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

Chapter21 (v.1) - Resistance

Author Chapter Note

Dinner with Jenny's family , Does a 'fuck' count for anything?, and are we ever prepared to release what we cannot hold?

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

Reads: 260

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

A A A

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 Chapter Twenty-One: RESISTANCE

Pair bonding, plenty to signify we were a couple without actually stating it. And the kitchen scene was like a domestic montage in our lives, though there were no conjugal impulses stirring in either of us. We were young and we had all we needed: each other.

The questions are why ‘couple’, ‘boyfriend’, girlfriend’ were left unstated and why neither of us had gone back to the ‘love’ word. Eden is Eden, if you believe in it. It doesn’t get much better than a seemingly stolen long weekend away from the rest of the world, semester and exam timetables over, only pausing now and then while we both waited for results to be posted. We were meandering through moments together, mixing extended absorbing intimacy with increments of revealed mind and soul; augmenting each others’ perspectives and supplementing, nourishing, sustaining each other in a floating way through time and place, so defined by the seemingly uncomplicated shared moments. The kleptomaniac, memory was lurking, ready to steal away the physical life we lived in, the together we desired to stay in as we look at them now. How could we know as we experienced them they would end? Inconceivable.

Jenny and I wandered into a playground after an evening walk along a wide, attractive but deserted beach, the tide way out. We had a swing side by side and then sat together, unbalancing a seesaw. We held each other. We both passed on the roundabout; we weren’t circling each other. The chit chat of our daily lives was all familiar and comfortable, holding us in the shadows as our own shadows lengthened. There was plenty of light and time left, as there always is on long summer evenings. The playground was on the rundown side of needing mowing and some tender loving care from a council or a community working bee. Sitting, communicating, touching gently in a playground, we were innocent and younger again. A flash of another time and place—an amusement park—crashed into and out of my memory. It brought unwanted thoughts like jarring dodgem cars; fleetingly; the seconds it takes to lose or gain control. Life was prized in the here, winner takes all, and it was Jenny.

 

Party time. Results were posted, results were excellent, my prospects for the evening looking superb. Jenny had her degree, I had a higher degree, and everyone in the room was drunk or on the way to inebriation or happy state, in varying degrees. We danced close and tight, hands familiarly low. Buttocks low, not reminiscent of our first dance together. Time had certainly moved on. It was late and we were tired when we arrived back at my house. Jenny surrendered to under the sheets missionary position sex, happy to comfort her man. Again, in the early morning light, she consented to more of the same. Our gentle genitals prised out our softer humanity, capturing and liberating more than a moment of immediate individual pleasure. This moment found other moments of two separate selves from a few months of union, and meshed them together as we merged tighter and opened; openness of being.

However, equally the urgency of encounters had faded, replaced by easygoing intimacy. The edge of the bed, the lakeside cabin ‘mmm’ moment—they were different expressions of sexuality. Still, Jenny needed the effervescent in her life. Who was carrying our relationship forward? Either of us?  Does a relationship have to go somewhere? Jenny was an explorer, ‘a life experiencer’, while I was at home—actually at home—inside her. Always steady, a pivot point to return to as she bungeed around in the moment. As I rested from dancing late in the evening, her exuberant energy uncapped saw her dancing with another male. Yet later she said she found his prominent masculinity heady. Had I crossed over into cohabiting and had I brought Jenny with me?

Here was the finish: it was the last time Jenny and I lay together, made out, slept together, bumped and grinded, made love, or fucked. No ad infinitum here. A terminal point. Yet, events were still unfolding, so little between circumstances holding or releasing. Discharge won.

I was very positive about meeting Jenny’s family for her twenty-third birthday at an upmarket Italian restaurant. It was actually owned by Ruby’s family. I saw Rubes mother before Jenny’s party arrived. Mrs Marre informed me her daughter was in France studying and working. She gave me her contact details in Paris as she knew I wanted to travel to Europe one day. I folded the then unimportant address in the back of my wallet. Ruby was a relationship yet to unfurl.

I had brought Jenny two cute, tiny fluffy cats with exaggerated whiskers for her birthday and she was purring and enamoured with them.  So meet the family; it was to be her mother and two elder sisters, her father was away on business. So looking a bit matriarchal and slightly unbalanced gender wise, it was one of those supposedly pivotal occasions when a relationship has actually stepped up. Fuck buddies aren’t ever mentioned to mums, so this was scrutiny. This was relationship territory; this was say a prayer time, even if I didn’t usually pray. Though who was about to prey on me. This was scrutiny akin to a full gynaecological examination, except I was male, so it’s the finger inserted into the rectum to examine the prostate—an improved but not welcome analogy. It wasn’t unpleasant; it wasn’t at all like baring your genitals to reveal warts or worse. I was up for a physical muster and mental grilling for one. All the standard polite inquiries: what are you studying, family background and where did you meet?  All small talk and easily negotiated.

I held some conversation points, did a lot of listening, which was taken as interest, so I got through to the coffee and mints with Jenny’s supporting glow and cute smile, her fingers and legs entwining with mine under the table. It didn’t feel like a last supper.

Her eldest sister Hannah was lead prober. You instinctively know when a sibling has a special connection for the youngest one. There’s some bond between sisters uniquely out of the ordinary in its own way. They talk in secrets. You know as soon as she speaks to you she sees straight through your eyes. Reflected back like Klimt’s image, she sees you as genitalia and she knows you’re fucking Jenny. Maybe she’s thinking: are you long term? Are you the one? She’s known about us, Jenny has told her; she’s been with the same guy for a while. Jenny is starting to make weightier sexual choices. Her sister knows her past too well, one-off sexual encounters. Jenny had never actually introduced a boy as boyfriend before tonight. Lucky Dad wasn’t here tonight; he’d have seen a prick for what he was. You could tell, as Hannah asked what had we being doing together recently, she had the scales out like her father would.

