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

Chapter18 (v.1) - Words

Author Chapter Note

One word recalls Lena and Leise when with Jenny and flippant boyish words deeply upset Jenny. Make up sex comes to the rescue.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

Reads: 305

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

A A A

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Chapter Eighteen: WORDS

The power went off unexpectedly, a temporary disconnection. I couldn’t read anymore to Jenny, but the alternative was easy: snuggle, cuddle and burrow into each other above and below her doona until it was twisted through our interlocking, dovetailing bodies. The immediate moment framed by sex, not memory.

Jenny had been reading Greene’s Our Man in Havana and Wormold’s fantasy had not yet collided with reality and he was happily faking his information. Plucked off a market stall and saved from a mouldy, dusty death one Saturday morning: occasionally I read it aloud to Jenny, as we both sat up in bed.

Maybe it was the designer green dust jacket influencing Jenny to buy it. The previous owner had read it and no longer wanted it, a sad face day for a book. Then the vendor had to decide this Greene was resalable and then plucked it from a garage wall, piled neatly with alphabetical novels, and placed it spine up, on display, on a trade table; not in the higgledy-piggledy remainders box, always rifled through by enthusiastic bibliophiles, only to move on with detached disinterest.

I’m reading along, engaged enough, and adults secretly love having books read aloud to them, when Wormold starts plying Daiquiri’s down his lying throat. I can’t remember if we were sitting up partly naked together in bed reading this—pleasant image, but probably not true—or lounging, nestling into each other on the bed, Jenny’s head in my lap, looking ahead or looking up to meet my downward gaze occasionally. Yes, genitals take a rest and living has multiple faceted centre stages on a daily basis. Spending your evening reading to a young woman and not fucking her? Where’s your life heading? Favourable, fortuitous power outage pointed out by inbound penis.

When the lights were on I kept reading to Jenny after I hit the word; ‘Daiquiri’. My body was confidently in place in a moment of time with my girl. My mind kept reading the page—the mind is a disciplined cunning prick—while memory had hit the beach. Wormold was downing those Daiquiri’s with a vengeance while my memory was stealthily stalking two women near a hotel pool, Mediterranean blue and onyx bikinis. My mind held firm in the present, words can be a trite litany on a page.  However; words can be infested by association, suddenly we are positioned to the text and the text is fucking with our thoughts.

One word in a book, one proper noun for a concocted cocktail, was enough to create a new memory chain—an unwanted chain. Here was the apple of my eye, my one love unstated and not entirely explored, yet mapped enough by each other to build a network of pathways under each other’s skin embracing as much sensuality as genitalia. Herein lays the nature of love, the intensification of two completely detached lives into two closer touching lives. The journey is taking on a life of its own, crowded with memories of amber, skin, and the startling. So human are the statements Jenny lets free to take root in my mind after sex. Daiquiri’s, Lena, and Leise didn’t belong here. The bedroom was crowding; memory was detained under a swirling ceiling fan and between gripping thighs, my mind was fixed by the words on a page and my body was held by Jenny.

We were never to finish reading the book together, whether Jenny completed it independently or it now sits politely on a bookshelf or was boxed and given to charity when moving house, it remains a copy of Greene’s novel with a life beyond its printed pages. Still it remained a book never finished, a book seemingly incidentally shared, unfinished as a premonition of an incomplete relationship. I doubt I could read Wormold now, whatever the ending. Unfinished sounds better than finished in relationship terms, even in the sense of unfinished business, unanswered questions about life, the halted, turned back exploration of a whole person, their childhood memories shared, their consuming passions, their fragile hopes and expansive dreams when time and space seemed all before us.

It was one word: ‘Daiquiri’. I hesitated over it, other memories then flash mobbed in to the then present; a hotel room and a harem of flesh. Playing memory catch and release like a fisherman, I read on. Jenny believed in me. I had the conviction of her presence in the moment to hold course. I loved her. I kept reading, Lena and Leise, footnotes in memory again. Memory is a gigolo, a fucking constant escort, and by a thread, one word; Lena, Leise, and Jenny were an unwilling threesome in memory. Fuck memory: it frays and tatters what you want to keep together and more effectively binds than a patchwork quilt what you want to keep apart.

