Vitis Coffea, Part II

*continued from Vitis Coffea, Part I
*adult content

There was no other way to put it... she was dressed to kill. The day after following him on the beach, she put on a sleek black dress and waited for him outside of the lobby. In French, she interrupted his reading of an English newspaper and asked him for the time. He responded politely and feigned a lack of notice of her figure, but a momentary widening of eyes betrayed him, and she could feel those eyes long after she said merci, monsieur and walked away.

As she hurried back to her hotel and changed for the day's work - the trip to Marseilles was not for fun and games, after all - she noted that he had an excellent French accent, but spoke horrible French. She also thought she saw an unsure recognition. Perhaps he did remember her from the night in the club, when he seemed so out of place, yet so exactly where he should be. Whether he did or not didn't really factor into her plan. If it did, she'd have given him more time to figure it out. Even so, she had made sure she wore the same perfume and made equally sure that he could smell it when he checked his watch for her.

***

"Hate to bother you... again, but what's the time?" English, this time. Already dressed for work, it is no accident that her jacket is unbuttoned, her skirt hiked just a little extra, and her choice of tank top just a little tight.

"Ah..." He's perplexed. She smiles her beautiful smile, knowing he definitely remembers her now. "7:17. How did you know I speak English?" It is a subtle English accent. Weak, almost non-native to England.

She taps his newspaper, The Daily Telegraph.

"Have we met?" he asks. "Before yesterday, I mean."

"Yes," she replies, beginning her walk away, "we have."

A small smile curves into existence on the right side of his mouth. He's not going to give chase, because he knows he'll see her again. "What's your name?"

"Alex." It's as if she were yelling out to everyone. Then again, she may have been.

***

They enjoy a lunch together, seated at a windowed table near the front of the restaurant. She planned to request an outside seat, but it's a bit chilly today and she doesn't want to appear too aggressive in spite of her aggression. Americans have a reputation of arrogance and she wants none - neither him, nor any witnesses - to come away from her with that impression. She's meticulous in her listening. Japanese grandparents immigrated to England, their London-born son marrying an American exchange student, and time spent at school in the United States. The sadness from the beach seems mostly gone and he's comfortable in his general loquaciousness. She loves to hear him talk, loves his voice as she spices up her mood with a few glasses of a house wine.

While he talks, politely attempting to keep his attention away from anything below her neck - and, indeed, from her neck as well... he finds its smooth perfection rather irresistible in itself - she moves her torso and legs in a way that makes it more than clear that she's wearing nothing underneath. As they leave, she imagines that were he to follow her, they could find some little used corridor and enjoy a flip of her skirt. But she will not let him, not today. Today, she repays his prior lack of notice with a tease. And an unspoken promise.

***

A promise kept under a loss of inhibitions, inspired by her Château Pétrus. Conversation as mere protocol lost beneath the wine-flushed burn of two distinct skin tones. Milliliters remaining mimicked by the millimeters separating the inevitable. And the bottle, now empty, a false reflection of a body filled with that of another's. It is a vintage lust, aged to perfection by her vinified patience. An uncorked pouring of emotion worth waiting for. It is a sommelier's intercourse, a matching so perfect and a coupling so expert that its execution need little conscious attention. This evening's specifics will mostly fail in memory, but its impressions will forever succeed in their imaginations.

***

She can't sleep. She lies on her side, staring out the open window overlooking Vieux Port, listening to his sleep-heavy breathing and feeling the warm exhale on the back of her neck. His arms wrapped around her, their bodies aligned perfectly in mock fetal positions. A smile from noticing that he's still aroused... whether by dream or residual thought makes no difference to her. She can't help burying her face in her pillow in attempts to hide uncontrollable giggles and an embarrassingly wide smile that she knows nobody can see. She had feared regret from effectively forcing this night, but none manifested. It all - everything about it - seems too right.

An inadvertent squeezing of her legs together fosters an unconscious reaction. She covers her smile with her hand as she's gently pushed onto her stomach. Feeling him on top of her, she widens her legs a bit to allow him in. His hands, childishly, caress her buttocks for a few moments before they graciously and gratefully begin a massage of her shoulders. The massage is more than enough to wet her and his penetration is a smooth and breathtaking glide. There is gentle teasing as he bites her neck with his lips and exposes her moon-reflected skin while shifting her beautiful hair to his pillow. Unlike before, sobriety ensures memory will be perceived accurately, and both carefully consider their movements, showing the other how much they want this to last forever.

