Our Lives As Genitalia

Our Lives As Genitalia

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Our Lives as Genitalia: A novel with an intense beating erotic main theme.It is subtitled: Signatures from between our legs, aroused by sex, penetrated by memory, yet screwed by the mind to always confront life in the present. The narrative begins as a series of erotic driven encounters but they all ripple back through later relationships in time, place and memory. It seems in the coupling moment that pleasure ignited by pleasures ignition remains uncomplex pleasure for two. However, memory tattoos even seemingly casual sex under our skin. It will meander back through association. The central crux of the story is reflective in its sensual unfolding: we are left with lingering consensual sexual memory. To sum up; the story is best described as thinking erotica unfolding a deep romantic core and the better side of our human nature; though in the heat of racy randy coupling and later separation; this is the last thing on our mind and that’s okay and the story lingers repeatedly in those intense pleasurable memorable moments of life and asks the reader to do the same...our lives as genitalia. The insight devoid of ego may come eventually. An erotic romance novel in forty chapters

Summary

Our Lives as Genitalia: A novel with an intense beating erotic main theme.It is subtitled: Signatures from between our legs, aroused by sex, penetrated by memory, yet screwed by the mind to always confront life in the present.

The narrative begins as a series of erotic driven encounters but they all ripple back through later relationships in time, place and memory. It seems in the coupling moment that pleasure ignited by pleasures ignition remains uncomplex pleasure for two. However, memory tattoos even seemingly casual sex under our skin. It will meander back through association.

The central crux of the story is reflective in its sensual unfolding: we are left with lingering consensual sexual memory.

To sum up; the story is best described as thinking erotica unfolding a deep romantic core and the better side of our human nature; though in the heat of racy randy coupling and later separation; this is the last thing on our mind and that’s okay and the story lingers repeatedly in those intense pleasurable memorable moments of life and asks the reader to do the same...our lives as genitalia.

The insight devoid of ego may come eventually.

An erotic romance novel in forty chapters

Chapter17 (v.1) - You Bugger

Author Chapter Note

Following great sex, the consequences of saying "I love you" to Jenny.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

Reads: 230

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

A A A

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Chapter Seventeen: YOU BUGGER

A different self brought to every sexual encounter in life like the endless variations of the same image from a camera’s exposure triangle. Similarly memory continually takes snapshots of life. Underexposed or overexposed as an individual. What do we believe we control and what is natural? Picturing Jenny and I together is simple compared to the combinations inherent in a moment combining two individuals and the words chosen. Mute genital autofocus seems the clear winner versus words.

Jenny said, as we moved to regular sex, “Why do you shut your eyes?” My eyes were shut during sex; was I engaged in making love?

We copulated naked, above the sheets, light exposing all. ‘Making love’, the euphemism for having sex, it’s certainly not a well thought through term. There is more to love than great sex and more to sex than ‘love’. The word is stirring in the background as intimacy becomes more than sexual intimacy and we start to know each other more fully and rounded; likes, dislikes, friends, family, hopes and dreams. Reciprocity in sex and reciprocal gestures and life shared in each others’ pockets changes your perceptions; thoughts moulding into each other like bodies spooning into sex.

Jenny preferred coupling with her eyes open. I believe now I shut my eyes to internalise the moment and to concentrate, to hold the easy quick male rush of fluid, to build pleasure for my partner. I opened my eyes more with time, as Jenny liked it; she wanted me to look at her. We were yin and yang here; I internalised first and then joined the external act. She fully understood the intoxication of the physical first and then came her gems of shared sexual understanding, post coitus.

My girl usually assumed the dominant position, a sexual creature with sexual needs; I was no different, plenty of sexual need. She loved the full girth of rock hard cock inside her, yet she wouldn’t tolerate or admit any fingers into her crevice though it was abundantly obscured with her awesome full deep black pubic bush.  Her triangle of desire perkily profiling in glimpses her profound fleshy feminine fissure with its devastating elasticity which moulded itself to me and adjusted to my penis shape, wrapping my cock to her formless then shaped internal wonder.

