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

Chapter24 (v.1) - Sealed

Author Chapter Note

Trying to kiss Ruby after her return from Paris. Recalling the loss of both Jenny and Ruby. Deliberate recall of anally dildoing Ruby in her Paris apartment kitchen.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

Reads: 210

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

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PART THREE: POST COITUS

Chapter Twenty-Four: SEALED

Ruby’s return from Paris came soon enough. No messages. No words of encouragement. She had promised to send a letter and none came. She had attended the interstate wedding and returned home. I tried to call but couldn’t get her. A week after her return, she answered.  Maybe I created a relationship and Ruby sort of only wanted the moment.  I think now the vibe was off and Ruby was home and had become a different girl than she had been away.

As I went to meet Ruby, I recalled being fatally undermined in my earlier relationship with Jenny by the very quality sustaining her through our relationship: steadiness. I had been her axis of stability, rotating through her paced life, using a gentle gravitational ebb and flow like the tide to allow Jenny independence within promising co-dependence. The heterogeneous nature of steady; it attracts but it can also persuade away. I didn’t communicate my feelings clearly enough. Then you think; we didn’t have much substance, only shallow sex. No, of course it wasn’t. At least not after the first few times together. It would have ended quicker if it was merely genital gratification. If there was a fuck buddy moment, it was left behind. We were tracking well, I thought. Still, leave a moment too steady, don’t seize the moment, someone doubts in the moment, opportunity presents in absence. In this case it was Jenny; the moments drift, the moments fade and the moments cease. Way more complex of course, we have two highly intelligent individuals here who sparked and flashed and carried a flaming torch together for a while; flared new memories and created smouldering passion but the aggregate of the combined fuel when it doesn’t last seems like ash, the dust of memory. Luckily; memory fans the embers, it is the keeper of the flame.

I only had minor thoughts of concern about Ruby, now still confident I could regain the moment once I was with her. However, our time together was gone, as I would soon find out. I met Ruby at a café. When you close in for a temporary parting kiss and are met by sealed lips, it is the end.

The café was small, boutique and unique, it was located on a side street. It was mid week, mid morning, fairly quiet. I can’t remember the details of the café. Some vague wooden chairs and clear shiny polished wooden tables; kitschy doesn’t come to mind. The coffee—no idea now. It wasn’t my focus. It had been nearly four weeks since we had last seen each other in Paris. Now this was two again; two is good, two has potential. If there was anything worth developing or anything still sparking, here was my chance to rekindle it. Cafés are excellent, thought genitals, recalling mocha. The conversation was amicable enough, no signs or exchanges of passion, no holding, cuddling or touching. We walked back to Ruby’s parked car about half an hour later. I think she said she had something to do, no worry, there was always tomorrow, later…I leaned in to kiss her goodbye and met sealed lips. Her lips didn’t respond to mine. They were closed, slightly dry, the wrong impact; totally unexpected, utterly confusing, totally, indicating it was over.

I moved my head back. We were still in each others’ personal space, I’m not sure Ruby looked at me—her eyes; when you have the really, really important to say. She looked down and added something like; “I thought you knew it was over …” I will never be sure on the exact wording. I wanted to listen and caught the tone of her voice, quietly measured. I was trying to understand—I did understand—but it wasn’t processing.  The parameters of my whole world, the shape of my life, anything I thought I had with Ruby, was suddenly former. My relationship with myself was altering and my relationship with space, time, and memory were shifting forever.

Words to reinforce the devastating message of sealed lips weren’t required; they could been seen as an unnecessary secondary blow, the verbal confirmation, but I was way in front of their message and way behind it too. Ruby got in her car, no additional words, nothing from me either. Was I a stoic; no. Stunned yes. I don’t remember even watching her drive off or looking at her getting in the car or how I looked at her after I kissed sealed lips. It is a blur. Maybe if I focus more it will emerge or I can at least recreate the mood of the exchange.

So kissing sealed lips, the end of a relationship is also about self. The beginning of a relationship is initially about self and it’s different from the self of the relationship. The self of coursing, throbbing blood and flesh with its veins like movements, full of the breath of life like we were full of the breath of sex and eventually, hopefully a fuller, longer relationship. We had been in the sexual minuate, the endorphins of memory mixed across two separate minds. Like sharing the same bong, it was good shit all round, but it’s been mixed and the sensation is not exactly the same. Still, it’s holding us together like the capillaries nourishing our own skin, but its two skins here; the closest they get is touch. Wonderful, securing touch. Ruby and I had it, didn’t we? Yet it was more like skin, pliable, stretchy, self renewing. It spreads from points of contact, small areas to start with like lips locking, genitals snuggling and it spreads like discovering your partner’s toes, the nape of their neck, until it encompasses all their skin. We want to be in their skin and we realise we actually are. The about self, the I, in a subtle unsought moment, the point impossible to fix has become we, is us, is together. It is unlike self, which allows time apart without feeling apart. We are now held together like a double skin, seemingly so safe, utterly incapable of imploding or exploding. Yes, we took, but Ruby wanted more and so did I.