A purposeful squeezing of her legs percolates a wine that he doesn't hesitate to taste. He looks up into her eyes and she makes another unspoken promise... this one to return the favor. And it is kept. Wines and sweat come together in the most intoxicating of cocktails. Her smile is omnipresent and only a sensual bite on her nipple convinces her that this not a dream.

***

She wakes up alone and a second that could've given away to panic instead remains calm. She hears him in the kitchenette, moving about. There's a scent in the air, one as comforting as it is encouraging. He has, obviously, no intention to leave.

"What were you doing at the beach the other day?"

He pops his head into the bedroom, an expression of curious satisfaction. "I'm sorry?"

"The beach. You seemed so sad."

His expression shifts to concern, though the curiosity amplifies. Her words clear implications that this - for him, anyway - was not pure serendipity. He disappears behind the door and another second that could've given away to fear also remains calm. He's returned to his task at hand. "I was," comes the muffled reply.

She rolls over onto her back and breathes a sigh of relief. "Why?"

Entering the bedroom holding two coffee mugs, he hands her one and sits on the edge of the bed. Her eyes brighten and she grabs it with both hands, hiding still another smile in a sip of local roast.

"I was wondering if I'd ever find you."

The schoolgirl giddiness overcomes her and she spasms uncontrollably in sheer joy. Lunging forward, she discovers that coffee tastes much better when poured from his lips.

Vitis Coffea, Part I

The Asian was hopelessly drunk the night they danced together, so she prepares to remind him of her name. She does not, however, prepare for his complete lack of recognition. Of course, a little tipsy herself that night, a small possibility exists that this is not the same man. Still, she is certain of his identity and the memory of first noticing him is a sober one. Or is it? Yes, of course it is. The momentary confusion exists only due to the badly lit club allowing his face to disappear in a sea of faces.

Lying prone on a towel at a small beach near La Pointe Rouge harbor, she watches as he walks by her and continues down the sand. The sweat on her skin, just on the pale side of a golden brown, glistens with disappointment. Removing her bun, then sweeping her dark brown hair from her face, she nudges her black Prada sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and takes another look. A gentle breeze carries a few shoulder-length strands of hair, as if gesturing to follow, while the rest of her longer hair caresses her back and assures her that, yes, it is him.

She exhales slowly, cautiously reexamining her attraction to him that night. She wants to think that it was probably just of the moment, lust enhanced by being in a foreign country, and that she imagined the shock at seeing him. C'est la vie and all. But she believes too much in serendipity and can't shake it. He's been in her dreams for years. Someone like him, anyway. Someone who looks very much like him.

Standing, she pulls a light and dark-brown patterned sarong out of her beach bag and wraps it around her waist. Nervous of her conscious decision to pursue him, she hesitates before donning her black shirt. She picks the towel up and pops it clean. Securing her sandals in her right hand, she rolls the towel and shoves it in her bag while trying futilely not to appear to be in a hurry.

Thankfully, the Asian moves slowly, eyes to the ground, pausing every few steps to look out at the Mediterranean. Finally, he sits in the sand and stares at the horizon. Again questioning her own intent, she considers approaching him... instead, she maintains safe distance, finding a bench farther from the water and pretending to share the view. He seems sad, somehow. Alone. But maybe that's how he prefers it. Or, maybe, the sunset reminds him of a broken heart patiently awaiting a new dawn. Smiling inwardly at the thought, she places her sunglasses in her bag and watches the horizon fade as sky darkens into sea, the water's surface penetrated by a retreating twilight.

She's no idea what either of them are doing there.

***

Unsure of whether to let it - him - go or not, she listens to the sounds of the city and absorbs herself into their chaotic consistency. The vehicles of passersby mimicking the flutters in her stomach. Why not? deafens any question of why?

He sat there for hours, and so did she. Even when the cool sea air began to arouse goosebumps on her skin - she blamed it on the sea air, though his silhouette certainly may have been a cause - she waited. Even when he lay on the beach - awake, but motionless - she waited.

By the time he finally leaves, she's realized that something is wrong. Not with her, nor with him, but with the moment. She's caught up too eagerly in her desire, and he's caught up too introspectively in his mystery. Her intent to approach abandoned, she follows him to learn where to find him. Almost as in a film, two taxis pull up almost simultaneously and she orders the driver of hers - in her limited French - to follow the other.

She is joyous to discover serendipity again with her; he's staying at the Oceania Escale, just around the corner from the Kyriad Carré Vieux Port... her hotel.

