Saturday, March 28, 2009


(My photo of ceramic artwork by Sher Grotts)
"Enough!" he said, and still I pushed. Not out of perversity, but because I am a woman. It is our nature to push. If it was not, no one would be ejected from the womb.

His eyes flashed darkly and his face tightened. He did not want me arousing him, and he was angry that I had. He needed to focus.

He needed to focus and I'd let him. I'd helped him. He brought his work home all week, and all week I moved around quietly, served dinner up at his desk instead of the dining table, brought him tea made just-so, massaged his shoulders and neck. I urged him to bed earlier than usual, and every night I snuggled up to him, skin-on-skin, and felt the profound rightness of it, of our bodies spooned together, and willed my body not to react to the wonderful scent of him filling my nostrils. Every night I wanted the feel of him over me, on me, in me, and every night I settled for pressing my lips, open-mouthed, to the skin of his chest, breathing I love you into him, holding that space of safety so he could sleep deeply and well.

And every morning in the shower I used the wand to pleasure myself, the pulsating water vibrating my clit bringing me to delicious orgasm, day after day. A week of that and I was quivering with need. Snuggling satisfied the skin-hunger but not the desire for bliss. I wanted more. I wanted to scale the heights of him and throw myself off the edge, to break the surface tension of our separateness and mingle freely in spirit, to know that flashing eternal moment of enlightenment that is orgasmic bliss.

And so I pushed him, woman that I am. I pushed him, and man that he is, he feinted and took hold of me, and bound me. Bound me to my sybian and tormented me with idle movements of his fingers upon the control box, his back to me, ignoring me. I gasped and moaned as artfully as I could, begging him to let me cum, but every time I reached the edge, he adjusted the vibration and the crest receeded. Again and again. I pushed myself against the phallus, eyes clenched tight, focussing on the sensation that eluded me. I can cum almost by wishing it, but so great was my frustration that I could not.

How long I hung in this state I do not know. But at some point he was there, naked and standing over me, his cock erect and his hands guiding my mouth onto him. And oh! I nearly swooned from the heat of him, from the taste of him, from the scent rising from his balls. My hands rose to embrace him and I drew him into my mouth as far as I could, and I sucked and licked as the intensity of the sybian increased until my body could not bear it any longer. I came with such intensity I threw my head back and screamed my pleasure, and his cock jerked and shot me with hot streamers of cum that burned as they slid down my breasts.

He leaned forward, leaned his hands on my shoulders, leaning his weight into me, pushing me deeper onto the sybian. He pushed me down, held me down on it, and the intensity of the vibration set me off again, and I came between breaths, convulsing silently until my body's air-hunger forced my lungs to inflate and then I became some symphonic instrument, part human, part machine, and I sang--oh how I sang--accompanied by the sybian's insistent buzzing.

I pushed him away from me and slid off the sybian. My legs did not work, but it did not matter. I curled myself up and shivered and twitched through the orgasmic aftershocks, pushed beyond endurance. Pushed.

(The audio version of this and other erotic stories can be found at my AudioSensual Podcast,

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Thursday, March 19, 2009

Silkenvoice's Hawaiian Vacation

A beautiful land, Hawaii, and bittersweet in memory. Three I loved and shared it with are gone. And yet, new memories were made with my lover: walking arm-in-arm along the beach during sunset, escaping into the aquarium during a rainstorm, and making love in our corner room with the curtains open and the skyscrapers like multi-eyed seamonsters crowding around. Peeking in.

It was a long flight to Hawaii. We entertained ourselves under those thin airline blankets, bodies leaning into each other, hands teasing, caressing, tweaking. The rental car was a Mustang convertible that we drove along the Nimitz Highway, my hair protected from the wind by a black scarf, my sensitive eyes covered by dark glasses. My companion said I looked like someone's mistress. I wanted to get to the hotel, check in, and fuck--6 hours of sensual teasing had me horny enough to hump the stick-shift.

"Find some place to eat," he said as we put the airport behind us. "Preferably sushi."

