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

Chapter4 (v.1) - The Boathouse

Author Chapter Note

Luke and Coral ; two virgins lose their virginity in the boathouse. " The sunlight through the skylight highlighted her spray of golden pubes. Fuck, it looked gorgeous."

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

Reads: 358

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

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Chapter Four: THE BOATHOUSE

Nothing is clearer to the eye than the overpowering heady awareness of the pre-eminence of feminine sexuality. The commanding position it has, the rich dense sensuality of a college girl. Full of  impudent, insolent clout; from the sultry look to the whipping back of the hair, the accidental deliberate brushing closely against an arm or leg and short, short dresses. This is the world of Lolita’s and the art of Balthus—the latter having a penchant for young girls and cats (or replace the cats with pussy for a closer idea of his artistic infatuation).

Therese Dreaming is a disturbing beyond disturbing painting. Alarm bells should be ringing at its disconcerting effrontery. A youngish girl; head back, eyes closed, has one leg raised, revealing white panties from the crotch up towards her concealed but very present secret personal slit implied deceitfully in the crinkled fold of her underwear. It is public art; it hangs on a Museum wall.

My Therese was Coral.

She was simply cute with her youthful, curvy figure and her generous breasts. She was so disarmingly feminine in her favourite yellow dress, which blended into her long, wavy, honeyed hair. She was also forever the girl of my dreams because she was infatuated with my mate, Josh.

I was waiting for Coral in her dad’s boathouse. We came here occasionally, sometimes with Josh, sometimes with a group including Ruby and occasionally the two of us. This was a two of us day. The spare key was under a nearby rock. She had said two o’clock, but it was girl-speak for three. However, I was excited because her mood was likely to be edgy and unpredictable. Josh and Coral had broken up again—badly this time.

The windows at the side and looking over the bay were useless small, four pane recycled items. It was the skylight which bathed the space and its second-hand accessories. The bottle green velvet couch, the wooden floorboards and quaint chunky table and chairs, it was comfortable.

 It looked like her dad had dumped a load of old novels into a box in one corner. I took a look.  Who the fuck was The Saint? He was in New York, London, and Palm Springs, the lucky bastard. Tarzan appeared to have a whole life outside the jungle including lost cities and ant men. There was a dog-eared copy of something titled Howards Way—no—Howards End or Howard gets his end in? Forster or Forester, I flicked through random pages. Someone had underlined a short passage and it said something like: only connect and the fragments of life will disappear and love will be the high point. I might have read more, but Coral arrived.

She was seriously screwed up and I knew it. Everyone knew. I had heard the gossip from Ruby. Josh had gone and had sex with some private college girl before Coral had, had the chance to finally give herself to him. Something about waiting till she was eighteen when college was done; some magic would sprinkle over the moment. However, Josh had spurted elsewhere; he couldn’t wait for the fine misty drench of Coral’s restrained, projected wish.

She was pretty foul as she came to the boathouse and to the prick who was her sounding board.

And all I heard from Coral was the repeated “Fuck Josh” and a tirade of pent-up feelings.

 Then finally she said to me; “Okay...ready...let’s do…this?”

“Do what?” You should listen closer to female ranting, I told myself.

“Fuck Josh,” she said it again.

“I don’t want to fuck Josh,” I replied.

Coral laughed. When she snickered she was back in the present, Shit, she would one day forget Josh and me.

I was looking at her, not really listening when she said, “Get your gear off, sunshine. This is it…your lucky day, after all.” She was slipping her dress off herself, very quickly.

Her favourite yellow dress was crumpled on the wooden floor.

So we were naked in front of each other. So much for the fantasies of when and where we think first sex will happen, like the bush or the back of a car. The sunlight through the skylight highlighted her spray of golden pubes. My, it looked gorgeous.

“Don’t stand there, get over, here.” Coral was already on the couch.

I didn’t understand anything about real foreplay and neither did Coral. We groped a bit and the excitement of flesh on flesh was enough and our bodies took over. I looked to kiss her, but she turned her face sideways. I penetrated her quickly; her hymen wasn’t a problem as her fingers, tampons or Josh’s probing knuckle had done the job already. She was a bit tight and dry for a few seconds and then hell; it was warm, wet and wonderful. There was this puck, suck, puck sound coming from our bodies mixing together. It was out of sync with the tide lapping at the boathouse piles.

It was puck, puck—a sound like air was trapped. Suck, puck. I realised it was also fuck, fuck in my mind. So the word fuck actually made sense; it was in fact the sound of sex—the puck, suck, puck—it had me so excited. Too eager, it was too intense; too pulsating and I shuddered, then jolted inside her. It was over.

Coral had a look of frustrated disappointment on her face. I knew all I had was a vacant, Cheshire cat satisfied male smile.

“Fuck it,” she said. “I waited all through College…for that?”

“Sorry,” I said. It was intoxicating. “It’s fucking hard to control.” Puck, suck, I was the sucker.

She softened. “We got there…not what I had planned though.”  We were unstuck now.

“Me either.”

“Fuck Josh,” she said again. Her mind amok, her pussy slightly calmed, I knew she wished it was the other way around.

“You know Ruby’s a bitch,” I said, trying to recompose her. “She didn’t have to tell you.”

“The rumour is Rubes wants Josh too,” said Coral looking at the floor. “She won’t get what she wants one day.” She was dressing slowly. “I really like her, she’s great fun, but she’s got attitude.” Coral was fully dressed, “…Have you heard about her tattoo? She actually got one. She’s angling for Josh to take a look.”

“Is it around her brown eye?” I unkindly added, “She’s full of shit.”

My immediate desire was to have Coral hinged in the moment; I only thought of myself. I had my pants back on.

Coral laughed and she was back again and full of it. “I’m sure it’s one eye you’ll never see.”

We both chuckled because it was better than facing the reality of it all: Josh’s spectre was here in the boathouse. Still, I was there too—actually there—and luck is okay by genitals. Coral would regret it for a while and probably only until the worry of possible pregnancy passed.  However, the alluring minutiae of the coupling moment dominated my thinking over the next few days. Fuck knows how I would remember this. Easy to embellish what wasn’t expected. Tinker around the edges; maybe remove Josh for a start. Make Coral more vulnerable. No, screw Coral too. Fuck me; it should have been way different.

All I recall now is puck, puck and water ebbing and lapping beneath a boathouse.


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