Later, in her room, she enjoys a bottle of Château Pétrus, a congratulatory gift from her mother in San Diego. Merlot, she finds, warms her nicely. A chemical foreplay for the most devious and long-awaited seduction of her life. She wanted to wait for his touch, should it ever come, but she soon finds herself enjoying her own. There is a youthful and reckless abandon in the way she uses her hands and fingers, but the whole of her mind and body are smiling in unison, and she can't but help bring them to laughter.

As she fades into sleep, she dreams of tomorrow. It will be the start, no doubt, of one of the most memorable experiences she'll ever have.

*continued in Vitis Coffea, Part II

Gravity

He realizes as he stares up at her that there is no word for her. Gorgeous comes close, but is too superficial. Beautiful, though accurate, misses something. He realizes as he stares down at her that a word is not necessary. Her landscape is perfect with its imperfections. He realizes as he stares up at her that she is the word. Constantly at the tip of his tongue, caught between speech and taste.

She's timid in the light, hurrying to wrap the bed sheet around her body. The way the fabric sticks to her curves, caught within the gravity of her sweat, keeps him aroused. He can think of nothing, except what she wants him to think. She turns off the light and the sheet morphs into wings, carrying her gently through the air as she lands gently on top of him.

He's never had a coherent conversation during sex before, but somehow she manages to separate his mind from his body, arousing each in simultaneous and distinct ways. His body, grounded, feels the physical pleasures of hers. Her brunette hair shifting lightly against his stomach and his legs. Guided hands guiding in turn. At the tip of her tongue, caught between speech and taste.

His mind, aloft, races to comprehend just how wonderful she is. Though that word, too, fails. He often dreams of flying and this is what it feels like. Even with eyes closed he knows she's looking up at him. There's a smile in her eyes that he can hear. She is the top of his world, and he is upside down.

The climb begins. Soft curves slide into place  A mouth waters another, both now silent and tasting of each. Her hair shifting lightly against his face. Her wings fall to the side and he carries her gently through the air as he lands gently within her. Guided hands on hips, then guiding other hands. At the top of the world, caught between the sky and the sea. A word finally comes to him... she is fluid. Snow on a mountain finding its way home to the rivers below. And he must drink.

***

He wakes up, quite literally from the dream. That her shoes remain safely and comfortably on the floor lets him know... quite figuratively, as well.

Arson

flick, switch
match strike
bursts of flame
quench
lustful thirsts
her room afire
beneath his passion
though wet
not water
lovers burn
to the ground

The Storms of Dust, Part I

*a sequel to A Dragon in Winter. Fair warning: adult content.

Áfastr is, indeed, a long way from home. He's survived many a storm, flurry, and blizzard, of water, snow, and even ice. But this is his first time in a sandstorm.

Long separated from his brother, Afvaldr, and regretting the decision to not switch his horse out for a local dromedary, Áfastr sits nearly defeated on a small slope comprised of sand. He feels the loose earth beneath him shifting, but he doesn't care. With his back to the wind and wrapped in local garb that offers his body some protection from the storm - he's thankful that he agreed to that, at least - he holds a torn parchment in his hand.

Oh, lover, my lover... your presence; missed
remember, our last kiss? I cried; realized bliss
as sweat replaced the scent of perfumed mist
and our hearts collided between the touch of hips

He can't see the words, of course, for the sand and dust blot out the sun, and the constant barrage of rock and mineral particles encourages him to keep his eyes closed. But it's no matter; Áfastr's long since memorized the poem Kolfrosta gave to him the day their quest forced their paths to split. Though, in Áfastr's opinion, it's not a particularly good poem, it is unforgettable. For even stronger in his memory - if such a thing were possible - is what the poem is about.

***

It happened over two months ago, when they were still in the Hellenes. Líknvé had arranged for an audience with the Attican Ecclesia, an audience that Áfastr and his brother were not allowed to attend, despite their purported Hellenic ancestry. Not that it mattered, for neither brother spoke the language. That Líknvé did might have been a surprise, but the old woman's revelations had ceased to surprise him long before they passed the Dinarides Mountains on their way to the Hellenes.

Kolfrosta, however, was allowed to attend. Though she did not, to Áfastr's knowledge, speak the language either, Líknvé was resolute in her determination to teach Kolfrosta everything she knew. It was obvious to  Áfastr that the old woman was grooming a protégé, though doing so without the permission of Kolfrosta's father was a severe breach of Northmen protocol. Líknvé's attitude that it was okay since Kolfrosta's father was not around to object offended Áfastr greatly, but it was not the place for a 24-year old Northman hunter to rebuke the actions of an adviser to his King.

