Our Lives As Genitalia

Our Lives As Genitalia

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


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


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

Chapter7 (v.1) - Promises

Author Chapter Note

Ruby and Luke still in Paris. Having sex with Ruby recalls the wet dream of Luke's youth. Hot explicit sex with Ruby who openly self masturbates to orgasm. You cannot promise not to love.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

Reads: 363

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015



 Chapter Seven: PROMISES

I was pondering a fantasy girl within my grasp. The sloshing swish of cold water removing coffee rings from a chipped cup was however, my immediate reality.

I found the instant coffee, washed a cup from the sink; there were three there, only partially rinsed, none elsewhere. I had made a cursory disinterested look in a couple of logical cupboards for a clean mug. Then I filled and boiled the jug, a mindless sequence. This was what I needed. The jug gave off its whistle and I watched the steam vapours rise. I was here still inside Ruby’s private piece of the world, where private Ruby had gone all the way with me and brought the private out of me too. This was all too complicated and complication is the enemy of the finite liaison. I was leaving Paris in a couple of weeks. I had home, a future career—connections ingrained by life, but I wanted Ruby there too.

What was she thinking? Ruby’s scrutiny of life was here too, and even in the moment, the glorious sweet shortness of selfish, orgiastic bacchanal revelry, self should be more than self. Still, these few weeks of potential self-seeking pleasure surely had no lifespan beyond the moment. Just make a coffee and maybe do the girl a favour and wash-up and change the sheets. Milk, I need milk in coffee. However, a quick whiff revealed it was sour so black coffee it was. Crisp linen and bubbly soapsuds blended, and then I too cloaked myself in my public identity and headed for the Louvre.

I was riding the metro, assuming my faceless stance where you lose your personal space and bodies’ crowd into each other and your limbs are folded into you. Too much time on my mind trying to process meaning into the previous night; maybe there was no meaning there beyond natural urges, but we always require a portion more of others and ourselves when genitals collude.

The Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife was unabashedly in focus; Hokusai’s unforgettable image, the true tangling of minds and bodies in cunnilingus. I suspected I was trying to layer meaning to a physical act between Ruby and myself. In the Dream, the female’s genitals  are explicitly depicted in opulent pubic openness, an octopus sucking her genitalia, literally siphoning the life out of her, yet giving its all mutually and allowing the woman to imbibe, absorb pleasure to the depth of her own ocean of being and swell out in rapturous waves. The Dream depicts a tsunami of inclusive indulgence. Then it reaches beyond this to acknowledge a more general human sexuality: our power to give and receive embedded in memory as our life as genitalia. Seemingly explicitly confronting, Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife is actually originally humanely human in its representation; life’s urges compellingly released into a tidal surge, from its own internal orgasmic pulse, from the private of genitalia, to the wider mysteries of the earth, and the so-called god given dominator of the animal kingdom confronts another instinctive being of the world: themselves through their genitals. Ruby and I partaking of each other was no different, though I knew candidly I wanted our time to bind us beyond the physical.

Stations passing in the metro; stay focussed, yours is next, check the overhead diagram, and yes it is. Okay, let’s join the queue for the Louvre. It’s a bit fresh with clear frost breath emanating from a longish line. What did Ruby mean by “Catch you later”? It sounded great; I was happy to be caught. I was happy to catch, but release was closing in by the day. Already memory was altering the way I was thinking about Ruby, trying to see facets of Ruby and wanting, craving any intimate audience of two, always wanting one more touch. The line was longer than I first perceived. I realised it was the first Sunday of the month: free admission day.

Long lines give too much time for idle speculation. Where was Ruby’s naturally hirsute self? Why had the coarse guardian protectress of her mossy fecundity, the custodian of the most inscrutable of mysteries been shaved away? Hiding what is meant to be revealed in intimacy yet still unreadable, even when intimately aroused. Still unfathomable, here lies in life the most compelling indecipherable ambiguity of any woman’s life; mystery and revelation. Then combine this with a male’s quest for genital comradeship and a home for his soul and you have potentially the essence of human humility beyond and embracing genitalia in our natural hirsute selves.

I realised this thought had emerged from an advertisement for Impulse body spray at the metro platform: “Men can’t stop acting on impulse”. The fragrance was a new scent: Mysterious Musk. I was letting the shadow of another woman infiltrate how I was thinking about Ruby. Memory was caught in the irreproducible fragrance of after sex musk.