Evil. Pure evil. I pulled out my iPhone and checked Yelp for the highest rated sushi place. A small hole in the wall restaurant not a half-mile from our hotel. So we stopped there on the way, and had some very good sushi. I really enjoyed the roll with the butterfish and miso. It was the most subtle sushi roll I've had to date, with a clever meshing of flavours and textures. Sublime, really.

We checked in to the hotel, a 16th floor corner room. I stripped and showered, washing away the canned air. While he showered I pulled the curtains open, exposing about 30 feet of glass. The room looked north into the hills above Waikiki, toward the Punchbowl Crater, and west up along the length of the beach. A superb location, adjacent to the zoo and the aquarium, at the far east end of Waikiki. I opened the slatted windows for fresh air and crawled onto the bed. I wanted a nap and a quickie and I got them both, though not in that order.

Night came quickly and found us walking on the beach, enjoying the warm moist air and the merry people. The sand underfoot reminded me of the times my sisters and I had built sandcastles on that beach. The water, such an amazing blue-green colour, reminded me of my kama'aina mother, who we had made a part of this ocean, and my sister's ashes still in San Francisco waiting to join her. Soon, I promised mother-ocean. Baby-sis must be here, too, to help me pour the ashes in.

Eventually, the double-vision of past and present faded, and with it, the sadness. It is difficult not to be in a good mood in paradise.


Tuesday, March 17, 2009


Simplicity is so complicated.
How difficult to shed the shackles
of modern life, the drives, the assumptions,
the things that cling, us to them,
them to us.

Simplicity is.
The simplicity of my nipples, hard and long,
when he is near,
or when he is not,
when it is the scent of him on his clothes,
or the sound of his voice, so rich and thrilling,
emerging from the box held at my ear.

Then I know I simply am simply me
simply made with simple needs
and fuck the big complex brain
with its constant soliloquy.

Someone tries to take meaning
where it is ungiven
for simplicity's sake
Words are never enough,
they construct problem sets yet rarely solve them
But a different he solved the riddle of me, he thinks,
the slut wasting her talents for the titillation of others

And for simplicity's sake his assumption stands
It means more about him than than it does to me
though I cannot deny the sting
(When did his opinion come to matter to me?)
Let it all go and hope complexity does not have static cling.
Nothing is as simple as it seems.
Not even simplicity.

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Saturday, March 07, 2009


I thought I was reconciled to my sister's death. It has been 14 months now, and I thought I'd accepted it, as I accepted Grandfather's death a few months ago. I thought I was at peace. Until I woke up sobbing this morning.

I had a heartbreaking dream. At the end of it, Tammy said, "I don't want you or Terri to come see me anymore," and then walked away from me. She was so slender and frail she was nearly transparent in the sunlight. I said, "Please Tammy, lets talk about this." She kept walking, her blonde hair a halo of light. "Why won't you talk about it?" I followed her and she went around a car, putting it between us. "There is nothing left to say," she said. In my dream, her words hit me like a blow to the chest. "How can you say that?" I cried out to her. "We're so young! We can't spend the rest of our lives not talking." I saw her moving on the other side of the car. She bent down to look at me through a window and I did the same. When she spoke, the world cracked, throwing me into wakefulness and tears. "There is nothing left to say. I'm dead."

I sobbed in the shower. Huge, body-wracking sobs. I don't know that I've ever cried like that before, though I'd seen it. She cried like that when we finally got to Hawaii to bury Mom. I miss her so much. Every day. Where Grandfather was, there is a place of peace and acceptance. But where Tammy was, there is emptiness, sadness. I try to remember good things, happy things. I remember the summers spent so near where I am living now: playing in the redwoods, swinging in hammocks, legs dangling high up in the plum trees eating not-quite-ripe fruit until we were sick. I try to fill that empty space with beauty, but its often sucked away like water in sand, leaving me aching.

My lover held me as I cried. Said it was ok when I apologized for alarming him. I told him I missed Tammy so much and he kissed me and said, "You tried so hard... You did everything you could... She chose to go."

