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A Purring Machine – 100 Orgasms

♦ I’m doing a little project that was suggested by the wonderful Bondara sex shop thanks to a very serendipitous misread of a title online. What project is this? Well, only to have 100 orgasms in 10 days and write some sexy things about my experiences .

It sounded ridiculous at first and then I thought, hey, that’s only ten a day. It’s totally doable and weirdly intriguing. So I mentally signed myself up. I hadn’t planned to start until the weekend but then I noticed: it’s apparently National Orgasm Day today. How could I not start today?

So, I shall be writing a series of different things about what I get up to in my quest for roughly ten orgasms a day. This blog post is the first. I don’t have a particular long-term plan in my head for this little series, as I’m quite looking forward to seeing what my orgasms inspire in me, what comes out if I go in with an open mind and a blank sheet.

Anyway, below is a little bit of poetry based on orgasms number one and two of 100: a wake-up wank on a dozy morning. Please let me know what you think!  2/100 ♦

Sleep seeps into my bones
Like hot water into a sinking teabag
My face is fire, eyes heavy, mind a cartwheel
Of wheeling bodies and sandbags

I haul myself to solitude, away from the buzz
Trudge and slump
My idle hand seeks to make a plaything of me
Hisses between white hills and grey cloud cover
To a slumbering country of pinks and troughs
Where it plays
Staccato rhythms, the lark ascending
My middle finger circles, a motorist on a starting handle
A dynamo whirring
Cranking, shooting a Tesla coil hum through my wires
Static shivers along once-sleeping skin

Or perhaps I play
The fireman to my traction engine
The stoker of my coals
I feed the furnace, steam seeps between my thighs
The boiler of my cunt builds and sends
Hot, damp power through my body
White fills my vision
My body shudders and shakes, reawakened
Reborn, renewed, replenished
Bolts fly from their housings
An engine explosion
A singing, ringing crescendo of steam and smoke and white-hot metal
A hissing hot leak

Fingerprints dance over sodden skin
An aftershock blooms large and causes
Tender flesh to tremble again
A second spike

Lightning: a modern Prometheus cries “Live!”
The fog of sleep lifts
Dawn hits and my nerves turn to busy industry
I wake for the first time since
Opening my eyes
And trundle, alert, a purring machine

Come At Me

♦ This is a slightly dark, slightly intimate, slightly raw one for me that I just wrote today. But, hey, if I can’t share something like this, it’s hardly in the spirit of the poem, is it? Note to potential psychos: consent is vital. ♦

I stare into your maw with ropes around my wrists
I had let you take me and tie me, led like a lamb
Docile, calm

I am here to make you break me

I wait for the gale of your howl to shake my bindings
I ache for the hot damp of your breath on my face
You’d better be ready

I am here to make you break me

I don’t think it will be hard
I’m not that tough, alright?
Sure, I talk big
I tell you I’m comfortable with my desires
I don’t want to be comfortable

There are dark, wriggling things chained up in my ribcage
Break me open
Set them free
Spill my desires at your feet
Hoist them up before my face

I am here to make you break me

Drag me by my hair
Pull me to the depths
Show me what I really want

I sit, a willing sacrifice, in your lair
I look you in the eye and dare you
Come at me

I am here to make you break me

Details, Details

♦ I wrote this on the same train as I wrote Make Me. It’s not a direct line to my cunt like that poem, but worthy of inclusion on my blog. I was trying something slightly more complex with this one, so tell me what you think! ♦

The snap of the buckle settling into place
The slight creak of the rope taking the strain
The devil is in the details

Where you are imperfect, the knots are just so,
the lengths carefully chosen,
the cup and curve and caress of hemp on your skin
calculated to tease and comfort

Your asymmetry is his perfect canvas

The collar sits flush against your throat,
emphasising the soft flutter of your pulse
The clamps on your tits are polished to a shine

You are motionless, as instructed,
but for a tremble of your chin and a flicker of your eyes

A lock clicks into place at your wrists
A strap is shifted one degree to the left

The set-up was effortless and the adjustments minor,
the accoutrements chosen seemingly on a whim
You wouldn’t know it, but the exact curve of your spine at this moment
was planned weeks ago

He cups your chin and brushes a stray hair behind your ear
You are complete

Each detail is exact, each angle aesthetic,
each nerve in you tingling and taut as intended

And now the minutiae are in place and his masterpiece is realised,
he will relish defiling it

He will spoil the calm perfection he has created,
he will soil his unblemished canvas
He will desecrate you

Oh, the devil is in the details, my dear, but salvation is found in your flaws…

Make Me

♦ I wrote this yesterday in a sleep-starved buzz of ideas on a sunlit train back from the North. I hope you like it, because it makes me seriously goddamn wet… ♦

By the stream that was once a river there is a dell where you will find me.

Where you will find me and make me…

And make me…

I will bite down on a fallen branch and press my face into the moss
and you will take me.

And the bark in my hair and the bites on my skin will be reminders.

And the scrapes on my knees and the welts on my thighs
will be my trophies.

The air will hum with screams that break through silence
and the minutes will last for years.

The sun will beat down as you beat down and I…

I will exult in having you make me.