Even when genitals present shaved optimism, like Ruby’s with her intangible attractiveness, it’s like they are impersonating themselves. It’s like travelling on a false passport, like believing we can revise or hide a memory like when an artist paints over genitalia with symbolist coding or hiding what he graphically presented when working, using the dirty old master technique. It won’t be seen for what it resplendently is until caught out by modern x-ray. Or was I imposing my preference on Ruby? Ruby looked great as Ruby, stop over thinking Ruby, I told myself. Stop over exploring what you have, focus on being with Ruby. Eyes only for Ruby, simple enough, indicate my own genitals.

I was ignoring the illegal mobile souvenir sellers hassling along the queue; until I saw their stock of key chains. On a whim I purchased two kitschy alloy Eiffel Tower rings ostensibly for the keys in Ruby’s apartment. Of course the line lurched forward as I stalled to complete the negligible transaction. It occurred to me Rubes probably wouldn’t notice them.

We are in the end at the mercy of our partners’ explorations of our being and as it were for your eyes only. A strange saying, because I knew without asking—as Ruby knew too—we were familiar with others genitals; mysteries were not all private, as secluded as confidants of the moments believe or want to believe. The point where you are with another’s genitals but thinking deliberately or are reminded accidentally of another’s attached flesh somewhere else in place or time.

Again, go through it again in memory, Ruby was actually clenching and releasing my penis through ripples, little pulsating waves. This was an authentic enveloping, enclosing, a doubly internal sensation, the tighter muscle wall of Ruby’s canal and the soft tissue of her cutely shaped lips; lightly complementing and competing in their role, embracing in totality my maleness. Her naturally ducted, sensual wrapping of my cock was akin to the layered binding, the clasping elegance of a twisted Celtic torc. I was clenching at memory too, not wanting to release it.

So through life, we daydream. Our best sexual daydreams, however appealing, are surprised by the combination of nature and human reality. We are gobsmacked by the capacity of our genitals and our minds to lead us into the new—the truly astounding—the miraculous. No wonder we want to hold the moment. Paradise is now and time would stop momentarily so we could really process the instance. Then it’s gone and the rough duplication begins like ever fading degraded photocopies of a face from the stunning original print. Surely Ruby, a fem Puck, the uncommitted heroine of casual unbridled sex, at least at this point in her life, couldn’t possibly impinge or encroach on any of my future relationships? Then it struck me, what if Ruby was my future relationship, endless great sex? I suddenly only wanted Ruby.

Heading back on the metro, I was held by the fast pace of the underground walls rushing by. How I got from there to Ruby’s clitoris is a mystery of memory, the charlatan, stealing moments back into our minds, slightly different from the event itself and different again the  next time it was recalled. A woman confident enough to self stimulate during penetration, her hand hidden, but the action evident despite her scissored body. I endeavoured to picture Ruby; her hood held back, clit exposed, one finger—why one? This is my vision—encircling in her preferred personal method and firm, delicate exact pressure for maximum response, then engaging in the process of her own orgasm. A bit of male ego hits in here, or if you like helping the penis do its job better. Was I rationalising the initially unnerving but stunned alarm for a guy? Shit, am I bad? Should I get my fingers into the zone to assist? Should I embrace the action in the moment? Here was and is another’s my life as genitalia, building its memory; so each to their own, in their pleasure cycles, in the moment. Who am I to sit in judgment on the sexual expression and requests of another wonderfully multifarious human being? In my mind I thought I loved her. I believed I was in love with Ruby.

Ruby and I lived a blur of great sex through the next two weeks. She hardly seemed to work or attend lessons; she devoted all her spare time to me. Besides the odd café meal and coffee close by her apartment, we didn’t actually go out together. When she was working or at school I did the tourist routes through the city. The evenings were always great, even if the days were frosty and foggy. We had wet, slippery, nearly dangerous sex in the shower, petite though she was. I supported her weight on my knees while pumping and trying not to overbalance, she enjoyed it. I kept thinking hospital and broken limbs. The rug, the kitchen bench, the couch, the bed; there was forensic evidence of sex left everywhere. Even in the alleyway next to the apartment and the hostel where Ruby worked, where we had engaged in risqué public sex. Still, it was coming to a close. Could or would Ruby take this self home?