Ensuing next was my internal self destruct as my mind shattered the tight funnelled focus which had filtered the days with Ruby and left shards everywhere through memory; a myriad of associations. The reality of ‘relationship’ in the moment was gone. Gone forever in precise time and place, replaced by external relation; memory plays relative. ‘Ruby’ as cameo appearances would be relative now to random circumstance, ‘Luke’ reduced to a silhouette portrait, a shadowy figure in her life and feeling a shadow of his own.

Any memory scene found now was  like footage left on the cutting room floor of an old movie studio: snippets of film unplayable as a whole, and only short pieces held up to the light viewable frame by frame. They would always be static. Time, place, and memory moved on in both of our lives. This now inert part of two living beings was like nitrate film but incapable of combustion. There was no spark left, only the prospect of disintegration with time reduced to vapours, dissipated to an even finer state through memory. Then rubble; nitrate mounds of tacky gluey gooey substance, like Ruby and me together after sex. The messy bit and the part of togetherness we want to still have and equally take no further notice of; dismiss or clean away. Then, like life and memory itself, the nitrate is dust, we are dust, our memory is dust, only shadow memories held briefly by others whose lives continue to play out in time but only if the know or value the story. Often they don’t, as it’s not personal.

I try to picture the scene again in memory. What was more devastating: trying to kiss sealed lips, Ruby still there, or the vague moment of Ruby moving away? This was the last time we were in close personal space. She left the curb, went around the back of her red car, opened the driver’s door and got in. I don’t remember looking into the car. She pulled away from the curb and started to drive off. I don’t believe I watched it go out of view. I must have turned to see this, because when I attempted to kiss Ruby, I was between her and the car. I must have stood, hesitated long enough to see her drive off. Then I turned and walked off in the opposite direction towards my car. The driving away was a given; it was going to happen. The sealed lips weren’t expected.

Kissing sealed lips is numbness, like seeing skin tear deeply and knowing pain will follow; the dark blood seeping out is oxygen starved and our relationship had stopped breathing. Alone in life in the moment and it’s like a depersonalization of being. Self doesn’t understand self and self is in denial. So you start thinking—break ups provide too much time for thinking. Was I too dependent on Ruby? Was this ‘dreams’ of love? And the last memory I would always have of Ruby’s intimate space was the appalling, unwanted memory of kissing sealed lips.

If only—it is always if only—I hadn’t ignored the warning signs. She told me it wouldn’t be the same at home, but I convinced myself to hold course with Ruby. She had counselled; she had said, ‘Wait and see’, but I held the supreme confidence existing in startling sex: nothing could render this woven mesh of two people, the inner sanctum of their temple of hedonism.

I deliberately recall Ruby so full of improvised pleasure-seeking. We were at the table in her Paris apartment for breakfast, eating bread and honey. Black coffee. Shit, this girl never had any fresh milk. Ruby in high cut black panties. No bra. I had on a pair of boxers. We had fucked repeatedly the previous night; she had milked me twice, the stamina of the girl.

The glint was in her eye. My cock was quickly between her hands. She was on her knees, her mouth at work already. The ability of youth to keep rising to the occasion was unquestioned. It was like my cock could never get enough. Ruby, it seemed, always craved more. I was invited and it was welcome. The honey was an unwelcome surprise.

At first it was all sticky and tacky—a frickin’ mess. Ruby went to work licking my shaft and my balls in sweet self consumed happiness. All I could do was watch. She was giving perfect head. She saw the precum and worked my rod till the jizz flew high.

Her hand reached into a cupboard and emerged with a dildo. Rubes never stopped surprising. She drizzled honey over the dildo head. Fuck, I thought. I don’t want anything up my butt—and not because it was pink.

Ruby guided me behind her as she bent over the table.

“Kiss my pucker,” she asked matter-of-factly.

I tongued her crinkly balloon knot, rimming its firm closed pinkness, its intense sensitivity. Ruby’s moans of delight built and spread to her brain. She gave me the sticky dildo. She didn’t have to give instructions as to where she wanted it. Christ was I ready for this.

Her butt was a questing outlet, a stunning orifice defining an astonishing woman. Pleasure in the moment was never pleasure denied to Ruby. I was careful, but she was relaxed and receptive. I was mesmerised, slowly watching her ring release its tightness and hold, shaping the fleshy coloured ribbed dildo’s contours to her own gap. Shit, it was alluring. They were a perfect match. It didn’t seem right, yet the fit was. My tempo was slow, Rubes’ breathing was fast. Then she worked her arse on and off the dildo faster. My hand held steady. Her hands were gripping her butt cheeks. She spread indecently wide. Her arse gaped. I waited. Was it over?