Akin to the moment when Balboa crossed the Isthmus of Panama and saw the sea, what was the great unknown Pacific Ocean heading away in all directions on the horizon, so too does a pussy expand away in the secret promises it will disclose to you and at this moment in time; for you alone it wants to distribute pleasure to its known capacity and beyond—to share joy—but there is a corporeal intensity the fleshy shaped orifice demands in return. So we face the appealing luxuriant mound and the cleft of sculptured fleshy happiness with our own chiselled form pointing away from our male bodies, convex and concave, finding each other across the seemingly inexplicable, accidental meetings in time and place. We find each other through personal doubts about body image, social shyness, the competing emotional demands of a full complex life, felt inhibitions, memories, delivering trust, giving intimacy and searching for commitment. The wonder is it happens, yet happen it will. The drive is so deep, so simple. It leaves ‘Am I desirable enough’ in its wake.

Jenny liked the pressure on her clit from the female dominant position. I suppose as my thrusting member drilled deep, the pumping action, she liked being on top, but as our relationship turned from genitals’ immediate lust, she accepted my control of the rhythm. Eventually, my hands controlled the rise and fall of her cute butt and the furry nest between her legs. I think she really enjoyed vaginal sex. She was aroused so easily with kisses and caresses, her exuded wetness felt effortlessly by my prying, urgent fingers, my index finger and middle finger playing where they most wished to have fun. Two fingers rubbing, creating friction as nature intended between her swelling flanking passion; rubbing, sliding—no fingers inserted here. God, I loved her pussy; rubbing it in a gentle up down motion, teasing her bead. Then unable to take any more, lying by my side, Jenny would move adroitly and mount her man. Accentuated, pumping waves of male pleasure meeting funnel; chassis contoured happiness. The centres of two selves became a Venn diagram of proximity and emotion beyond the repeated and—thank you, God—regular experience of having my brains and ego fucked out.

“God, you are good,” said Jenny one night as she sighed.

It wasn’t anything spectacular or novel in bed as we continued our sexual growth together. We knew our rhythm and worked it to the max. The allegro of our friction was mine to time with my hands on Jenny’s derriere. However, this was my moment for our precise, perfect, sublime dual orgasm. Jenny had the replete, consummated climax look. We had nailed it for both ourselves; together.

I don’t know about the god status reference, but perhaps god made me good. Youthful practice alone and now pacing the sensation seemed to help keep my male spurt under control for more than the basic few minutes. So looking up at my glowing pink cheeked lover—yes, I said lover—I let it out.

“I love you.” Nothing else, only this fundamental.

Pause, wait and let her process. Here was Jenny’s true amber moment.

The reply came without a noticeable gap to my softly spoken words.

“I love you, too…you bugger.”

I know we had finished mutually satisfying sex, but I can’t remember the actual details of the coupling beyond her significant words of contentment. The entire focus of held memory is after the act. I know Jenny was still on top of me, her legs straddling over my body. I’m not sure, but I think my still firm but relaxing penis was enjoying down time inside her warm body.

So I looked up and said, “I love you.”

Maybe I was cheating on the time and place of delivering up the relationship defining words. Expecting a positive response in the glow of sexual gratification; was I being devious, a bit sneaky in slipping it in on the bed after sex.

Easy enough to say, but the weight of the words, the implied ardour, the zeal of affection, I was committed, smitten, and smote. You bugger. It echoed around too, like it was far away, yet so close. Like it was in time and out of time. Here and elsewhere.

‘I love you’ are the words genitals often don’t want to hear, like a similar combination, ‘let’s make love’. Genitals don’t need the word love; it’s beyond their comprehension, though to be truthful, they don’t respond to anything except stimulation. The word love puts the human soul into meltdown and the mind into a spin. Saying I love you and hearing I love you back should be a summit of togetherness. I was happy but not euphoric and there was no desire to push or explore the issue. Qualified love was an acknowledgment of love to me. I would not repeat the phrase. Besides, there was something underhand and understood in the use of ‘you bugger’. I had seized a vulnerable moment to slip it in. The trouble was I meant it. Never having said it before, it was honest and they are the words we use to explain how our heart wants to beat in time with another and any mutual climaxes are a bonus.

