I should be a goose.”

“Crawl inside of me – I’ll keep you warm.”

“Oh, you’re warm all right – but you’re like a hot flash. Burning hot, then cold. And snoring.”

“Skin against skin feels so good.”

“I agree. But I like my Technicolor dreams. I like to be tightly held.”

That night Sasha found their bed transformed. A thick down feather bed floated atop the mattress and was covered by a finely woven flannel sheet. Their pedestrian poly-fill pillows were replaced by enormous down beauties, cocooned in flannel. A down blanket and a down topper finished off the layer cake quality of the bed, piles of winter white meringue. Sasha shivered as Lucy slowly unbuttoned her flannel pajamas, the red ones with white stars, and flung her thick, wool socks to the corner. Lucy pulled back the top layers and nuzzled Sasha onto the feather bed, kissing her neck, wrapping her in soft skin, reaching, smiling at the soft, warm wetness between her legs.

“A pajama bed,” Lucy whispered as she kissed, inhaling the clean smell of new fabric and the perfume of their warm bodies, the soft cotton mounding up around them. “A pajama bed for two.”
_____________________________________

Anywhere near Portland or Seattle on Sunday & Monday? Come out and play and listen to some good, hot lesbian smut....while the sun (fingers crossed) is still shining. I'll be reading from my contribution to Girl Crazy ("Road Trip", written as Kirsten Monroe) edited by Sacchi Green.

I am so looking forward to meeting D.L. King who will be here in PDX and in Seattle! D.L. is promoting her book Where the Girls Are, along with Sacchi Green's Girl Crazy and Lesbian Cowboys. Yeeee-hawwww!

http://dlkingerotica.blogspot.com/2009/08/book-tour.html

Here's the scoop!!!

Portland
Sunday 8/16 @ 2pm
The Q Center
4115 N. Mississippi Avenue

Seattle
Monday 8/17 @ 7pm
Center for Sex Positive Culture
1602 15th Avenue

Top Photo: Me in my mullet wig, writing on the "bathroom wall" at a recent redneck/cocktail making competition known as the "Cockoff."

altocumular standing lenticularis

2009-08-10T23:31:00.000-07:00

"One interesting thing about lenticular clouds is that they look like they are perfectly stationary and frozen in time. You may also hear these clouds called altocumular standing lenticularis. They form when a current of moist air is forced upwards as it travels over a mountain, causing the moisture to condense and form a cloud. Sometimes the air is forced into a wave pattern, generating what is known as a wave cloud. Wave clouds can look like strings of discs spreading out from the leeward side of the mountain. They can also form miniature waves which sometimes look exactly like a choppy sea."
--Wisegeek.com

_____________________________

I was lying on my back tonight on the lawn of an amphitheater in the middle of farm country. Ferris Wheels and Zipper rides lit up the night sky. The long-haired, chain-smoking head banger crowd hummed with energy. I was barefoot with my boys, waiting for the show to start. Little white clouds hovered above the grassy slope where I lay, probably on the site of an old dairy farm. There was once a Dairy Princess competition in a town near here and the county fair still has a Dairy Women's milkshake booth. There was a Prune Queen too, but that's another story.

So I'm watching people eat nachos and fries and rock out and make out and the grass feels good on my toes and it's great to be jumping up and down to the beat with my kids, but I'm suddenly overcome with wanderlust. I'm wanting the burn of a hot sun. I want arid. I desire bleached bones. Stones. Mud. My toes are aching for cracked earth. My body wants to leave the rolling hills and head straight for the middle of a dust devil.

I'll be there soon -- the Alvord Desert, which is why my feet are itching. And the clouds have my heart longing. I dreamed about this place way back when.....and by some miracle I'll actually be there soon. For real. Just as I imagined, in the bitter cold of winter, under those claustrophobic clouds.