I knew I wanted it over. God, if Rubes hadn't milked me first, she could have demanded my cock in her ring. What would I have done? She wanted her butt fucked—it was very clear.

“Like the view?” she asked. “I can see you do…okay, deep, hard and fast…let’s get there.” My sex instructress issued her directive.

A pleasure toy wasn't my cock and I was willingly led astray. The full anal deal with Rubes was left unsealed. No signet ring impression from me to her.

It was engrossing and thrilling taking her to orgasm. Her fingers manipulated her own clit as I pushed her flesh in then it withdraw out with the dildo. Moulded flesh shaped to moulded plastic. Ruby’s arse was so fleshly elastic and then her body ecstatic, finally her mind euphoric as her stuffed anus and swollen clit joined in the sweet, sweet waves of bodily pleasure.

However, it’s all the moment, the shared moment. What are we left with when it’s over and you know you won’t be repeating it or more likely, won’t be joining Ruby in a variation of it? This will never happen again and maybe in this instance, it is a positive. However, Ruby as pleasure aroused and Rubes as pleasure furnished, the desire to seek and recapture the ‘Parisian Pixie’ is blown around by memory like her pappus tattoo floating across the surface of her hypnotic, joy defining skin.

Again, what are we left with? It is always being human, but we start and there end—it’s a given. However, in life we collect memories automatically, like a pathological hoarder. It’s recurrent kleptomania, we are bower birds extraordinaire. Memory operates beyond our will, we collect and collect memories, and we even collect memories of memories. Then we try to sift them, we try to spread them, we try to shake them into shape. Like winnowing grain from chaff to get at something, but unlike the gleaners, the chaff, we realise, is as essential to memory as memory is to meaning in our life. Not just the kernel, the grain sought by the winnower, memory encompasses all. We believe we have soul, mind, body, and memory to hold together against the vagaries of life. So, Ruby on considered impulse took her unfettered self in a spirited new direction, not without a tinge of regret, because she wanted me to go forward too, not spin in held memory circles. With time, when we did accidentally meet, Ruby was eventually ‘content’ for me, it seemed I had released enough of her and moved on. Well, it was the facade I presented to Ruby. Where Ruby held me in memory from the curb, I will never know.

So left on a curb, near a street corner, bested by what? Dead ardour, unfettered dreams, desire played out, youthful omnipotent misjudgement or the vagaries of time and place not meshing enough. The reason: we want to understand the reason, but we don’t. In reality, it is unimportant to the act. Played out, kissing sealed lips. We actually cope well with the final point of breakup. A dazed helplessness probably influences this—plus shitloads of denial—and we busy ourselves in routine. What got to me and still does is not the actual parting, it was the bitterness to self of having kissed sealed lips, missing Ruby’s attempted communications and her earlier signals we were finished.

I never held disappointment or anger directly towards Ruby; I lost the skill of communicating my deeper self to anyone at all and I was a shell of self. I could see Ruby‘s superficial brief surface attempts to draw me back, but I wasn’t her responsibility or in her life now. Unintended, unplanned, public space encounters with their snippets of her generic sociable self; brief politeness, accepted civic greeting and the non specific general inquiry of “How are you?” only wants and is programmed to hear, “Fine” and vice versa. These comments are not the substance of life. I didn’t want a surface sympathy like I was a last minute added filling in the sandwich of her newly developing life.

I was not participating in Ruby’s life story now, so no unburdening there, no recriminations from me to her, no finger pointing or trying to lay guilt at her feet, but only giving the empty public faced responses from a human automaton. “Hello” then keep moving; avoid any more because there wasn’t any more. No casual friends shit. It remained for time and place to separate us. In the reality of our lives lived moments now, surely not too much to ask. Let time, distance, and absence incrementally aid the forgetting, release it all.

So Lena and Leise, the twin volcanic peaks of hedonism, didn’t need or want commitment and I was a hitch hiker taken a short distance at rapid speed—the true quickie. Ruby feasted on personal orgasmic awareness and there’s nothing like being invited to the finest smorgasbord and supping on the sweetest most delicious treats. We know the meal will end, we feel sated and replete, but not complete. We always want more of this. We always want more. We keep looking for more. In foreplay, coitus, and especially in post-coital moments with Jenny, I was complete: as maleness, as genitalia, as a chain of attachment to a stream of life within another most precious lively being. Lovers ‘chained’, can they link together: think, handcuffs with sexy silk ribbons as skeins of memory and filaments of attachment struggling with all the complexity and all the intricate layers of memory, a lifetime of experiences to any point in time and space and the impenetrable, unfathomable, compacted density making up human motivation in another when a relationship closes.

Closed, finished, completed, concluded; I was closed—closed in more than one way. And all I don’t want to recall is when neither Jenny nor Ruby were present in my life.

 


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