So, Áfastr and Afvaldr waited in quarters provided to each of them by the Hellenes. Áfastr's preference was to share a room with his brother, for Áfastr was uneasy with being a stranger in a strange land, but their hosts wouldn't allow it. The Hellenes, too, were leery of their strange guests and felt that segregation would provide better security for all parties by eliminating as many misunderstandings as possible. Never one to dwell on being at the whim of others, Áfastr quickly fell asleep.

Just before dawn, he was awakened by Hellene slaves bringing breakfast and local attire. To his surprise, Kolfrosta, dressed in a red peplos, accompanied them. Though Áfastr had previously joked that Hellenic garments reminded him of cheap drapery, he was overwhelmed with the realization that he'd never seen Kolfrosta so... exquisitely beautiful.

Kolfrosta easily noticed Áfastr's attention and partially hid her smile. "What is it?" she asked. To Áfastr, her tone was that of Líknvé's: playful, yet subversively manipulative. The old woman had been training her well. Before he could answer, Kolfrosta continued. "You should put those on," she said, pointing to the Hellenic clothes.

"Why?" His own tone caused Áfastr to wince. It was immature and lacking thought. Kolfrosta's new grin might have angered him, but he was still half-entranced by her beauty. The red of the peplos was a striking and complementary contrast to her black hair and slightly bronzed skin. He always remembered her with pale skin, however, though her skin took to the southern sun much more readily than his own.

"Líknvé convinced the Hellenes to help us," Kolfrosta replied, more seriously. "They know a lot more about these creatures than we do, and guides are being summoned to take us to the Abyss."

Though Áfastr had no idea what the Abyss was, he knew he didn't like the sound of it. Kolfrosta sensed his momentary fear and waited for the slaves to leave. When they did, she picked up the garments left for Áfastr and motioned for him to follow her.

"Where are you going?" Áfastr hadn't noticed her gesture.

"To my room. It's more secure and less-likely to be eavesdropped." Áfastr watched Kolfrosta's body carefully as she exited.  She paused in the doorway, nodded to a Hellene guard, and gave Áfastr enough time to enjoy her silhouette. "Come on," she finally said, "we're wasting the morning."

There was something in Kolfrosta's voice that spurred Áfastr's compliance.

***

The first thing Áfastr noticed about Kolfrosta's quarters was that they were much more elaborate than his. Where he had a simple room with a small window, Kolfrosta had multi-chambered quarters that not only offered expansive views of the city, but a balcony overlooking the square below.

The second thing he noticed was the odor.

"What's that smell?" he asked, as Kolfrosta worked her way into the bed chamber, placing his clothes on a small table near the bed.

She turned and smiled. "The bed's been perfumed with herbs and spices. Cinnamon, myrrh, aloe. It's some custom they have."

Wanting to ask why - for it seemed more a cooking pot than a bed - he instead asked, "Cinnamon?"

She approached him, moving slowly, her eyes on his. "A rare spice. From an island world far to the east."

Áfastr was about to admit that the odor was rather pleasant, but Kolfrosta's inexplicable disrobing and her sudden kiss froze him in place.

***

Kolfrosta alternated between aggressive and submissive, and Áfastr was taken aback by the shifting. It took mere seconds to maneuver Áfastr to the bed and remove his clothing. Initially, Áfastr didn't know what to do, but Kolfrosta's aggressiveness was more than enough to disguise Áfastr's indecision and the confusion only made the situation more exciting. There was a hint of embarrassment from both of them. Áfastr was a virgin, and he was under the impression that Kolfrosta was, as well, but as she took him into her mouth, he began to doubt that. Encroached anger burst and dissipated at the softness of Kolfrosta's lips and the tip of her tongue before Áfastr had a chance to protest. A gentle suction removed any thought of resistance from Áfastr's mind. Oddly enough, he kept his eyes mostly closed, preferring to imagine Kolfrosta still wearing the red peplos instead of gazing upon her nude form. Perhaps it was because he was unsure any of this was really happening, or perhaps the scent of sex among cinnamon was stronger when voluntarily blind. Whatever the reason, he was in his own paradise. And with the very woman he desired to be in it with.