It was dark and unpleasantly wintry as I made my way back to Ruby’s for a final evening. My airline ticket schedule was locked in through London, as were possible approaching fresh courses of study at home or job opportunities. In a few more weeks, Ruby would be home too. Ruby’s mood was impishly elfin as she got me to uselessly help in making homemade ravioli; all I wanted was to dust Ruby with flour. I was reliably mashing the ricotta, then I tried to crack the eggs on her head, but she deftly avoided me; they ended up in a bowl with all the cheeses. Ruby flicked salt over me and into the bowl at the same time. While the mixture chilled, we had a wine and started on the dough. There was lots of kneading by hands on hands, replete with complimentary buttock kneading. The rolling and cutting—a shared focussed task—as was placing the cooled filling in the dough. With the odd reciprocated pinch on the buttocks, more pinching of the edges of the dough, more dusting each other and the ravioli with flour, the flour getting in each others’ hair, then the cooking and more wine while waiting for it to be ready.

The wine was passable; the ravioli was actually good, while the after dinner sex on her bed was breathtaking. Dinner was shared, a messy light-hearted team effort. The sex was nothing but taking; there was nothing left to put back. The wine was making me heady, uninhibited; the wine unleashed any restraint left in Ruby. The sex act got underway like a fast forward; there was no gentle, searching, teasing foreplay: we both groped for satisfaction alone. Genitals responded as they do, surely and confidentially when aroused with increasing momentum, the impetus all in one mandatory direction: ego orgasm. This was sex reduced to mutual masturbation.

Ruby’s mouth went brazenly and quickly; up and down the length of my now prominently inflated boner. It was vein pumped; some blood vessels straining to remain beneath tensely stretched skin and an awareness of a tightening of my loose sack, my balls were primed tight like flanking support for a frontal assault mission from which there would be no return.

The view through the slightly opened, curtained, loosely flapping window could have taken me beyond the room, high across the street where shadows engaged in their own life, but I was locked in the moment. Rube’s delightful crevice and her exposed personal starfish were both available to me; like believing you don’t have to choose between Sodom and Gomorrah; you will get to experience both. This was going to be either divine pleasure or hellish destruction.

My penis was heated way beyond intense in a zone of its own about to flout and defy any logical hesitation from my mind. This wasn’t about logic, it was body and body, natural common sensations and both of us were ready to fit together in all sorts of pleasurable, pleasing and panting ways. It was consensual, mutually free choice, nothing off limits, the eye taking in more than the eye usually gets to take in. You see your body, your penis raging away from you, and it sees its goal. Qualitative moral distinctions were not at the forefront of my thinking.

I went into Ruby, hard and indecent, pushing deeply and she responded both physically and mentally; her cloven inlet muscles contracted like a rippling wave as I kept thrusting but she turned and looked at me, her eyes meeting my eyes. I was taking her body, plunging in with a coursing pulsating vitality of life, an intensity of release unknown to myself. She was sucking my life force with her eyes and contractions. I was calling the play; I was on my knees, hands holding her hips, driving into her. And she was moaning—something new to me—a moan combining happy pleasure and then a hint of added pleasure. Looking out of the ordinary as her eyes turned again to meet mine, her pupil’s exuded carnal ecstasy. My mind recalled a wet dream as a youth. This sensation matched it, but Ruby’s face elaborated on and convoluted the memory. A seemingly straight forward incident of youth would be incessantly recalled differently as both events related yet stayed unrelated. One impersonal as a youth, no face, yet the moment even with Ruby’s face became increasingly detached; life felt distantly odd across two memories intersected from time and space.

I looked down at her cupid’s alley from behind, the swelling enjoyment of my firm cock reinforced by the sight of the flexible skin at her lower opening actually forming a thin extended wrapping, enveloping my penis. I took my primed member from her, held it, looking at her awesome beckoning grotto; still open, held in the lustful gaped moment of my last thrust, pink and lubricated. Fine white mucus was present in clustered flecks. She turned, her eyes begging for more, and a ruby pendant dangling from her neck caught my attention...then thoughts of it were lost as associations of a gem shining like her pussy skin were formed. She got one long deep shove, and then I removed my penis again, coated in her feminine moisture.

Ruby turned again, forcefully insisting, “I want your cock, now.”

