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

Chapter26 (v.1) - The Quickie

Author Chapter Note

Coral ambushes Luke into 'quickie' sex in the hallway and later both reflect on their sex lives

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

Reads: 315

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

A A A

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Chapter Twenty-Six: THE QUICKIE

Coral rang me. It was a Friday night and I went straight around to her place. I pressed her doorbell. It was a month before the wedding and the reason Coral accompanied me to it.

She hardly let me get in the door before my pants were around my knees. The encounter was fast, furious and frenetic.

Her coat rack and umbrella stand fell with us to the hallway floor. My cock and body were being worked over like I was subject to a multiple indecent illegal frisking by several female security officers at an airport all at once. One hand was rubbing my chest after popping a button in her rush. Fingers extended, plying through the emerging thickness of my maturing chest hair. Her other hand massaged vigorously and rhythmically my recently unused but now happy shaft.  Her hand moved from my chest to grab the flesh of my butt. Her right hand was teasing my balls, stretching the silky bag sack down towards my perineum, spreading my nuts and rubbing between them and gliding all the way back to my glans. She was rimming my arse. She was teasing and building girth at the base of my shaft. Then she was between my legs, both hands sculpting up and down, willing my cock to maximum engorged thickness.

Coral was on a training drill. I participated in the steps. She spat generously into both her hands and rubbed with calculated friction to make sure hardness and rigidness were sustained. She knew how to shape cock and she was confidentially absorbed in her skill.  Her focus was my cock; she loved cock, and all she wanted in this moment was cock. She drizzled a wad of saliva on my balls and then licked them in lingering generous wet slow waves. She was intent on priming a male to the edge of readiness for her pussy. She rimmed my pucker and my boner responded with additional hardness from god knows where; it was stretched and packed. She divided her attention like a connoisseur between the parts, teasing my perineum to drive my arse and my balls crazy, both sidelined momentarily. Then gobbling and nibbling nuts, delicately stretching the tender male flesh as it tightened by the second. Her tongue tip was then nuzzling my brown eye. My butthole nerves were gathering sensation, shooting spasms of pleasure through my penis. She was teasing the tease; she knew the sensation for herself.

I nearly lost my load early as she blew warm air on my rear ring. Her tongue joined in, hard and probing, then tracing the rim. Then fuck, the soft breath again, like the warmth of a balmy Sirocco, driving me crazy. Fuck, she kissed—planted a sequence of kisses on my arsehole. My butthole was relaxed and her index finger was sliding to the knuckle with ease.

She was following a sequence like breach loading a cannon—my cannon—but for a moment I felt it could have been any guy who had come through the door. If it had been a race to the door between the pizza guy and myself, shit, it probably would have been a threesome. No male losers here tonight.

Her tongue was her primer and her fingers the rammer and her mind the fuse. I was loaded and ready, awaiting my position to fire off. She was now taking my penis deep, burying maleness in her soft mouth. Coral was skilled, accomplished, and talented. This was cock happy hour, back to its place of front and centre in a young man’s life. Coral had come a long way with foreplay since the boathouse. She was working to her own internal timing and was fully absorbed in giving head. Nothing over complex here, giving head as a male would want to receive head. She knew the routine.

Then she was on my cock, giving me the sexual view ensuring pumping heavy joint friction: reverse cowgirl. She had arched forward so I could see my pecker filling her. Coral’s golden pubes spread luxuriantly as she quickened the pace, guiding in a full tight glide; the action. She leaned far forward, and then came back in startling explicit, open sex. She raised herself to a squat. I saw my cock disappear and reappear. I saw the hold of her pussy ringing my penis. It was unadulterated friction, pussy and cock pleasuring each other. We both had the experience to make it last, to sap and drain the self pleasure from our privates pooled. And we did. We took it all. We took what the parts combined can give. We took it in the moment for our individual needs.

As we rested I made the comparisons you should never make. I left the uniqueness of each woman and their sexual expression. Ruby of the passionately impromptu, the sexually unexpected; she had no idea herself what would happen next, the theatre sports of sex, like grabbing some man meat for fellatio in a public stairwell. Jenny of the fluid flow, the sliding transitions in the moment, sensation built on sensation together. Coral was planned and measured; full preparation in advance. She tried too hard for herself and put faith in the pleasure of the parts working together as she choreographed. The parts will always work; the issue is the together and beyond the together.

And it struck me too; how did the women in my life remember sex? With moi first, of course, ego drive present as always; but then the sex—their partners into whom I meshed or was I held differently? What was I associated with? Then, later, or now?

A few minutes later Coral and I were relaxing on her bed.

“Was that any good?” asked Coral.

“No.”

“No.”

I qualified, “The sex was okay...well it was way better than okay...Okay?”

“Yeah.” She actually looked sexier in her pink flannel pyjamas than naked.

“Yeah,” was echoed by me. “But we weren’t in it, like it’s not us.”