Alvord photo:

http://mountaintrailphoto.wordpress.com/2009/01/31/finding-yourself-in-photography/

Do it to it

2009-08-08T07:03:00.000-07:00

The temperature got up into the triple digits last week and without air conditioning it was HOT. Sweltering in my birthday suit on the leather couch, I looked up to see a beautiful man dangling the most perfect summertime treat over my face: An ice cold dill pickle. I will never forget being fed a cold pickle on a hot day.

Not too long ago BAK cooked up some lambchops with rosemary. They were small, thick chops. The fat around the edges was bubbling and perfectly browned, the meat juicy and done to perfection. He was naked in the kitchen, moving about easily, doing this, doing that. He doesn't clang pots and pans like I do. He never scorches. His portions are perfect. I read the New Yorker while he cooked. He delivered my plate and we ate stripped bare, white wine in pint glasses, on the floor. The rosemary infused lamb melted in my mouth and the love on my plate melted my heart.

Yep, BAK is VERY good in the kitchen and you won't be disappointed with his take on Rosemary at tomorrow's continuation of the Sunday Spice blog.

Pointing us earthlings in the right direction

2009-08-05T09:51:00.000-07:00

If you're not an earthling, who knows that effect the full moon tonight and a (Leo/Aquarius) lunar eclipse tomorrow night may mean for you. If you are alien, perhaps you will be pulled in the wrong direction, like towards the nearest McDonald's.

Tonight is the Sturgeon Moon, also known as the Green Corn Moon, officially and fully fat at 8:55 p.m. Eastern time. It will rise low in the sky, like a good summer moon does. I may not see it tonight if the clouds persist, but I'll be craning my neck around at dusk, just in case.

Astrologists say this full moon represents the heart, completion, culmination, and change, and that the eclipse acts as a catalyst, "pointing us earthlings in the right direction."

Not too sure about all that, but today is packing day. Tomorrow is moving day. And Friday is birthday. Maybe those skywatchers know a thing or two.

Look up, do a dance & soak up some moonbeams!

Sweet porch dreams

I dreamed I was in a harem

of one. Well, me and a thousand

fantasies, drifting on clouds

of silk into that purple space

between sleep and wake, moaning Chinese
chimes the encore to the King's lullabye.

Rising in the night, thirsty

I look down at your sleeping form

for the longest time, skin glazed
with soft lamplight, body stark

against blue cotton quilt

blanketed beneath thick summer air,
soft and vulnerable. Your form familiar yet so
exotic, a reality difficult to grasp,
even in the midnight hours.

Summer nights belong to us,

belong to the Us that lives more boldly,

more lavishly than We or You or Me.

Summer nights belong to the harem girl

and her king, to lullabyes, fantasies, and
moaning chimes, to summer moon and cosmic dust
and the most precious gift, time standing still.

____________________

Full moon photo: Mr. Moon at Deviant Art

Lust, fingertips, and sacred bits

2009-08-01T08:37:00.000-07:00

If there is one herb that evokes in me a feeling of desire, it is Basil. Perhaps it is the pungency of it's aroma, it's application in an international selection of dishes from Asian to Italian, and the way it symbolizes sensuality and summertime. Basil has a way of clinging to fingertips, then transferring it's perfume onto skin.....as long as the cook and her lover are making good use of the kitchen.

"There is an Italian superstition that basil, which symbolizes love, doubles the size of the male organ, which may partially account for the heavy use of this herb in Italy. The aromatic herb is also embloyed in voodoo love magic ceremonies, in which it is associated with Erzulie, the Haitian sex goddess."

--Lewd Food, The Complete Guide to Aphrodisiac Edibles

Well! I knew there was something sacred and magic about basil! I can't wait to learn more tomorrow at Marina's Spicy Sunday extravaganza!

http://marinastclare.blogspot.com/

_________________________

Image above: Erzulie

P.S. Stay Tuned: There is a full moon, a lunar eclipse, and a naked sushi body buffet in our future.