I love you, I love your ‘coochie’ too, I love your body, and I love Jenny. All, I love you.  I wanted self affirmed back, I love you answered with I love you too. I want to make love to Jenny. Does this equate to I love Jenny? Sex with Jenny was sex, but it was more than sex. Surely we were not fuck buddies or merely engaging in mutual masturbation. Was I in love because I feared loneliness? No one wants to be alone; we crave affection, we were made to express sexual desire and in our souls we believe we have the capacity to love.

‘I love you’. No, it wasn’t said in a tantric moment of vision like: ‘Yeah, wow great sex. I feel as one with you, Jenny, I love you’. I couldn’t honestly say our joint sex lives felt analogous to a sacred cosmic out-of-body experience. So it was earthly profane love—love of her flesh, I was in love with fucking Jenny, I loved her pussy. All the earthy bits were necessary accessories. You can’t comprehensively love another soul without fucking the attached genitals or otherwise it’s platonic shit.

“I love you”. Not said lightly, not given back lightly either, even with a caveat. So Jenny and I got through the words, got through the attached meaning with our own understandings of what each other meant as they said it. I had never used the all revealing of self three word combination before and by the sighing tone, the hesitant look in her eyes and through her face, neither had Jenny. Maybe I caught her defences down, maybe she wanted them down, and maybe this was the point of exploring a relationship deeper. Jenny was in and I was in.

The question is always one of timing and place. Had I chosen the right moment to express my inner self? Jenny could have left me unanswered, she could have paused longer, and the qualification could have been more perturbing. ‘You bugger’: I was a likeable rouge in the circumstances and it was enough. Time with your lover is always enough because there will be time with your lover and time passing is no concern because you will be together.

The issue then is, should I have affirmed this ‘I love you’ daily, on a regular basis, on special occasions? If it is not repeated does its value hold? We all want affirmation, but love is not dependent on repeated verification, it’s tangible and it’s there in the way you look at each other, the intensity during and closeness after sex. Jenny and I sensed something beyond the physical hold of sex; yet we were both groping to understand it, like clumsy fingers from two separate hands lightly leaking secretions from genitals in the back of a car. The physical dominates but memory and soul are also sculpting together.

What the finished form will be, only time will tell. Having said ‘I love you’ is the ultimate accolade of giving beyond self and receiving the sanctified liturgy back like an echo of self. Can you ever, in all integrity, say those words to another? You would think not. ‘I love you’  implies denial of self, release of self to another, two selves as one entity bound by love through time and space in an earthly sense and beyond for true believers. Yet these words so meaningfully given in the moment to Jenny would face their cock-crow. Do we betray a part of ourselves each time we incant this amazing formula, saying again, ‘I love you’ to a different person? Or is this then meaningless? Having been given once, can it be given again?

Even given with the most profound sense of absolute personal integrity, it is given in a moment of time and space. Time and space release us in resilience to give love again and again; it’s in our nature, and every time we say it we believe it and so does the hearer and we believe their soul when they give it back.  And in the moment, love given and love received, said twice over: is all time and space forever. Time and space are stilled in the moment. Jenny and I have said it and we love each other.

Jenny had thought me a virgin. She was right. I was naive with love and so tentatively was she. It’s a strange feeling, after losing your virginity; you were a virgin and then memory processing memory of the virgin’s last moments and the events leading to the loss of your virginity, your genital’s real birthday. In relationships we often wonder if someone is still a virgin. Did it change how Jenny started her relationship with me? Was there any intrigue or wish to guide me out of my virginity? Jenny by her own admissions had past partners. I never explored this, secure in the current moment; together is together and negates any equation of past others. However, more influential virgin experiences were circulating around the both of us. These were virgin thoughts. How we were by increments of our own making, now more together. We were in life; hand in hand, side by side, in companionship, sex had moved to include ‘making love’ and what was unspoken was building slowly.