Then a bit wistful from Coral, “Not us.” Her pj’s had little white lambs gambolling around and one disappearing under her arm pit.

“No” I said it again.

“Then where the fuck are we, Luke?” The lambs had undocked tails.

“In your bedroom.”

Coral gave a nervous laugh and lit a cigarette; she had started smoking after losing her most recent male.

After a couple of drags she released, “Fuck you.”

“You just did… want to again?”

“No.” But she laughed lightly. I laughed too. And it brought us part way back.

Coral had gone out with Simon for about two months. She met him at the gallery where she was working. They were having dinner at Ruby’s parents’ Italian restaurant, the one Jenny and I had gone to for her birthday. Simon had apparently dogged the waitress in the unisex toilet between courses. He had dessert early.

“Then the bitch served us up cassata with a smile,” said Coral. Her eyes indicating she would more than like to dock Simon.

 I inquired respectfully, “How did you find out?”

“Ruby as usual. She finds out everything…fuck Simon.”

“Ruby fucked Simon?”

“No… fuck Simon.”

“Geez, Coral…we’ve been here before, I’m not fucking Simon.” I wanted her happy like the lambs.

Still easy enough to bring her a portion of the way back, but not as easy as years ago. Coral really lived on the edge of relationship risk, putting her heart out there all the time. I admired Goldilocks, but she took too many hits; she wanted someone to love her back to her envisioned plan and a reliable fuck. Where the fuck were they? Was I doing any better being here as a fuck buddy? In the moment, we fucked, but it hadn’t helped. We both wanted to throw it away again like we had long ago in the boatshed.

Coral lit another cigarette.

“You’ll kill yourself,” I said.

“I already am. Why not us? What do you think?”

“Too obvious. We fuck...there’s no love here. It’s too late for anything more.”

“Do we know too much about each other?” she added.

“Coral, you won’t even kiss me when we have sex.”

I could smell burning. “Shit, your sheet is smouldering.”

“Fuck,” responded Coral as she spat on the cigarettes ashes’ burn marks.

“Add pyromaniac to nymphomaniac,” I said as I laughed. However, Coral didn’t join me.

 She got up and got a glass of water. I heard her in the kitchen.

I took in the double framed prints above the bed head, previously only in my peripheral vision. I looked closely. Shit, there was a portrait photo of Klimt with his cat and the Self Portrait as Genitalia sketch side by side. Coral had thought about our sexual signatures. As strained as she was, I wanted to know her thoughts about the drawing even more than I had in college.

She was back. It wasn’t the time to ask. I couldn’t get a word in.

“Fuck past love,” she said. “It’s no fucking use for a fuck right now.” Then she drank half the glass.

“I’m not fucking you again,” I said.

“No...I’m here now, but it’s not now I want. I want tomorrow and next week...now.” No glass half empty or half full. She drained it.

I was too scared to tell Coral she wanted three things at once; sex and commitment and control.

“Geez, Luke, we’re both drifting.”

“You’ve said something similar once before...at...at the beach, with seaweed. Something like, ‘we drift, and then we pair, but is it out of love or to avoid the loneliness.”

“Shit, the things we say and don’t recall,” She got up to pee.

Coral was doing more damage to herself and me than trying to set fire to her bed. I scanned her bedroom; it was initially an odd mixture of discordant, eclectic features. Provocative artworks were next to a shelf of plush soft toys. A piggy with a prominent snout evoking a sideshow alley from years ago. One of the stunning artworks was a limited edition Lindsay print, a titillating voluptuous female nude and the other; a costly Beardsley with an enormous penis. Her room was a muddled yet superficially organised space. Her dressing table was over accessorised with moisturisers, eye shadow stuff, lip balms, lipsticks and brushes for everything. Also copious perfumes in interesting shaped vessels and scattered quirky tasteful knick- knack jewellery. I heard the loo flush.

“So do you still like Ruby?” Coral asked as she lit up again. Chain smoker.

“No, I haven’t seen her much since she came back from Europe.”

“I thought so,” said Coral. “Were you two…fucking in Paris?”

“Look, I need to forget all the girls in my life, okay?”

“Ah, like I need to forget about boy’s period?”

“And the girls,” I added. “I always thought you and Ruby had it off somewhere...am I right?”

I knew Coral and Ruby had played their lesbian games at the spring. Still, would Coral admit it? Was she bisexual? Or was it only youthful fun, nothing more?

“Lukey, Lukey…you know girls, we never kiss and tell.” And the way she said it closed the conversation strand like butting an unfinished cigarette.

She was smoking and thinking or first smoking, then thinking or being bloody Coral when she said, “What about Penny then?”

“Penny who?”

“The girl from uni.”

“It was Jenny…you are very casual with people, Coral. Shit, you met her a few times.”

“Oh, OK…retake…where are you then with the girls, Ruby and Penny?”

Smart chick, this one. Two for the price of one, like bargain retail. She never missed an opportunity to fuck me around. Would I be here if I was still a chance with either one?

