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

Chapter1 (v.1) - Erotic Art

Author Chapter Note

Erotic artworks trigger memory of sexual encounters in Luke's life. Introducing the narrator Luke and two of the main female characters Coral and Ruby. Two other later important leading young women are mentioned obliquely.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

Reads: 1457

Comments: 1

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Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: November 23, 2015

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PART ONE: FOREPLAY

Chapter One: EROTIC ART

For a long time I used to wake up very early. I would attempt to slide off the edge of the bed but my movements aroused my partner Rhea to the borders of waking. She would roll over, away from her accustomed nestled place of leaning fully into my side. When alone in bed, she would roll away, when and if I returned, she would turn over in a half-sleep and nestle again. Roll in, roll away, like memories.

Occasionally, Rhea gently reproached my restlessness. “Stop thinking…go back to sleep.”

However, I would make a strong black coffee and read, think, and write. I thought deeper and various avenues started to intersect through my mind.

Without knowing, three filaments of memories were intertwining. The time when I was intensely avid about art history; this included erotic pieces, all latent until they interlaced like a complete web with memory of sexual encounters and it brought the trinity strand—lovers into view and my life, our lives as genitalia was conceived.

Our lives have threads which are never completely untangled or fully unravel. This is not the nature of memory or memory recall. Multiple instances of close and distant associations bombard our soul from our memory like an endless wave of military assaults. In a nano second, we select one and try to focus it back into the exact moment, but already it has changed again. We recall the memory as we think we remembered it. Plus the associations added each time we have summoned it or as it flashed unannounced; like our first ever sensual kiss.

Memory drew me back to my last college assignment.

“What are you looking at, perv?” it was Coral, leaning into my space, stray strands of her Californian poppy hued locks drifting across my shoulder along with her body spray.

“Klimt’s, The Kiss.”

“As if you have any experience.”

“Okay, expert who pashes better... Ruby or Josh?” I replied pronto.

“Nice try...are you still practicing on the mirror for the girl you annoyed at the beach, Penny?”Her comment stung like a box jellyfish. Only doubly, as she got Jenny’s name wrong.

Today I know when looking at The Kiss we all expect what follows in the boudoir with an adult’s appreciative knowledge of carnal relations. A sensuous kiss is one of the points in our lives at which we potentially subsume ourselves briefly in another physically. Yet now I recall the most passionate of kisses as a fuck.

“Look, Coral, her toes curl.”

It is true of the painting. Apparently toes curl when you kiss, a physical fact: a mantra of lovers seeking perfection in their desire for the flawless pash.

We both perused The Kiss, with its lovers entwined in their subsuming and passionate embrace.

“Oh, so you can see the detail...just lacking the experience...” responded Coral, then added, “Still it’s a beautiful piece. I love the rich decadent symbolist swirls.”

I loved the swish of Coral’s hair.

“Klimt’s way gentler than your choice—Scheile—he’s all raw sexuality.” Then I had to push her buttons; “And the way he drew his sister naked.”

“True, but he was honest.” Frank, so was Coral; maybe too open. Yet equally Scheile’s rawness was in her, under the surface of her premeditated life.

“So it’s okay to be a voyeur as an artist but not as a mere male”, I pressed.

“Shit, sunshine. Don’t complicate everything. You’re not escaping the beach perv tag easily.”

“But it is complex, Goldilocks” I was a bit annoyed with her. “We participate in iconic art works because they engage our own memories and feelings. I mean, The Kiss...this is basic foreplay for lovers.”

“Hang on, Mr Inexperienced.” Coral was twisting her fingers through her hair; “Memory spins out differently for each of us. I might think of my first playground kiss.” She wasn’t being serious, unless it had been Josh, but I accepted her point.

“Or a tossup between Ruby and Josh,” I fired off again.

Coral flipped through one of the art books on Klimt I was using, ignoring my effort to draw her out. Here in the present: I see the lovers I kissed shaping in memory now. She was right—spot on in the college library. I didn’t know anything about kissing.

“What do you think about this?”

I showed her a photograph of Klimt’s studio on his death which contained an unfinished painting, The Bride, which proved at least for this artist the rumour behind the dirty old master technique. It was an in progress painting which depicts a woman, revealing nothing so defining and designingly human as a full, bushy mound of pubic hair. The classical respected technique of art in history was generally with rare exceptions, no pubic hair. Yet the unfinished canvas shows a nude woman. Her luxuriant moss would be painted over as required by conventional dictates as the artist finished the canvas for public or collector display.

“Ah, dirty old man caught out” her eyes drawn to the pubic fuzz like mine. Then she couldn’t resist, “like pervy Lukey.”

“Or your dad’s blue movie stash.” I was way off assignment trajectory.

