erotica dismantles tyranny. | July 3, 2012

I hesitate to write.

Intimacy feels untouchable.

Interaction is thick with melting tongues in silent mouths.

Octives fill veins and smiles stretch across faces like sleeping bags down stair cases.

Tangible memory warms my insides.


He says he likes things simple. She fills in the blanks on “simple” complicating it. Saturdays seep in slowly like any other day when you take to collaging time like scraps, rummaging opportunity, creating, and she wonders what he means by simple.


The collage of time is waining and the sun soaks the rail yard hodge podging experience together. Grace and Sam are chasing the summer down the California coast but on the back porch she can hear fall slithering up behind her. Autumn usually cools off the exhuastion of summer’s rebellion. It usually hugs Grace and she takes naps in it but this year she grabs at the skirt of summer. She houses so much more heat to give to the sunny season’s riots.Dried leaves falling won’t convinvce her. She isn’t convinced he’s simple either. She tastes regal embellishments when he gets thick between her lips. His throbbing says he likes the way her tongue complicates the tips of him.

She meets his slate eyes dismantling mid-thought the damns of her veins making her cheeks flush.

In contrast to more traditional relationships, Sam and Grace jumped into each other. They were shockingly cold mountain lakes that woke each other from self pity. A thousand miles away stares shrunk to overlapping existance. At times they carried conversations without sound like top secret files in the hands of a courrier. They already knew all there was to know about each other yet maintained the mystery of strangers. Comforting precarity.

Sam was different than Grace’s usual. He was different in that his drive to be around her was not based on consumption. His fallic rage was a mutual offering more than a flag staking ownership. Mixed into his outlaw demeanor was sensual innocence. He wanted to fuck her like he wanted to rob a bank, for the silly playfulness of it.

“I think of you always…”

Many erotic tales speak of the main two matches; the forefront sparks heading up the incindiary dismantling. Humans see and choose to experience relationships like we stimulate the neurons in our brains, we engage only a small part of the picture to keep ourselves sane. Even so, others loved Sam with poetic despiration and grace collected loose ends like Sam’s weathered carhart cutt-offs. Sometimes the loose ends would swing back around and slap Sam in the ass and sometimes the poetic despiration would make a strong plea and Grace would sense the fear of when the evening sun evaporates over the mountain scape startling everyone in view. Good love is a risk.

It was nighttime now and she wanted him to be certain. Certain that everything the fire burned was worth the chard remains of passion. Worth the wrinkles burnt like forest fire’s felled conifers across foreheads.

Lips searching for lips is similar to shuffling a tarot deck now and then. We close our eyes meditating on coffee or tequila flavored micro-nerves tapping and pouting divination. Our mouths licking salivation from tongues our minds wander and process. Grace comes to screaming thoughts too cliche to speak like “it’s ok to need each other!!” and “Forever doesn’t seem so long anymore!”

She pulls away from shocking herself with unconscious fumbling to the safety net of his eyes and suddenly there is more space for her impatient flesh, more room to push the boundaries of interpretation. Hands sliding just beneath the fabric of each other’s waist was the erotic flipping of the card from the deck; tangibly thrilling but comforting in it’s familiarity. Intimacy is a form of conquering anxiety similar to hopping a train. There is the same dance in illegality as intimacy. It begins with an investigation or infatuation, then the speculation or apprehension period other wise known as cold feet, rounded out by elation and consummation if all goes well. In the fluorescent heat of the Amtrak bathroom they were turning over clothing filling what little space was left in their transient carriage with a spread that would enlighten even a sleeping dragon from his self absorbed stagnation rounding out elation. On the seat designated for a hand bag or a child waiting for their parent Sam knelt in front of grace. Dizzy and divine, she lowered her pants to her thighs and lifted her knees in front of him. Panties and thighs framed her swollen excitement offering her pink mess like the queen of cups. She wanted to overwhelm him with her abundance.
She felt his breath on the place where her leg met her behind, the dimpled concave agonizingly close to where she was melting before his eyes.

His tongue. She needed his tongue’s telepathy to interperate the spread.


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