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

Chapter3 (v.1) - Wet and Dry

Author Chapter Note

Wet dreams and youthful dry humping

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

Reads: 415

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

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Chapter Three: WET AND DRY

I can recall one arousing wet dream of significance in life because it connects to a later time and space. I was fucking an unidentified female doggy style—ever so fleetingly, probably a few seconds of time, though is time measured in dreams. Nothing at all remains but the physical sensation associated with the dream which would be mirrored by what the experience would be like in a real moment of physical intimacy. I had no experience of intercourse yet in my dream I experienced it as if it were taking place.

Fuseli’s, The Nightmare is the erotic masterpiece which engages with sexuality and dreams.  It’s as disturbing as a nightmare and as provoking as sexual realisation; the moment you are aware, you are fully a sexual being. A young woman is totally vulnerable in her open sleeping place and her flimsy bedtime garments. The fabric clings and sensually reveals the contours of her body, her ample breasts, her long neck and stretched legs. An incubus is sitting on her womb. A nightmarish horse is looking through curtains at this scene. The demon watches the viewer, inviting complicity in its proposal to release malevolence. The shadow of the incubus forming a triangular shape behind it, defining the young woman’s mound of desire—a yearning still held within her, yet it is ready for release, prepared to explode out of herself and her darkest deepest desires represented by the incubus.  The fiend with the participation of the viewer invites thoughts of assisting the young woman in her sexual awakening. Female nocturnal orgasm: perhaps? Males as usual are way less complex: erection, ejaculation and sticky wet mess. Random spurts of embarrassment.

Yet when the time came I would recall this wet moment with a real young woman, a girl I hadn’t even fantasised about, yet the vagaries of time and place would pair us, far from home and a dream would be forever associated with reality in a full life moment.

However, my first confronting realisation of sex was very local. The neighbouring bush and it was no dream. Even in college we kept exploring our own local bush world. This was not sparse, open bush but dense covered hillocks with small single file cleared pathways, narrow fast-moving creeks and occasional clearer open spaces. One day, bored and waiting for college to restart, we were traversing the steeper side of a hill from our neighbourhood gully. We descended through drier vegetation dotted with clumps of open gum trees and lower lying scrub. We were heading towards a single enormous mulberry tree in a large paddock in the next gully where there were a few grazing horses. It was hot, but not humid; a clear, sunny, high white clouded day.

The mulberry was loaded with enormous over ripe fruit and had often supplied the reasons for severe scolding’s when younger as a result of messy, matted grubby stains from pelting the pithy pulp at each other long before we were aware games like paintball even existed. You could certainly tell, at least on the first few throws, if your enemy was tagged or their repelling fury was clear in a handful of pulp, mashing into your hair and face. I can’t remember eating many mulberries.

We were sidetracked from our intended quest, easy enough for youth, if the unexpected crosses your path. We saw from our higher vantage point two older individuals, one male and one female, both in jeans. I can’t recall now any other item of clothing worn by either. Both had longish hair, the fashion for the sexes. There is an instantaneous wariness created when an unknown older male even by a couple of years is near or on your turf. Hell, this bush and the mulberry tree were our domain. So we propped and watched from a reasonable distance. We observed warily; but as the scene unfolded, we could scarcely contain our smirks, for we understood what was happening before our very eyes.

The girl was down on the dry grass and the guy was soon lying on top of her, supporting his own weight in the ungainly way adults manage in the customary so-called missionary position. It was odd to see two faces locked in a kiss, heads still, while the lower half of each body, which was light blue jeans, pressed into equally faded jeans and seeing the pelvic thrusting of instinctual mimicked sexual activity. Soon there was a regular patterned up down motion, which ordered itself into a synchronised rhythm of its own from competing opening movements. It was gaining in intensity and quickening in movement; it was clear to me time was not waiting here. The odd, strange ‘aah’ was carried easily through the stillness of the afternoon. Nothing had a right to disturb this blissfully dual absorbed encounter or where it might be leading on to or more likely in to.

Can’t keep a cheeky male in perpetual check; they are duty bound not to engage their brains and do the impulsive. Luckily, it wasn’t mulberries at hand. Gumnuts provided ready ammunition. Physics were on my side too, a high lob down the gentle slope. The targets were proving difficult to hit. Nothing irritates youth more than a frustrating failure at simple instant gratification. Solution: multiple projectiles which stirred up an unwelcome reaction; the older youth was angry. Now, with hindsight, substitute angry with sexual frustration. He quickly towered over his cowering quarry. To his credit, he held his wrath, probably because his command to, ‘Piss off’ was instantaneously complied with. The older male and my companion in perving looked at each other briefly. Then we scurried, tails between our legs up the hillside, no thoughts from us about looking back. Lot and his wife would both escape.

It doesn’t take much at all to interrupt others; its takes very little to change a mood, especially when the possibilities are heading to the intensely intimate. God forbid we had witnessed his pants going down around his ankles, his manhood primed and the sight of a real curly pubic bush. How easy, equally to be interrupted or disturbed by discordant or euphoric memory. It too catches us with our pants down, jarringly strident or softly warming. It still demands to be attached to the present moment and form again, memory to memory, so our pleasant and melancholy memories mesh into a labyrinth from which we want to exit yet not escape and we suspect the withdrawal is our life’s terminus and memory as now held will be no more.

We leave our young couple forever together in the bush dry humping. Maybe they reminisce about this as the starting point of a lifetime together or it’s wistfully recalled in a current decaying relationship. Anyway leaving them with jeans intact, genes forever separated by jeans, we will give them the benefit of our imposed hindsight and say they were being sexually responsible in the absence of available birth control. But as we all love some conjecture, the young girl kept her jeans on not out of modesty or wondering if it was better to wait, thinking once he had what he wanted, he would move on, but a pressing image of her mother kept blocking her imagined view of her boyfriend’s yet unseen penis. If she got pregnant, well…and our young man, he was there humping, enjoyable enough, but struggling with a sex drive catapulting in only one direction. He was wrestling with a castration complex, the girl’s father was the local farmer and owner in name only of what was our mulberry territory; he would neuter the prick who violated his daughter’s virginity before her wedding night.

I hold from the past for a moment, dry humping, and it starts to lead to associated dry humping experiences of my own at later points in time and different places.

“Shit that was close,” I said.

My companion replied, “Yeah, but it was exciting.”

“What’s exciting about nearly getting your head punched in?” I was a bit on edge.

“Did you see the way they were going for it? You should have held off on the gumnuts for a while…at least till his pants were down”, said a wide-eyed Coral.

“I’d rather her jeans were off and her knickers hanging off a bush. But maybe with his jeans around his ankles he wouldn’t have chased us?”

And we both laughed and the tension was over, but maybe not in his pants and her jeans, near the mulberry.

All I can remember is the clear keen awareness of dry humping and filthy berries.


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