As the morning progressed, Áfastr experienced many sensations that he, up until then, had only imagined. The dry-wet of Kolfrosta's mouth, both on his own lips and his phallic heartbeat; the smooth thrust into her vagina and the gentle pull out as she flexed invisible pelvic muscles; the sensation of acidic fluids down his erection and into his mouth; the ticklish and arousing caress of erect nipples brushing his torso. There was some brief discomfort, when Kolfrosta, still mounting him, turned around and faced away. As she leaned forward, bending part of him downward with her, she commanded him to penetrate her with a thumb. Were Áfastr sound of mind at that moment, he'd have refused, but she played his body and desires like a Hellenic minstrel played a lyre.

He learned, very quickly, that he preferred to be on top. While on top, he learned that he preferred Kolfrosta to be flat on her stomach. He didn't know if it was the soft impact of her buttocks against his pelvis, or the fact that she turned her head and looked back upon him as if he were some sort of god, but the position was undeniably the most arousing to him.

Whatever the case, when the act was over and Áfastr and Kolfrosta embraced, covered in the dust of perfume and the moisture of sweat, he decided to ask Kolfrosta to betroth him.

He had not been ready for her response.

"No."

*** 

*continued in The Storms of Dust, Part II

Amid Hints of Sensation

Natalie stares at the dress as it lies on the floor. It is a reflective and questioning stare, and one unlikely to ever provide a satisfactory answer. A piece of woven evidence to what transpired the night before. Still stunned and lacking any other reaction, she picks it up and examines it.

The stain on the dress is not hers. Hidden amid the black and white polka dots, Natalie can only imagine what her roommate might say - or worse, ask - were it more obvious. She bundles it to further hide the spot, hoping to prevent any possible revelation to any possible visitor, blithely unaware that her confused but all too revealing smile is cause enough to elicit questioning. Feeling the grin, Natalie raises the dress to cover her face, unsure if shame should be the proper reaction. For though the stain is not hers, the dress most certainly is. It is then she notices the scent, and her inhibitions of both posture and memory suddenly find themselves with no desire to hold.

She remembers the seduction and everything about it. The tastes, the smells, the communication with the eyes and the alarming lack of spoken word. Natalie loves men, and never imagined herself in such a situation, but she fell victim of someone who had done this before... someone who knew how to use strangeness to reinforce one's sexuality by forcing them to break it. Its effectiveness was quick and more than a little startling, but as she tasted the lipstick of another amid hints of raspberry schnapps and strawberry vodka, the fear and exhilaration mixed themselves into an inebriation that no form of alcohol had any hope of inducing.

In the name of cautious experimentation, she obeyed the order of her temporary lover to unbutton the blouse that covered a body so similar to her own. Recalling a technique favored by her boyfriends, she paused to taste the perceived but nonexistent flavor of a woman's nipples. Natalie herself preferred gentle handling of her bosom, but Stephanie wanted to be bitten, and Natalie complied. Again mimicking the motions of men, her hands immediately wandered to lower places. Stephanie, however, stopped her and teasingly chided Natalie to have patience. Natalie felt that it was a violent patience, this forced extension of tactile lingering, but as she became overwhelmed with an understanding of what men experience when every inch of them reveals a heartbeat, she knew that the violence would resolve itself in ecstasy.

Briefly, Natalie separated herself from the moment and asked if she, too, should undress. The answer revealed itself in Stephanie's finger to Natalie's mouth, followed by an at-once gentle and rough push to the bed. Slowly, reassuringly, Stephanie straddled Natalie's left thigh and began to oscillate back and forth, gently squeezing her own thighs together in a rhythm timed to her own needs. Natalie gasped as Stephanie's left hand found its way in accompaniment, as if a master conductor in a finely balanced orchestra. Though this overture would not end in fanfare, but in a pouring out, both of emotion and fluids. A final allegro whose only written note would be a stain hidden amid the polka dots of a dress.

Afterward, when Stephanie had left, drunk with both alcoholic spirit and satisfaction, Natalie let it all sink in. Her upbringing caused her to feel a certain dirtiness with what she just did, and she took an extended shower in an attempt to wash off the mental filth. But the filth wouldn't go away, and she found herself more and more aroused as she thought about it, an arousal that soon took over the original purpose of the shower.

No, she decides, continuing to hold the dress near her smile. She should not feel dirty, nor will she. Despite the new memories she will forever willingly relive, she knows who she is and what she wants to make her happy. That she delved into something else has no bearing on that.

Still, she finds herself enjoying the scent of her dress. Perhaps she will wait until tomorrow to do the laundry.