Climax by Numbers

I wrote this poem for the Erotic Meet competition The Big Ohhh!  to “describe an orgasm; the moment itself, in erotic or graphic detail (or both!)”. Inspiration hit at the last minute and I wrote this in around half an hour on my phone during a game of Dungeons & Dragons. I haven’t done poetry in years, but I don’t think this turned out too badly. Special Blacksilk points if you catch this poem’s secret…

The moment is here. Pressure building, explosion drawing near. Rubbing, slick, slipping, quick.
My greedy clit pulling in like a black hole, sucking.
The ache coiling up in my core.
Mouth gapes, breath fills me.
Cunt tightens.
Pulsing.
Self…
Gone.
…..
Here.
Raw…
Reborn.
And rebuilt.
Universe breathes in…
Gasping, heart beats, pussy twitches.
My moans echo in my ear, my knees weak, legs shaking.
Climax rips me apart and puts me back atom by atom, exhilarated. New.

 

Poem (À la Recherche de Gertrude Stein)

Note: Poem (À la Recherche de Gertrude Stein) is the full title of this work. It’s a little confusing, I know.

♦ I thought I’d share with you a poem I found some time ago by a poet called Frank O’Hara. Like love, it is messy, unstructured and rushes along at its own, sometimes dizzying, pace. But it is also warm and giving and full of little details that make it sparkle. The strange line breaks and lack of punctuation make this poem a little hard to read but it does carry you tumbling along with the flow and what I love most about this poem is that the poet clearly just really gets what it’s like to be in love with someone and have all your cares washed away by something so simple as their skin.

Even when my cares are Crush-matters themselves (hey, no-one’s perfect), it’s not long before his eyes draw me in and his warmth caresses me more than his words. The fact that I love him is enough to overcome the fact that sometimes I don’t actually like him. :P

I know the first three lines of this poem so well.  They speak to me and tell me everything will be alright because I am his and he is mine and come what may we love each other more than niggles and vicissitudes. I hope you like it too. ♦

When I am feeling depressed and anxious and sullen
all you have to do is take your clothes off
and all is wiped away revealing life’s tenderness
that we are flesh and breathe and are near us
as you are really as you are I become as I
really am alive and knowing vaguely what is
and what is important to me above the intrusions
of incident and accidental relationships
which have nothing to do with my life

when I am in your presence I feel life is strong
and will defeat all its enemies and all of mine
and all of yours and yours in you and mine in me
sick logic and feeble reasoning are cured
by the perfect symmetry of your arms and legs
spread out making an eternal circle together
creating a golden pillar beside the Atlantic
the faint line of hair dividing your torso
gives my mind rest and emotions their release
into the infinite air where since once we are
together we always will be in this life come what may

– Frank O’Hara

Poésie

♦ I like poetry, though I don’t know a great deal. I was pretty surprised when I told Fractal of a Victor Hugo poem I’d found, and loved, and he told me he didn’t know it. It’s a beautiful poem and it says rather well the sorts of things I’d like to say to him. So I tracked down a translation or two.

I’m a fussy cow, though. None suited me. So I did my own, with a few bits borrowed here and there from previous translations of it. I thought some of my more romantic readers might enjoy the poem. So here it is. ♦

Puisque j’ai mis ma lèvre à ta coupe encor pleine ;
Puisque j’ai dans tes mains posé mon front pâli ;
Puisque j’ai respiré parfois la douce haleine
De ton âme, parfum dans l’ombre enseveli ;

Puisqu’il me fut donné de t’entendre me dire
Les mots où se répand le coeur mystérieux ;
Puisque j’ai vu pleurer, puisque j’ai vu sourire
Ta bouche sur ma bouche et tes yeux sur mes yeux ;

Puisque j’ai vu briller sur ma tête ravie
Un rayon de ton astre, hélas ! voilé toujours ;
Puisque j’ai vu tomber dans l’onde de ma vie
Une feuille de rose arrachée à tes jours ;

Je puis maintenant dire aux rapides années :
– Passez ! passez toujours ! je n’ai plus à vieillir !
Allez-vous-en avec vos fleurs toutes fanées ;
J’ai dans l’âme une fleur que nul ne peut cueillir !

Votre aile en le heurtant ne fera rien répandre
Du vase où je m’abreuve et que j’ai bien rempli.
Mon âme a plus de feu que vous n’avez de cendre !
Mon coeur a plus d’amour que vous n’avez d’oubli !

.

Since I’ve pressed my lips to your still-brimming bowl;
Since in your hands my pale brow has been laid;
Since I have drawn in the sweet breath of your soul
At times – that perfume hidden in the shade;

Since fortune allowed that I hear you say
The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries;
Since I’ve seen your smiles and your dismay,
Your mouth on my mouth, your eyes on my eyes;

Since I have seen shining on my awed head,
A ray from your star, alas! still veiled to me;
Since I have seen one sole rose petal shed
From your days, fall into my life’s sea.

Now I can cry to each swift year:
– “Roll on! roll ever on! For now I age not!
Take your wilted blooms and disappear;
In my soul I’ve a rose that none may cut!”

Though your wing may strike it, you will not dash
A drop from the cup which I have filled well;
My soul has more fire than you have ash!
My heart has more love than you have oblivion’s hell!”