She got it, long plunge after extended thrust. I was standing now; she had arched her body high, taking the full length in a flowing easy rhythm. I was pacing myself, willing my cock to hold its cum, my penis rigidly stretching skin around the base of her pussy and her inner lips, stretching taut skin along the length of my shaft, where small skein like capillaries were visible under translucent skin, a membrane as fine as a film of silk. The rim of my glans caught in delicious waves of movement, the base of her supple inner opening catching the rim while fingering her perineum; as this action continued; she was visibly excited, eager for more.

I had stirred desire and she wanted more, much more. She guided my finger from her appeased perineum, to her anxious, ignored anus. I rimmed her arsehole with my finger and she moaned intensely and consciously. Ruby turned and gave me a devastating smile; I felt I was more than inside her body. She was letting me into her mind. From here we could forge the moment and be tomorrow.

Then Ruby reached between her legs with two fingers and pulled back her clit hood exposing her bead and started masturbating while I was still riding her. She moved with quick deft strokes on both sides of her clit, not actually touching her bud. I was mesmerised; her bead appeared to arch away from her body. It was prominent, but now it was distended and so firm. It was peering insolently at the world from its usual secluded monogamous sanctuary to be greeted by a harem of active fingers, as I too touched her pearl directly with my index finger and massaged fingers on either side of her hood around Ruby’s.

I was beyond coming. I jizzed into her subterranean opening of need; her craving finished a minute later in a display of uninhibited female masturbation, focussing her fingers on both sides of her clit, massaging rhythmically and deliberately, the points of pleasure in her eyes and intense breathing. Ruby inserted one finger of her left hand into her vagina, her femcum dripping out with my recent deposit as she poked in and out. First slowly, then quickly, the tempo becoming part of the rhythm of her right hand, now also pulling her clit cowl occasionally. This was seeing an expert at play and work, a labour of love, a woman who knew the hidden recesses and resources of her body, the full range of accoutrements attached to her external and internal cupid’s furrow and was unabashed about physically getting it off. She climaxed: her face and skin getting a slight pinkish glow and complemented by a clear pleasurable moan.

Ruby smiled and said, “Gee, you came so close to cumming with me. I thought you were going to hold it, but hey, don’t look down. You did good.”

Where to start with her comment? I was down because she had to self stimulate to orgasm. I had done my best here. Well how long is the average guy supposed to hold his wad? There is a point where no willpower is going to make any difference. ‘You did good’ meaning, I’ve had better.  Good as in you will improve. It was good, meaning the sex was good. You were good, meaning you were good and I’m happy enough. Who knows now?

Both Ruby and I had participated in one of those segmented moments of life: rapid sex. Ruby’s lock, stock and two clear barrels; maybe unlocked as in, the total physical self had removed any barrier to pleasure, hers or mine. Still, I felt her heart was locked and I wanted the key to it. Stock as in items catalogued, and this was a boutique store and it was so specialized it only had one current client: me. This was customer service par excellent. In the moment we remained our separate sexual selves, yet our sexual selves are not one, just as we can present multiple faces and moods to different groups or individuals in our lives, our sexual Janus does the same. Needs vary, the person we are with determines what we will try or not try, where sex will lead. Maybe I saw Ruby as you should see a woman in her life; fully aware of her sexual component parts and their needs, all her surface trimmings of deep allurement. Ruby as the open gateway leads to so much more. I wanted to believe it. In the lived sexual moment it was mutual engagement. Only later did it seem too open and displaying a combined animal sexuality.

Still it’s equally an unfair judgment about how she chose to express her sexuality, it was an invitation to join shared taking and I partook too—and what a taking. Though we both knew her backdoor invitation was left locked by me, I kept choosing only her pussy. Deeper in Ruby, she was waiting for me to punch her ‘starfish’.