Linger

A foot falls, then another. Timed to the breathing of approaching surprise. Ambient sound creates shadows in which to safely exhale. The gentle beating of a ceiling fan whips the air, further inhibiting the long-obsolesced ability to feel movement. Her silhouette, perfectly curved in the dark, tunes itself to the music of this silent dance. A foot falls... then another.

Hands reach around her body and one rests above her heart. Beats skip between a sudden inhalation, then gradually relax. The smell of temporary fear escapes her neck and is tasted. She attempts to turn, but the embrace holds firm and she closes her eyes in the dark. A free hand feels its way and lifts too many folds of a dress. The spider feels its prey struggle in its web, vibrations eliciting a sensation akin to hunger. Thumb and forefinger intrude cloth seams and revel for a moment in enveloping moisture. Beats skip... then relax.

Bodies dance to a song of breath and gasp, almost in unison, but one a half-beat behind the other. Hands rest above the hips of a lover, still hidden beneath her dress. A delicate push followed by gentle pull. She smiles as she tenses, hearing a heartbeat behind her and feeling it between her. Slowly, she adds a sway to the tango. Vertigo replaces balance as movement becomes an exercise in chaotic futility. Delicate push... gentle pull.

Spasms replace vertigo and there's a final pull accompanied by two final gasps. More beats skip, then relax. A foot falls, then another. By the time she turns around and opens her eyes, she's alone again... a silhouette in love with a rhythm of far away.

A Kiss by Extension

His hands move slowly, aware of her heightened sensitivities. Lips place themselves against lips, resistant at first, but gradually relaxing. There's a hint that he's tasting her, though she's not quite ready to return the sensation. A tongue rolls gently in circular motion, offering subdued exhilaration in its attempt to encourage. He wants more, but she's unsure.

Her breath is erratic and a gasp further elicits his arousal. She wants time to inhale, exhale, but he will not give it to her. Hands begin to wander, aimlessly, but with determined purpose. Her back arches and her body stretches out... he enjoys the scent of hair as oxygen is temporarily displaced by lust.

This could be a dream, but it's very real. He briefly considers a gentle bite, but decides against it. Complete trust has yet to be earned. She moans as his lips make a promise to return. Her emotions are raw before him, and he wants to see them. Another moan signals an impatience, and he keeps his promise.

He caresses the length of her legs and becomes subtly aware of feet curling in ecstasy. She quivers. The thought occurs to him that her strong thighs, warm as they are against his neck, could easily kill him. But such a threat is hardly enough to stop the kiss.

When she can take no more, he glides across her torso and whispers something that makes her smile. Sliding into one, she's finally ready. His mouth is familiar, but the taste is different. His lips tastes of woman, of herself, a burning confusion fueled by the fade from paramour into lover.

Push

There's both a shy and aggressive nervousness in fumbling around in the dark. Lips struggle to stay locked together as two bodies sway clumsily around the room, as if separation might signal the end to it all. A subtle scent of alcohol mixes with faded perfume and cologne and only adds to the vertigo. The edge of a bed strikes the back of knees in silk stockings, and the free fall begins.

Her face glows in the dark, blue-white silhouette beneath an intent so longing and sinister. A turn of her head shifts hair and exposes the sensitive skin of her neck. Caution thrown to the wind as a well-placed kiss elicits both a gasp and a simper. There's chaos in every movement of hand and finger, though shadows make it appear choreographed.

An overpowering instant of lust tears apart her blouse, and an errant button is heard impacting the floor. Dexterity quickly learned results in the rest of her clothing falling to the bedside. A pause. Curves in ambient light burn in memory an image of forever. She inhales every time she's touched, her eyes closed, yet seeing everything. Subtle smiles at the corners of her mouth help light the way.

She radiates a seductive warmth, causing nervousness to slowly give way to confidence. Minuscule beads of sweat pretend to rain. Hands slide from hip to waist, confirming what the eyes do not quite believe. Woman. Beauty. Ecstasy. A forced patience almost collapses under perceived weightlessness. Resolve prevails, however, and every inch is explored before the free fall continues.

Her skin is smooth and played as a piano. Fingers traverse its length, tones shifting from left to right, top to bottom. Dance and music deceptively combined in lustful art, soft colors in all the right places. In the center of it all, another pause. A childish abandon overwhelms as a belly's button is tasted and teased. Another smile succeeds in extending the teasing, but fails to prevent the touch and taste of something so personal.

It was only a matter of time. There's one more button left as bodies finally align, and she very much wants it pushed.