With hindsight, Greene’s Heart of the Matter seems a more apt title for Jenny and I to have explored. I had Jenny’s body given freely; I was allowed to peel away and given access to segments of her mind and the edges of her heart. We can sit on the edge for a very long time and not fall off. Keep the balance like walking a tightrope, be Houdini in a relationship, and keep surprising even ourselves there hasn’t been a slip or slide. My fantasy of Jenny in retrospection was segments of her body, the immediate insightful edge of her sensual mind and her heart to be the given.

You may not win the race but you keep competing. Most couples bicker and relationships tiff. Pinpointing palpable moments of dissonance is harder than I think, not because I’m hiding them or denying they were there. They plainly weren’t. I never felt anxiously insecure with Jenny; I hadn’t revisited the word ‘love’ or practiced ‘hardening my heart’. The moment held strong enough of its own accord for two. Life was good, life was great, and it always is, together. Here now, sifting, gleaning, garnering through memory and one instance arises where I have no recall, no idea what I said to irritate Jenny.  I was being flippant, overly male confident, and obviously mischievously adventurous with words. Perhaps I was playfully teasing but it cut the wrong way. I recollect saying it while trying to make out—a male’s preoccupation in female company. We were on a black vinyl settee. The only detail I can recall—which is meaningless to the centre of the moment—Jenny’s genuine annoyance with me.

She was irritated and clearly exasperated with me. For a short while, I wasn’t steering the dual control. It felt odd and I was running blind. She withdrew mentally and physically from me.

What the fuck stupid, frivolous remark have I made? I asked myself.

I know I said something, engaged in trying to get inside or remove her blouse or get below the button of her jeans amidst fluid banter. It pricked a spot and pricked it hard like uncomfortable sex. Jenny moved away, back towards my bedroom. At least she wasn’t leaving the house. I followed like a penitent little puppy, unsure what was required next.

Jenny had withdrawn from me. She had never done this before. However, it was more than a physical separation. She was ‘cut’ deep. I knew because she was so quietly needled.

‘Leave me alone’, she didn’t actually say it, the words were there, filling the room.

“Sorry” I said it cautiously.

It covers so much and so little, but it’s the best we have; a massive blank caveat when you’re not even sure what it was you are apologising for. I’m thinking, but its conjecture and it’s the one creating the damage most often—the hint of being sexually easy. It was a fait accompli for me to get her clothes off. It is always easy to be in collision on this one; when to remove the clothing of another who is already intimately known. Still, it takes the choice from them. Control becomes singular, unlike mutually ripping it off or signalling with allure.

A tactical cuddle and closeness become a lover’s best and over sweet confectionary like choices here. Jenny was still prickly. I had gotten under her skin, a devastatingly dangerous moment coming out of a developing intimate and personable trusting pairing. This was like after great sex mutually confronting the tattered condom. What memory chord had I tugged at? I needed it distracted if not closed and removed, because this was my time and space with Jenny. There was tenseness, a palpable, very tangible presence here of my making by words and Jenny’s by memory links. But it was open, she needed to find closure; let it move away, but in the instance she was also moving away from intimate space. We shared space, space was ours together. What the fuck had I said to trigger this response? I would probably now give my left ball to know. Still, now unlike in the moment, there is no compelling need to know.

Then I kept it mainly non verbal. Jenny accepted my ‘sorry’ and then a hug. Don’t get tongue tied with over apology, no dumb questions like, ‘What upset you?’ Get her back into the moment, move the moment forward.

Jenny was suddenly back with me. The touch was there and the mood was steady in a rhythm of togetherness. All I recollect now is frustration at not remembering the catalyst, the unwanted separation and the sweet linking back.

Here I was, over thinking a relationship. Maybe Jenny was too. My heart knowledgeably instructed, keep it simple. Touch not words, mate. This was a time for male sensitivity to step forward and choose to solely embrace.

I was holding Jenny; nothing more. She was eased back by touching hardness: my chest.  I lingered leisurely around her waist.

“I like your room” she finally said. “All your neatly shelved books.”

It was true; I had several hundred novels and art books.

She added: “Though it’s the paintings; the big landscapes I mostly think about. Especially the misty one, it draws you on an adventure, you want to go there. I can picture myself in it.”

I surveyed my room differently following her observation. I was chuffed with Jenny liking my taste in art. Though she had said on another occasion the two small hand painted dark framed cheap prints flanking the large window were out-of-place among my classy landscape collection.

I cuddled into Jenny; her body was with me and I hoped her mind. The painting she liked was Turneresque, a house being revealed in the distance as fog lifted. The murk of our immediate falling out had also evaporated.