Then the shape of a relationship is questioned by one or both individuals. Thoughts take shape around a key worded moment; we are not sure if we are following a light or getting deeper into the dark. We are given mental baggage and must deal with it or this could be the determining point when we is reduced to you and me. Separate.

It came soon; in the same location, on the same evening as, ‘I love you, you bugger’, in the form of a query. Jenny’s body was still above mine.

“I can’t take limits, please don’t limit me,” said Jenny carefully, unsure of how I would react.

My moment of secure assurance with reserve reduced to the precipice of losing Jenny. ‘Shit, fuck all the love stuff, stick to the screwing, boy’—ridicule and worry emanating from my pecker. This was the alarm moment and I had set off the trip wire. I had introduced love to our equation and Jenny had joined my communion in the name of love with only a mild profanity. Love knows no sinners.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to hide you away or closet you, or keep you in a cupboard, only for myself. I can accept your freedom,” coming from me, a potential diplomat in the making or statesmen of the year here. My cock was delighted; this should cover all bases.

Jenny was happy enough with this. She relaxed and took me back again at face value. The basic male with penis attached was becoming a complex guy thinking of love and a fixed relationship. The basic male duo of dickhead brain and mindless erect appendage had sprung to life, a life beyond genitalia, and it was confronting Jenny and what she wanted from life. She wanted me in the moment, but the rest of it, time would tell. I wasn’t capable or confident enough to match this display of independence from her. Jenny belonged to the most complex group of beings in the universe, a woman born into the age of feminism; they want it all and they don’t know what they want at all.

Yet it’s more complex in the facets of two selves. Jenny was prepared for sex, both in terms of modern girl contraception and what she physically expected as she expressed her satisfaction with my performance openly. My pecker was always ready, a male given and I cared and crafted bodily beyond its basic drive. My own preparation for the implications which started to flow from our pairing were as absent as condoms inside my wallet and held securely in Jenny like the certainty abortion was the only option in her view if the assurance of the pill proved false.

 The notion I was in trouble here didn’t cross my mind. It was instead a strange thought, which with hindsight is something impossible to do. I told myself, Harden your heart, this won’t last. Deep into a relationship, what sort of fucking message was this to self? I left it immediately where it belonged, in memories’ lost luggage. I was confident I could hold the moment; I needed to stay in the present and keep Jenny there with me. Keep stealing from time.

If there were probable fault lines within our coupling, they remained only potential and unrealised. Great sex keeps a lot at bay. There was no doubt Jenny was passionate for the expanses of life and exploring sensuality. She herself had coupled this with a high degree of autonomy and here lay her potential dormant kernel for schism. Never intentionally thought or stated while close together and sustainingly close at times, paradise could unravel very quickly, as quickly as taking one bite from an apple. Some butterflies cannot be netted, they need extraordinary large enclosures and here was one where the doors had to be left open as well. There was too much of life making Jenny; well, Jenny.

I adjusted for Jenny and opened my eyes more as we enjoyed sex and took on her amber pools under lights as our genitals found a regular pulsating exchange; defining our pairing. I accepted Jenny’s current preference for the female dominant position. A satisfied partner is a serene one and she understood deeper than me the intense urges of her sexuality with a partner and how to bear down, jam and press her clit into a male’s hard body. Life is about holding on, holding in, holding close for a while, and holding your end up and holding together. Both in bed and out of bed.

Which brings me to Oskar Kokoschka’s, The Bride of the Wind or The Tempest, long before I thought it would make its appearance. Painted after unreciprocated love, its focus is the sleeping beloved and the artist awake, intently looking into space. Time and space around them are a symbolic tempest, storm clouds mounting or wild seas surging. The tempest is equally metaphor for their relationship; his beloved is entwined safely in his grasp and both of them are cradled from the world and its squalls in a sheet twisted around and under them like a small coracle. Could their ‘loves’ hold in the centre of all this complex self generated passion? The tempest generated by their known relationship. Safe and a human scale of love in their makeshift bed, but unbound passion is the unlimited heaving sea or rolling clouds surrounding them. The centre cannot hold and Kokoschka already knows it.

I asked and Jenny told me…did I listen…yes…and no…the confidence of togetherness.


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