End of Year Conspiracies

I have recently uncovered some conspiracies. They are all true. I have the evidence. I swear.

1. Pepsi is owned by Colombian drug lords. They were going to buy Coca-Cola instead, but thought it too obvious.

2. The Bush family selected their last name so they could remember the area to aim for when having sex. Apparently, some of their ancestors were "challenged."

3. Barbie left Ken for a simple reason: she already got his rib and he has no balls. Why wouldn't she?

4. 2000 Flushes was created by women to expose men with a lower sense of humor. Yellow and blue make green make dumb pissing guy laugh.

5. Barack Obama's real name is Benedict Arnold, but he "ethnicized it" in order to pull votes and keep people from asking questions about his past. Not sure that worked...

6. A woman's anus is right next to her vagina in order to prove how disgusting men are. And how much they like being disgusting. Love it, in fact. Oh, yeah.

7. Global Warming started out as a secret government project intent on preventing an encroaching ice age. Only they fucked up, and like a typical government screw up, decided to guilt the populace into taking the blame for it.

8. Circumcision was made popular because Abraham's wife decided she didn't like getting foreskin stuck in her teeth.

9. NASA's decision to send a chimp into space first was actually an attempt to convince the Soviet Union that the Space Race wasn't worth the effort. They were trying to imply that "hey, a chimp can do it; what's the big deal?" It failed miserably.

10. The real man behind the JFK assassination was

Dying Happy, Inc.

Everyone wants to die happy, right? Sure, by "dying happy," people usually mean they want to die having lived a full life, with a strong family and/or most of the goals they set for themselves accomplished.

But what about the actual death part? Why not "die happy?" And, no, I'm not talking about hearing harps playing, seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, or reliving the moment you lost your virginity.

Well, actually...

Why doesn't someone invent a machine that gives a person an instant orgasm when they experience, say, a heart attack or other mortal shock? Think about it. You're 85, out for a jog since you're trying to "stay young," and suddenly your left arm feels heavy. You're in your jogging shorts, so you don't have your cell phone, and nobody else is around or paying you any mind. And then you collapse.

Now, normally, you'd just lay there, dying in agony as you wait in vain for someone to help, but with the H-DOI (Happy Death Orgasm Initiator), you instead experience the all-encompassing orgasm you've never experienced before in your life. Instant hard-on, instant wet, followed by an instant ejaculation and the sensation of riding a rocket to the moon. G-spot's got nothing on this. You just died with a smile on your face.

Wouldn't that rock? Can you imagine a person opting for an H-DOI instead of a pacemaker? Or an H-DOI instead of an organ transplant? Ah, the possibilities.

So, I put out a challenge to all of you bio-engineers and medical scientists: create the H-DOI, and let humanity all die with a smile on its face.

Insane Insomnia

Wondering why I'm not asleep? I'll tell you, as you think of how Froot Loops transcended just being orange, lemon, and cherry when you were little. I'm bored, basically... too bored to sleep. Well, maybe not, but I'm afraid my dreams will be boring, so why waste the time counting sheep that would taste better on a kabob instead of hopping some stupid fence that popular culture put into my head?

Then again, I could just play sudoku and waste even more time on worthless crosswords, racking my brain for a three-letter synonym for the word "fuck," all the while wishing I had my old TV back so I could fry my brain watching less-than-B movies on late night HBO and ShowTime. After all, I do waste a lot of money on premium movie channels that I rarely ever watch because my current television is too small and my home theater is in boxes somewhere in the Pacific Time Zone.

Ah, the Pacific Time Zone. The best time zone in the world, even if all of the "live" shows are prerecorded because people on the East Coast can't stay up late enough to watch a proper live telecast. Then again, if television really were based in NYC like New Yorkers like to claim, this wouldn't be an issue, but it isn't... it's based in Los Angeles. So lick me, you East Coasters... lick me like the owl trying to get to the center of the tootsie pop. Just don't bite on the last one. I have a sneaking suspicion that would hurt.

Pain... yet another reason I don't sleep at night. Why? Well, because my fucking foot and ankle hurt all the fucking time. But, since you're busy giving yourself a pedicure with those flesh-eating Japanese fish, you probably don't want to think about feet too much.

Anyway, I'm off to dream of sex and violence.

Because abstinence and peace are just too fucking boring.