There was never a repeat of a vexed Jenny. The incident never resurfaced or cast a shadow between us. However, here was the complexity of words layering over a previous uncomplicated physicality. There was more. She had not let me follow her into her mind. This was Jenny as I didn’t want to know her. Yet I wanted to be in her mind. However, not as I was in her thoughts in this particular moment. Deep complexities were best left alone by holding her.

The next day Jenny was effervescent again. An outstanding result on an assignment really perked her up. I focussed on her success and she rewarded me. Jenny was on the edge of my bed, naked, laying back, legs slightly parted. I was between them; her sex was being licked. I was teasing over the creased cowl of her clit and then my fingers were spreading her butterfly lips. I looked up momentarily for reassurance. Jenny was relaxed, indulged and pampered by foreplay.

My tongue and finger tips were confronting her dominating pubic hair, fulsome and dark. I went the lingering clit lick, the successful flick, flick; I liked and had aroused Jenny so successfully to her first full teary orgasm. I wasn’t trying to repeat the unrepeatable, merely building pleasure, emptying crowded recent thoughts from her mind if I could, and boy do genitals do their job. Jenny was away from yesterday’s mulling mind. I spread back her elongated, slender twisty hood. Her clit was attached to her body but in this immediate instance it was mine. The flicking licking sweeps were purposefully direct and slightly spaced to hold each edge of surging pleasure, slightly separate yet merging fast, her body was back on the bed, her head way back, unseen by me. Her firm bead and butterfly lips now unseen too, as my eyes closed. The succulent sensation was for her, was for me and was for two. A truer aim of mine was the deeper stratum of Jenny’s self, this woman beyond the surface touch. Where we want to really be; using the surface sensitivity to layer under, weave ourselves into their fabric of being. I was trying.

Jenny’s right leg was crooked up over my shoulder and around my neck. Moving in tandem with my head, its forward slant supported my tongue on her nub of fulfilment.

Her leg was down, control was mine alone, her breathing sharp and deeply clear. Jenny’s body moving slightly side to side; her legs trying to close, her mind willing them to stay apart, but buckling, then conceding to generated bodily ecstasy, my tongue rapid now, hummingbird fast. Her body gave Jenny what she needed: seemingly endless, sensual sensations of release. We had tapped into the source, released it and used it fully. Genitals: ever creative, ever resourceful and successful in constructing the tad more when it’s needed.

Jenny was glowing. She had to have cock in her. Sex was maleness in her. I was on the bed and Jenny straddled me; above and happy and wanting her man. No thinking now. No words to add to forgiveness or to press an advantage or alter the simple physical duality. We were consumed in the pleasure rhythm. Jenny was smoothly rocking, in control. She moved her hips up and away and down—not a lot, but sensational in its difference to me, fitted friction; sex rehinging yesterday’s fractured afternoon.

Jenny was happy to be filled with cock. Not thinking. Not true: pleasure dominating the mind, pleasure generated by touch—in her case cock, in my male mind, her sweet pussy. Together we easily filled a need; leisurely savoured by two; sharing the fleshy bits of give and give. Boy do they give. Girl, did she give too. Jenny as per usual was happiest in the fluid moment of viscous friction. Exquisite pussy satisfaction. Yes, I came too—natural male outcome— but all I recall now was Jenny in high spirits.

We fucked a lot in the space of a few months; I can’t differentiate each instance, yet each coupling keeps defining you, both of you. Search Jenny’s memory, search my memory and the same and different instances of coitus will come into focus by association, held by both of us or only one of us. Now massaged and manipulated into a wider framework, her life as genitalia, my life as genitalia, her life, my life. The crass idea of keeping a photographic record of your sex life, like endlessly shot celebrity sex tapes, doesn’t appeal; it’s a conscious explicit decision to record physical interaction before the event. It can’t capture the inner dialogue. Fuck diaries sound obnoxious, equalled only by a secret ‘trophy’ cabinet. Maybe panties or the bizarre Victorian lover’s exchange of mutual, single pubic hairs. Collecting sexted images of partners farewelled and furtively masturbating to them, genitals certainly have awkward moments.

An out of my depth defining juncture is coming. It will engage Jenny’s pussy and my cock; they are designed for attention and rapid response, and my Janus self will have to choose between the raunchy and the sensual of genitalia. Both have their place and time, seemingly the split doyen of our body. Genitals realise its words threatening their hinging sway, words activating the slippery slide to parting. Yet words, asking in sex and expressing love, should lead to genital hegemony and pair bonding.

 


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