“Well, if you’re going there, you don’t know relationships like most young men but you are so, so sure of self when it comes to ‘Porn’, Instant Sex Expert.”

Porn, where to place in memory? Eventually I filtered my soft core genuineness out of zigzagging hardcore impulses.

My immediate mental chicane, however, was myself in the library. Don’t step off the curb, I reminded myself and immersed my concentration into Klimt.

“Seriously,” I said, getting the two of us and more precisely myself, back on track. “Do you think it changes how we look at all his art works? He probably did the same under many other clothed, finished pieces.”

“Well of course,” said Coral. “There’s a huge difference between images clothed or nude, like there is for anyone we know. We never look at anyone we have seen undressed the way we look at everyone else we know.”

I see my lovers shaping in memory, clothed and often nude.

“Thanks, gorgeous,” I said. “One smaller image for your thoughts.”

Coral had an open insight into art and she would run a professional gallery in her adult life.

The sketch was an absolute doozy. It was a small drawing which depicts the artist Klimt with his face on his genitals. His genitals being himself, his whole physical self, his body, his person; the hanging scrotum was his body and the flaccid head of the penis accurately represented his known features. Tongue in cheek or seriously, who knows except Klimt, the artist was defining himself as genitalia.

“Wow,” went Goldilocks, picking up the book for a closer look. “Really...interesting.”

I added, after she had processed it, “You wouldn’t dismiss it as a joke, bad taste or ignore it as straightforward, dirty-minded doodling.”

“Shit no,” She was still scrutinising it. I wondered if my balls would ever get as much attention.  “He’s genuinely defining himself as the sexual human being he grapples to understand through his art. It’s a very candid self-portrait.”

She didn’t put the book back down. It was like she was committing the image to memory.

“Yeah, I was wondering how we would be shown both by ourselves or others; if we were represented in all seriousness as an image reflecting the form of our own...er...um...privates”, I said. Maybe Coral would share more.

I see my lover’s genitals shaping in memory. Their usually hidden Janus face, not the face we manicure carefully to present to the world and the world looking back into our eyes but the faceted face of our soul covered from us and others.

  “Geez, we’re hardwired to look between the legs if it’s there.”

She was again twisting a strand of her long hair; my gaze only focussed on her curls as she continued. “Faces are personnel preference—the eye of the beholder stuff—body shape is likewise a matter of taste, but the sex bits do attract by and of themselves. They insist on attention.” She turned to me. “You would know personally—your mate between your legs—though I don’t think I’d like to see you drawn accurately as your cock, cut or uncut—and don’t tell me what it is, okay?” She was struggling for words. “Mmm...Still, getting back to Klimt, it would have made a provocative signature on his canvases.”

“Maybe our privates are our unrealised true signature?”

Her eyes looked up unfocused, she was constructing her reply. I wondered at the time what her response might have been, but her best friend arrived. Memory processing Coral, memory processing myself...then Ruby was there...ah Ruby. A pocket rocket. Five foot two, eyes of blue.

“Well, honey, what do you think? Interesting image,” said Coral; carefully passing the book to Ruby.

The valedictorian shoe-in glanced at the sketch; she had all the essentials. “Well you’d be able to draw Josh, sweetie,” she said, looking unswervingly at Coral. “And Luke could draw himself blindfolded—if he is not already going blind—maybe you could ask me to draw you?” Ruby looked Coral even more directly in the eyes. She dropped the tome on the table.

She added with a rare look at me; “Would you draw yourself?”

“Only if you did.” I shot back.

“Got an appointment for a tattoo,” she said. “Catch you both later.” Never, as per usual, drawn in beyond the surface.

“How far south?” I asked as she put distance into her immediate purpose; the slick, proactive, sassy brunette. Her hands in her jean pockets hitching them slightly.

“Too far for you, boy,” she responded over her shoulder as her watermelon scarf swooshed stylishly and Ruby’s petite, sharp figure was gone.

I had an art assignment to complete. Coral went looking for Josh, after she had organised within herself what she needed to tell him about their relationship. Ruby, we assumed, was in some parlour being permanently inked.

Our life is the relationship with our genitals in present time and space—composed of life in the moment versus the memories and the memories of the memory which reform from the life we live. Now begins this bold and not deliberately indelicate rendering of really being unfathomably human and way out of our depth when we find ourselves newly approaching or re-encountering another human we intend or have been intimate with. Both individuals, either simultaneously or independently, balancing or juggling or perhaps, hiding or playing peek-a-boo with their genitals in one hand and their memories held by the other.

I see fragments of my life in one hand and many private features of others and myself crowding my other palm. The spotlight varies and keeps moving for us all; for some the focus is solely genital to genital. The sensitive are wondering about my head line, the intuitive are searching for my heart line and others including myself, occasionally looking at my life line.


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