The Anniversary

It was a cool Texas night. Autumn was fading into winter. But she did not know it. Had she thought of it, she might have had some poetic inkling concerning the weather or the changing of the seasons, but her mind was elsewhere. Hundreds of feet up in the air, protected by the shatterproof windows of her hotel room, the temperature and time of day were far away from the landscape of her mind.

Love was in the air, as is often the case during and after a wedding. Lust, too, was present that night. Two emotional warmths amid the chill the wind had brought from distant deserts and shores. She was drunk, to be sure, but the clarity of the sensation shined through the haze of the alcohol clouding her mind. He was on top of her, inside of her, and she could do nothing about it, even if she had wanted to.

Caught between impulses to resist and the desire to wait for what came next, her mind continued to wander. Neither here, nor there, she felt what was happening. A part of her trapped in a moment unexpected, one she did not want to end. Another part of her freed in a surge of emotion, watching herself watching herself. And it was magic.

Her hands caressed and attacked her lover. His body was still strange to her, and this was a new that she would never get used to. He did not seem to mind. He understood her confusion, her unbearable pleasure. He just smiled and kissed her. For, that night, she was loved.

And still is.

Trojan Condoms

And there I was... staring at the emblem of "America's Most Trusted Condom." And it hit me.

Why name a condom after the Trojans?

As someone who likes to study Classical Greece, I was always under the impression that the Trojans were the star-crossed people that got screwed over because they LET SOMETHING THROUGH. You know, the whole Odysseus/Trojan Horse deal? I mean, there's even a class of computer virus called "Trojan Horses." For those that don't know, those are the viruses that you let in ON ACCIDENT.

Now, going with that logic, why the flying fuck would you want to wear a brand of condom named after a people that LETS THINGS THROUGH? I mean, is that some sort of subliminal warning by the company trying to let us know that Trojan condoms might not work? Would those things be better served by being called Spartan condoms?

Eh... never mind... and vote for Clint Eastwood.

Musings Early in the Month of March

How come those vitamin supplements that have "not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration" are never evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration?

Would cloned meat that isn't allowed to develop a brain or a heart be considered a vegetable?

Why do Christians feel that revealing that Jesus had half-siblings, a wife, and/or a child would be harmful to their religion? How would having a family affect, in any way, the morals and philosophies of Christianity?

Why do people go to movies just to check their text messages?

How the fuck did "bling bling" work its way into our vernacular? And does the originator of "bling bling" even know what vernacular is?

Anyone ever notice how Marines and Soldiers always argue about who's better, but the ones that have served in Joint Task Forces keep their mouths shut because they know there's no difference?

Instead of outlawing cell phones while driving and smoking sections in restaurants, can't we just outlaw stupidity instead and cut out the middleman?

Proof that capitalism creates a better society: America's post-secondary education system.

Proof that socialism creates a better society: Canada's healthcare system.

Brazil receives way too much praise for trying to be the first nation to have every car propelled by ethanol. Guess how they're ensuring they have enough land to grow the necessary crops? Cutting down more rainforest.

If fundamental Islam and fundamental Christianity could truly co-exist peacefully, they would have figured out how during the various Crusades. There's a reason there's a saying, "moderation in everything."

Truth.com pretends to be liberal by hiding behind the pretense of destroying big business (tobacco) for the sake of society. Problem is, they preach a fundamental hate, which tends to be slanted as a conservative point of view. Tell me I'm wrong.

According to a recent report, narcissism in college students is on the rise. If everyone would've listened to me, this wouldn't have happened.

Since I don't like watching marathons, does that make me racist?

Why is being lazy frowned upon? Can anybody tell me ONE invention that wasn't invented for the ultimate purpose of making doing certain things just a little bit easier?

If pre-marital sex is a sin, why don't animals have weddings? Does that mean all dogs go to Hell?

If Hillary Clinton becomes President, does anybody think she'll hire an intern to get back at Bill?

Good night, everybody.

Things You Should Remember When...

... Waking Up in the Morning After a Night of Drinking

The name of the person you're sleeping next to.

To put on slippers, in case you overslept and the dog couldn't hold it.

The toilet is usually oval shaped, the trashcan rectangular.

... Having Sex During a Night of Drinking

The name of the person you're sleeping with.

To put on slippers, in case you realize how ugly the person you're sleeping with is and need to leave in a hurry.

The toilet is in the bathroom, that soft thing you're on is the bed (or the person you're sleeping with).

... Preparing for a Night of Drinking

The name of the person you're planning on sleeping with.

To put on slippers, in case... well, no, now that just doesn't make sense.

The toilet. It could wind up being your best friend.