We are always confronted with the whole person, but want the focus on a part. Ruby was my slut for a moment, but not labelled slut, nor thought of as a slut: never. The word slut did not cross my mind; but slut as in startling, volatile, beautiful sex.  It’s like only slut, cunt and fuck actually accurately describe sex with Ruby. While all through it, there was Ruby in her memories, a virgin once like all of us, a dreamer of connecting somewhere to life, a traveller too, experiencing the moment, and finding home somewhere, another human being like me; touching, fumbling with feelings beyond genitalia in time and space. Ruby as a federated polarity of being, a pure higher soul like an angel, except with a watermelon scarf and high cut sexy black underwear partly covering a southwards eye drawing tattoo with a siren’s genitals to satisfy. And in the end there was Paris Rubes, but I knew only a part of Ruby. Do we really, really, want to know everything about another person? We think yes but opt for no in their presence; otherwise we would have to face all their memory and every aspect of their life as genitalia, so we take the easier option and accept what they choose to reveal and we do the same.

“You look love-sick,” said Ruby intentionally glancing at me. “Careful, don’t get beyond the sex.”

She got off the bed nude. She was never consciously naked. I wasn’t looking at her butt. I was waiting to see her face. I only saw it in her mirror.

“I wouldn’t say that,” I told her. “I just don’t know.” I looked for eye contact with Ruby. It wasn’t there. I added to her back; “I want your body.”

She was under my skin, I had been in her skin, and surely she felt more than skin contact too. Memory tattoos even seemingly casual sex under our flesh. It will ripple back.

Ruby was at her dresser but she gave me a closer look. “No. You’re getting too near.”

I thought for a moment and said with considered deliberation, though I was still naked on her bed; “I promise not to.” I would say anything to keep Ruby.

She was rapidly brushing her hair in the mirror. Without looking directly at me she said:

“You can’t promise not to love, Luke.”

I was taken aback, she had surprised me.

“Are you saying I’m in with a chance?” I sat up straighter, pushed back into the mussed pillows.

“No.” She half turned “Look, I will keep in touch, okay? I’ll write you a letter. I’ve a wedding to attend. After who knows. But remember, what a girl does away…well,” And she was farther away now at her wardrobe. “She might be a different girl at home... okay?”

“You will keep in touch. You will promise?” I was unsure. I aware of being on her bed alone.

Rubes was putting on a pair of red undies and a matching bra.

I took in her bedroom wholly for the first time. It was actually Spartan. Her wardrobe hid her personal colour. Her alarm clock, a box of tissues, a half used packet of contraceptive pills, sparse cosmetics and two combs; everything on view was functional. It was like she was already packed to move on.

“Yes.” Though she wavered. She was brusquely going through her closet. She stopped her search. “Mmm...for you. But keep love out of it, okay?”

Pixie was back to selecting whatever she was going to wear.

“Okay,” I said, but who was I trying to convince? I believed in her though. She would keep in touch—yes, touch. We needed to keep touching.

Ruby had on dark jeans and a navy blue sweater and her quality boots. She blew me a kiss from the bedroom door as she left for her night shift.

My last evening in her apartment and I slept alone in her bed. Ruby joined me on my final morning in Paris for breakfast at the corner café. We ordered separate coffees and croissants. She walked with me to the metro. There was no waiting. The train was already at the station. We hugged quickly and awkwardly. I waved from inside the compartment. Ruby was already moving away; blurred as the train gathered speed in the underground tunnel.

The sex was so great I could have died in her arms as she took the life out of me. However; I wanted her life put into mine. I wanted Ruby, whatever the risks. So here is memory embellished, the sequence takes on a life of its own. There are aspects of self we grapple to accept like the moments genitals are touched; we don’t know how we will respond. We always want it all, right now: memory, life, genitals, endless foreplay and all of Ruby in the present. What more could the boy in a man have wanted than Ruby?

Now, memory challenges me; it recalls nuances of detail and threads the unrelated together, like a daiquiri with a shell on a beach, and a swirling hotel fan with ravioli for dinner. Memory is the paraphernalia of life, all the bits and pieces from the vagaries of contact with others, like our eclectic personal possessions. Our genitals are our artwork of life, some hasty scribbles, some doodles, exposed and covered moments, raw expressionism, instances of surreal intensity and brief insight, signed off with our private signature; our genitalia as personal sexual calligraphy. And despite our human posturing or embellishing of or concealing of our genitals, they are our life’s inscription, our one bona fide message, as it were, to each other through time and space.

Would I hold the Parisian brunette, I wouldn’t give up trying.

All I can revive now is the sweetest touch, her fleshy pink pearl; I am in my own paradise recalling Ruby’s devastating smile coming down the stairs.

End of Part One

© Copyright 2018 Janus. All rights reserved.


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