It was easy for her; she had dropped the information casually, but craftily enough, one long- term stable relationship for years.  A daughter like Dad, Hannah would marry her current de facto, eventually. She knew her parents’ love path, their generational way: be enamoured with one man or woman, intense then moderated love, working together, one long monogamous date, pre marital sex, but the wedding date was set solid and both families approved. The Pacific island honeymoon, then the long haul, mortgage, three daughters, their education, some cultural holidays and a partnership like a tree with two trunks. Then their ‘three graces’ hit puberty, in their face, but Janus turns, the awareness their three daughters are sexual beings too, not the asexual angels they played together, once, in a nativity play. Then they saw the local pricks too close to them. One afternoon, Jenny gets off the bus, her dress is way too short, but before this thought develops, they see her hand slide slowly out of some slightly older boy’s hand. They think, where else has his hand been? No guy is really ready to take your daughter from you and you are hoping it’s not the one on the bus. All conjecture, but hey, Jenny grew up too.

I could tell all the sisters valued independence; they had tasted the world and wanted to see more. They were professionally set. Her elder sister knew Jenny was on the pill; pregnancy was not an issue here. The politeness of social manners was there for me. Still, Hannah was scanning my motivations and my luck. How did a quiet, steady guy like me get into Jenny’s pants?  What the fuck did Jenny see in me? She had an air of confidence this wouldn’t last. Hannah knew better than most Jenny’s gregarious, butterfly quality. She knew like I did the powerful streak of self-determination, the will, the real will to shape her own life. She wasn’t going to settle soon and maybe never easily. Ah, but Jenny’s life as genitalia before she met me, like mine before I met her, were closed subjects. Yet in our memories, here perhaps were the undisclosed seeds scattering, maybe extrapolating a gap unseen between us.

The wonder of life is not two people parting—part they will, even if it’s ‘till death do us part’. The speculative, conjectural astonishment is they meet at all. Everything needed to align for Jenny and me to meet and move forward; it is staggering when placed against a backdrop of time and place. First, you need an unbroken chain of genital genes stretching back fuck knows how far. Our parents have to meet, copulate, we both have to avoid being miscarriages or stillborn, then our parents instil the value of education into us. We have to want to follow this path through, we have to attend the same institution of learning around the same time, we have to party on the same Friday night, we both have had to actually survive any flirtations with death catapulting or speeding across our lives. Living is more emergency bivouac than we actually ever want to contemplate.

We have to be both unattached and willing to snap any other merging or full attachment quickly. We have to select each other in a moment; here in a precise moment or it could have been another dance partner selected. Perhaps Bianca and I get into each other and leave the dancing and head off together. In another mood, it could have been you left as wallflower, Jenny. Or Jenny moves on after a dance or two with a passing thought: steady, but I need more. 

Even then we are not home. You picked a very shy one this time, Jenny. You’re thinking, is he ever going to kiss me? You have another male interest tentatively in the wings. He kisses like a virgin, you’re intrigued and we screw a few times and it holds. Either we were meant to be together or its fucking luck, pure chance, random mating and it doesn’t matter a toss in the end. Birth, copulation, death; so meet you will, but it’s all inconsequential. Anyone in the scheme of time and place; fuck; then someone moves on and repeats this process again.

All very discouraging and not worth thinking about outside this moment. Surely our choices in generating relationships count beyond our genitals’ genes fucking whatever happens to be in front of us, seemingly random in time and place. Better to live in the moment, accept the imponderables of relationships formed and live life now and fuck on a regular basis. Let’s not even consider Earth’s actual position in the universe; it isn’t centre and it is all we need to know. When self is not centre with another self you value, well, you’re fucked too until you re-centre. Then the whole sequence or required coincidences begins again with the one—or when it’s no longer the one, it’s the second or the third. We either fuck and it counts for something beyond procreation or we fuck, knowing it doesn’t count for anything beyond the pleasure surge, so we might as well just fuck.

My story is here revealed in Our Lives as Genitalia, before and after Jenny. Only aspects of Jenny’s life of genitalia shared with me. There are only scraps of her sexual proclivities in the mist before me. She said once; she and her girlfriends compared guys’ performances. I let it pass in the moment because the moment was all mine. However, when it slipped away, these became the questions having no answers. Girls can talk and do. Occasionally, all barriers are down and partners or casual guys are rated. A common male who has shared more than one bed is ranked on performance, a cock analysis, more scrutinising than actually revealing your genitals for the first time to a partner.

But it’s okay tonight. Hannah reaches the point of acceptance; your genitals have trapped Jenny. Whether you last, well it is Jenny’s decision. Jenny has wanderlust. Can your steady composure hold her? Hannah is quiet now, her look saying, you are going down, boy as she confidentially finishes her ravioli. She concedes you the inside running. It’s clear from the table talk you and Jenny are having fun together. You have the inside intimate knowledge, the powerful gooey glue of genitalia and some gentle magnetic attraction, sort of hinging two; which may derail Miss Independence, yet.

No; you see Hannah’s point of viewpoint in the easy way she has been drinking all evening—a quality red to boot. Jenny will move on. 

Though I knew too, if Jenny signalled she was leaving me, I would have accepted. No resistance.

 


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