Yes, she chose to go. I know. Her life became nothing but pain and shadows and she let go. She became the angel my niece talks about all the time, the Auntie who took her on magic carpet rides and keeps her company when her mommy is 3000 miles away. I have Tammy's ashes in a box with a teddybear that smells like Grandmother for company. But that is what remained of her body. Where is her spirit? WHERE IS MY SISTER?

I'm pretty sanguine about the Big Unanswerables. Most of the time it is enough just to be able to frame the questions and recognize which ones can be answered empirically and which ones cannot. And most of the time, I let the Unanswerables go and focus on what can be solved. I thought I'd let this one go, but my subconscious served it up to me once again. I guess that is part of the grieving process. I just hope it doesn't clobber me so hard next time ;)

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Sunday, March 01, 2009

Pretty Pussy

This essay was published in the Exotica section of Clean Sheets last month.


"Take photos of me," she said in a breathily timid and yet assertive rush of words.

I raised my eyebrows.

"I am not all that comfortable with photographing people, sweetie. There is something about the lighting that I don't get..."

"Oh they don't have to be professional. I don't think I would want anyone to see them anyway."

"You've lost me," I said.

"I want to know what I look like... you know... down there."

If possible, my eyebrows rose further. I developed a second hairline just below the first. I think I even squirmed a little. I'm very open and have gotten a lot of requests over the years, but never this one.

"Have you tried a mirror?" I asked.

"Yes, but the perspective is all wrong, and it feels awkward," she was silent for a long moment. "I was hoping I could see myself the way you do..."

And so I did as she asked.
She was inordinately pleased to make her pussy's acquaintance. Thrilled, you might say. At last, she could see for herself that hers was, indeed, a pretty pussy. Which started my thoughts down a curious path that I've revisited periodically throughout my life.

I'd gotten up close and personal with her pudendum more than once, and it was the occasion of my telling her that she had a pretty pussy that prompted her to proposition me in that way. You see, a woman's relationship with her pussy is often very complicated, being fraught with unknowns. The territory can be explored, if we dare, but we never really see it -- at least, not the way our lovers do.

Quite often, I think a woman's bisexual curiosity is less about desiring another woman, and more a camouflaged curiosity about themselves, about their own anatomy. Unlike men, we cannot just whip our sex organs out and admire them. We rely on braille and mirrors and craned necks, instead, none of which is a satisfactory, shall we say, definitive view. The first time I came face-to-face with a pussy, I thought "Ahhhh, so this is what mine looks like!" Of course, the second one looked very different from the first. And the third, same thing. After I'd seen a few I came to understand men's apparent fascination with that part of the female anatomy. Men are extremely visual novelty-seekers, and pussies, even more than cocks, have a lot of variety.

Just as cocks look different as they transform from the flaccid stage to the tumescent and back, pussies change with arousal. I love the ones with larger outer labia that completely conceal the clitoris and the inner labia. As the owner of such a prize becomes aroused, the outer labia part. The inner labia unfold, the clitoris begins to protrude, and at some point the pussy looks like a ripe, juicy piece of fruit hanging from the crotch of, well, to use poetic license, a maidenhair tree.

It wasn't until I started photographing my own, though, that I realized pussies change with age. As I've grown older, my pussy has gotten poutier, and--dare I say it--lewder. Its variations in plumpness can be charted with my weight. The outer labia, still pale, have grown darker at the seam where they meet. My inner labia have darkened as well, and they seem, well, longer somehow. The inner pink looks even more vivid, probably because of the darker contrast. And my clit, it seems to have grown. Are clits like men's ears? Do they keep growing as we age? I think not.
Most likely, it has to do with arousal. In my early photos my pussy looks pale and virginal, and scared. Which it probably was. It had never been photographed before. But nowadays, as I set up my camera and take my position, I feel that tingle inside, that exhibitionist's arousal over making a display of myself. My skilled fingers creep inside, teasing out the wetness, making me gleam invitingly.

I like to think my pussy has gotten better-looking with age. And while that may just be vanity, or an improvement in my photography skills, I know one thing for certain. My relationship with my pussy has gotten a whole lot better. Familiarity breeds contempt, they say. I say "they" are idiots. Familiarity breeds prettier pussies. Enough said.

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