Viewing the local antiquities

The index 

I run my finger down memories, points of contact, and flip her open like a book, right to the spot that I marked.

It's erotic, I find, indexing: For me, memory speaks; and you, I imagine, you're led on to explore varied pleasures:

Smell of iron, pink light, splashing water, a sound thwack, the curve of the world, her cries, ringing bells:

It's easy to find what we want, when we want it, given an index.

What's most important isn't always on top, or what happened today.


My head aches, 
like my right sinus is blocked, but I'm hoping Angel can give me a skull massage, and besides the Viagra is already working.

When I block out time for whoring, I almost always go forward and keep my mental appointment, no matter what my feelings are, when I have the money in my pocket. Sheer obstinacy? "Time's winged chariot"?

I guess we'll see how it goes.


Tag: .

"All my life" 
Down the red-carpeted hall to the shower room:

"I come from far away." High-pitched; the tone she would use to show deference in her culture?



I'm on all fours, she's behind me, pegging me with her finger: Her probing lacks ruthlessness, lacks reciprocation, even when I push my ass back, but now, as I spasm, spurt, leap, she keeps jerking me off with her warmoiled spoogey grasping left hand, pegging me with her right index, even as I'm gasping and trying to crawl away from the pleasure.

Thank God she laid down a towel.

"It's no good."

As with her sisters, her cube-mates, we went through the changes: Her on top, doggy style, finally missionary. And though I was hard, and though she was active and her flesh gave good sound, even though she gave me some vocalization, I just couldn't come.

Pulling out carefully, I slide down the bed, stretch out between her legs, lay my head on her breast. She links both arms round my shoulders.

"All my life I have always come two times. The first time, quick; the second time, slow. I don't know why I can't anymore. Can you help me?"

High-pitched: "You need to make sperm. After the first time, you need to make sperm, and then you can come. Next time, I give long massage, and your balls can make enough sperm."

"What's your name?"



That moment 
when she's lying on her back and lifts her pelvis to let you slide down her panties never happens with a whore: Far too inefficient. And the panties would wear out too fast.


She went out and got a hot towel, 
came back, cleaned me off, hardened me up again right away, clambered on top, put me up her, and started to grind.

It didn't do a lot for me: I had that kind of erection where, when I lift her off and check with my hand, I'm three-quarters hard:

Slightly floppy.

Though she was the right size, Lan's size, half-hard I stayed: We tried doggy style, but though she gave me good sound, nothing sweetened; we tried missionary, but to me that started feeling like work; she said "Let's try this," put her legs together, I suppose to tighten herself, then put me in her again, and on and on and on I worked—



"It's not going to happen. We started too soon."

All my life I've always come twice: Once fast, then more slowly. But this time plus Tina makes two times I've had a quick come, and then nothing.

It could be that we started too soon.

It could be that she, with lube and hard use, was slightly too loose and I, lacking Viagra, was slightly too soft, and the friction was not up to spec.

Stress at work?

Too much weight?

Jennifer never returning?

Am I losing my strength?


Tags: ; ; .

The lesser reciprocations. 

These are the ten lesser reciprocations:

1. Her bobbing crest
2. My swinging balls
3. Her bouncing tits
4. The squeaking springs
5. The jouncing bed
6. The headboard banging on the wall
7. The tinkling ice in the glass on the nightstand
8. The lump of jade on the thin gold chain round her neck
9. Our sighs
10. Our beating hearts.

Other related things.


Writing is work. 

These fragments are prose, and not lyrics. If there was singing to do, I did not do it. So I should be able to emulate my whores and work whether I feel like it or not.

Two johns a day, and in three months you have the down payment on a condo or a year's tuition.

Two pages a day, and in six months you have a book.



This year I didn't rent a fan.

It's July, and the room has no air, and the flimsy curtains hang slack at the open window, 17 floors up on The Mountain. From below, student laughter. They chat, play guitar, they call to each other across the quad. In my tiny single room a commode with a sink, the free-standing closet, the narrow bed with thin covers.

A first Room of One's Own to some provincial achiever...

To the left and the right, summer school students, studying late. Cathy knocks:

Dark curly hair; simple blue and white polka dot blouse, navy skirt: flip-flops. A straw bag with a plastic daisy and (when I look later) a French paperback novel inside. But she doesn't have change for {200}.

We wait for the driver, and I make conversation, halting. She wipes her forehead, throat with a towel from the commode:

"Can't you get a fan?"

But sitting back down on the bed, she rests her back against the wall and, as if demurely, raises her skirt, about an eighth of an inch up. I run my eyes up from her toes to her eyes. The driver knocks, after an age.

"You're hot, irritated. You don't want to do this. Keep the money."


She submits to having her nipples hardened, though she's tense, and soon she's on top, posting, but—

"My thighs are tired."

A hand to her haunch gets her up on all fours, and her head toward the window curtains: She gives me the line of her back and her neck while I climb up behind her. I've made appointments through Luther before, and they're all young, all tight, all well trained to give me just the right angle; he must be my height—

I accelerate: My balls start to swing: I'm panting, her flesh starts to give me good sound—


And I start laughing—the idea that I would so lose control as to vocalize:

"La— pul— sion—," she explains, from beneath. And ahead.

She's young; bonne élevé; she's a student; perhaps she has peers in the dorm; someone might hear her, or see her leaving.

Cathy smooths down her dress, cracks the door, and slips out.


THE FOUR SEASONS: Spring, summmer, fall, winter.

The "personal" 
is the political. Eh?


All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons License.

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours? Cunning Linguists Image hosted by Photobucket.com Blogarama - The Blog Directory Listed on BlogShares Listed on BlogsCanada

Where viewers come from:
Locations of visitors to this page
Auto-updated daily since 27-12-04

eXTReMe Tracker