Today all I can think about are her fingers inside me. I’m supposed to be writing calmly, logically, about theory and literature, all rational, bloodless, dry prose, but what I want is to feel my own heat and wetness through her fingers. My own fingers inside don’t do much for me: too short, too small, arms all awkward angles and stooping; I want to be splayed, stretching, reaching out with open arms and legs and mouth to embrace the air, the world, everything. I want to feel every particle of my concentration, every molecule of my being in those few inches, in only those few inches, where her skin becomes the inside of mine. The last time we met, (the first time that night) she concentrated me into that space of heat and friction, quite literally; all the blood in my body pooled, swelling and swirling and clenching around her, leaving the rest of me lying there impaled, pins and needles in my hands and arms and the roof of my mouth and all over my face, wondering hazily if I was going to pass out, have a stroke, die. I was scared then. But today, I crave that again, that fullness, that pain, that push against my inside, demanding, imperative, driving me willy-nilly out of the safely remote ivory control tower where my brain lives, dragging me out to the very edges of my self. I want to feel those edges again, those semi-permeable boundaries of my body against hers, and wait for them to dissolve.


~ by mortarandpestle on October 7, 2007.

2 Responses to “Craving”

  1. The elite of lesbian erotica, beautifully written

  2. Thank you. But there is some much better erotica out there. And there are definitely many writers, some of whom read this blog, who are enormously better at writing it than me. So thank you for your comment but it’s making me blush.

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