“I tried to keep their rhythm.” I said it quietly.

“Fuck, Luke…establish your own.”

“Yeah, look where it’s placed you. Sorry, bit harsh.”

“No, I don’t pick them well.” A slight sigh from Coral. She stretched out and I saw the full lamb under her arm pit.

“Well, how the fuck do you pick them?”

I was close to terminal frustration. Coral was entering temporary dissatisfaction. Fuck, sex was frustrating; yet we had just had it.

We smiled at each other; we were beyond laughing this one out. I didn’t stay the night.

This was never either of our better selves and we both knew it; a part of our sexual trail we would both probably prefer to erase. The lambs were really cute though.

 

 I now picture; Coral and I back again in front of Emin’s Tent. We were both drawn to the work, even as we mentally tried to avoid its gauntlet to self.

“It’s like making us face our sexual trail too,” I remarked.

“As confronting as a Chlamydia trail,” added Coral seriously. “Like thinking we can lose or abandon a sex partner. Maybe physically, but never mentally.”

So Emin’s work is blunt and confronting like a dose of the clap. It’s terribly basic, yet compellingly as intimate as a tent is. A shelter; we tent our memories, but there are times we hope aspects of memory will flap away.

“I think she’s trying to tell us she either cannot find stability or commit herself to a sexual partner repeatedly, so either through choice or circumstances, over and over she is dumped. The reasons may vary, but she is cast off.” I didn’t add, ‘like you Coral.’

“Yes, Luke...spot on. She is vulnerable both ways and the vulnerability is admitted. She presents herself as a slut— I don’t like using the word, but this artwork invites, nearly insists on it—she provokes us to reflect on the word and challenge it. She is a sexual being, conflicted and confronting and confronting us with the conflicting nature of our own story as sexual beings.”

Emin’s tent then is no tent of shame. It is human; it is the deeply private with a public face. A lot of Janus is out here—not everything, it can’t be; our multifaceted sexual self is so subterranean.

“I imagine it’s constructed,” I added. “To get us beyond the names, to the connections which give the names meaning; recalling the tenderness, the orgasms, the moments affixing beyond self...but equally...the selfishness, the gratification, the lust.”

The appliquéd names as I looked at them weren’t personal; however, they made me associate to my personal. Though I realised; ‘Billy Childish’ was real for Emin. Was ‘Tracy Horn’, a heart breaker or a lust filled one night encounter? Only Emin and Tracy know. Coral was unselfconsciously stating some of the names out loud.

“The work is challenging.” I added, “It’s how we interact with the work, where this leads, as each name leads somewhere for the artist. We would both approach this tent differently depending where we were in our sex lives—linked or divorced from others.”

As each name led somewhere for Coral and myself, I reflected alone. Fuck, the life of genitalia is challenging to self and others, and sometimes we would like to fuck the fucking life of genitalia for having created what you and I are in this precise moment.

“It’s a challenge alright,” summed up Coral. “What we all have to face up to, confront. If not here directly, when it seemingly dumps straight out of memory into your own face.”

I thought of the times I ran into Ruby unexpectedly after Paris. Never easy.

Coral continued: “Our sex lives are just that: life,  messy,  brazen,  impacting beyond the moment,  moving on,  exposing vulnerability and moments of deepest reflections of who is this person attached to these private parts and who are these names.”

I knew she was winding up and we should get another cocktail.

“Names are powerful.” said Goldilocks, twisting a strand of her hair for emphasis, “They identify, they give life to memory, they all have their tent with a story, and like Emin; it challenges because our pleasure bits bring out our extremes of being. We confront or push all sorts of limits with our naked bodies together. Her tent is powerful. I sort of wish I had a list on my sleeve—though I’d remove it. I’m no Hester Prynne.”

I had the urge to enter the tent. It was allowed and it was actually created to be explored internally. Coral peered in but wouldn’t do the hands and knees thing, required to get through the gap. I did. Whose self was I in? Emin’s space? My mind? And on the floor of the tent, visible when surrounded by it and separate from the names, the artist states boldly: ‘WITH MYSELF, ALWAYS MYSELF, NEVER FORGETTING’.

Cocktails and canapés eventually lose their appeal. Coral and I were done with the exhibition too. Unknown at this point, we were nearly done with each other. We were close to unravelling. She would soon take the leading job at an interstate gallery and completely reposition her tent and its circle of inhabitants, but not before a final invite to the local Long Gallery she was then managing.

 I realised I actually loved Coral’s mind. We should have stayed there. Screw genitals.

 Still, how can we not love them as we love our beloved? Despite genitals, impish, pixie nature, roguish vagrant actions, fluid frictional freshness or calculated intended trysts, they teach us. First to love ourselves and then, being gentle with self, we can take our full life of genitalia and ‘love’ others and take openly our tent and pitch it too. We all have life as genitalia and we can choose in the end to expose our better self.

 


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