Nymphetamine, or, Scorched Earth Erotica

He sees her, and can't decide if he's awake, or dreaming, or lost somewhere in between. Trapped in some celestial void where he neither sleeps nor wakes. She seems wrapped in sunlight, gilded, as if the sun himself yearned to touch her skin and could not bring himself to let go. He fears that just brushing his fingertips along her jaw might blister his skin, set him ablaze. And yet he, like the sun, cannot resist her.

He needs her, but not like he needs air, water, food. This is something more primal, more instinctual than even these baser functions. He needs her in ways he can no longer fathom, so far has he fallen from the gods. She appears to him, sings to him sometimes, and he wonders where she goes when she dances out of his grasp and vanishes.

He wants her, a powerful craving unlike anything he has ever known. He imagines until he can see, feel, and taste every bare, glistening inch of her body. Flushed with desire, chest expanding and contracting as she draws in deep, impassioned breaths, spills his name from her throat or her mouth or her fingers. He can't say where, just that his name emerged from her and he became something infinitely more powerful with its utterance.

He can see the way she laughs, sitting beside him in the car, bare feet propped up on the dashboard, August sunlight trapped in her smile, her golden hair, the lilting of her voice as she responds to something he has already forgotten he said. He is lost in it, dazed, out of breath. He isn't sure this ever happened. Perhaps he only dreamed it, imagined it, created it.

He can hear the way she cries, though the reason escapes him, and he feels a powerful desire to tear the moon from the sky and hurl it into the earth if it means she will never know another second's sorrow. Poetic, perhaps. Adolescent and foolish, but being in love does strange things to the minds of men.

He can feel her hearbeat, thrumming just inches from the tips of his fingers. They tremble where the cup her breast. Whether in passion or in some gesture of protection as she drifts off to sleep in the wake of passion, he can't decide. Both draw him and he can't draw a conclusion.

He can taste strawberries on her lips. He thinks. Its sweet, reminds him of late summer. The days growing shorter, but the sunlight still falling gloriously. Winter is approaching, and the sun always seems more bellicose than benevolent when the cold settles in. For now, he wants nothing more than to kiss her again, and then spend every moment kissing her until he is but a dessicated husk on the rotting back of the world.

She is sense and sensation. The perfect compliment to all the things he wants to be, knows he can be. She's a molten gold Aphrodite. She's stolen Zeus' thunder. Apollo's chariot. She makes lesser gods bow like unruly children come to the switch. he is torn between standing at her side, and kneeling, subjective. For all the strength of will he possesses, she possesses him.

He covets her, despite the sin. Or, perhaps, to spite the sin. He would paint himself her Messiah, and then burn away the canvas lest she see what he desired. We all have silly thoughts, he thinks. Then he paints her smile with starlight.

He calls himself a writer. A man who makes his living with words. A man who lives for words and muses. Poems and songs and stories crafted with more love than children. Without heed of the world rushing by. He creates his own. Yet he finds himself speechless at the sight of her emerging from a stream, clothed only in the air between them. He finds himself unable to speak a single syllable when she brings her lips to his.

He finds himself unable even to breathe when the sun burns him to ashes in her palm and she revives him only to scorch him again with a kiss. And yet he, like the sun, cannot resist her.

Lovingly,
-S.R.

A More Wretched Hive of Scum and Villainy

I wanted something to seethe and rage and write scathing, angsty commentary about. So, naturally, I went to Facebook first. I do this because I haven't been feeling exactly cryptic or metaphoric lately (although, neither of those things are actual emotions and, in retrospect, that sentence probably didn't make a fuck-wit of sense), and because I'm quite in need of an outlet for blowing off steam. Unfortunately, Facebook proved inadequate.

So, I'm going to talk about things that I want to hate-fuck instead.

Do you know what pisses me off? Of course you do. You didn't just stumble on here accidentally. You came with intent and that means you know me. And if you know me, you know what gets my blood boiling until I'm on the floor, stroking out, shrieking nonsense until I'm rushed to the hospital and loaded up on morphine and laxatives.

So here's something else that pisses me off, because I want that portfolio to be the most full when the CIA comes knocking on your door, asking what you know about me (you're on a watchlist just for coming here, so stick around).

I fucking hate it when people demonize something unnecessarily.

Two prime examples come to mind. Both of them stemming from a conversation I had with a good friend who, I hope, will read this and not assume I'm taking shots at her. That debate was more light-hearted than anything, but the more I've circled over it in my head, the more I feel inclined to offer a real, ridiculous, violent commentary on the subject.

The first is economics. Now, don't get me wrong I'm not claiming to be any sort of expert on the subject. I'm just polluting the internet with more pointless drivel. That said, who the hell decided socialism was going to be the new boogeyman? Seems like everyone who disagrees with the Republicans these days is a fucking socialist. It's like the Red Scare all over again, without the bat-shit insane trials (yet). The Republicans, of all people, should embrace the hell out of socialism. I mean, aren't they the ones who always condemn big government (while simultaneously creating an enormous number of overlapping government agencies for, evidently, no fucking reason)? A socialist system is favored by anarchists because it promotes less government, at least in its purest form. Sure, facist regimes have used it and abused it to their own ends, the same way Stalin abused Marxist Communism to create a dictatorship.

The point of socialism is that the guy who makes the products makes the most return on it. So, if you own a company like most rich, white men do, you'd see the money from the sale of your products as opposed to giving huge portions of your income away to the government. What a novel idea. I'm not saying it's a good system. It has its flaws. It's more than likely some asshole (read: everyone) would abuse it for their own gain. I'm just saying that giving people free health care isn't one-step out from Nazidom.

Now, however, I'm getting pretty fucking tired of people complaining every time a fucking holiday rolls around about how the "meaning" of the day is being ruined by all the marketing. Look, I know you stopped paying attention to everything at the age of ten and now, surrounded by grown-ups you're desperately trying to sound intellectual, but you actually sound like an asshole.

Do any of these people actually know the alleged meaning of their holidays? Or are they just talking this contrived bullshit because it makes them feel good to have a retarded opinion on something that, frankly, doesn't fucking matter?

I'm not going to go into the religious bullshit, that isn't what we're attacking right now. Suffice to say, read a Cracked article. I'm sure they have one about how you're a fucking idiot for believing the bullshit ways you celebrate holidays have anything to do with what the day is intended to represent. My point here, is that capitalism demands marketing. And if people are willing to shell out money because they marketed a heart-shaped enema and it's Valentine's Day, it is capitalism's fucking job to market that shit.

Look, a capitalist system is competitive, it drives progress. Yes, there is greed inherent in any system that allows one person to own more than another, but the desire to accumulate things is entirely human and entirely justified based on the way we interact socially. So what's the fucking problem? is it God? Does God hate marketing? I don't understand why, if we're so damned eager for new products, for new technologies, we can't let the economy have a piece of our holidays too.

Besides, ever have a girlfriend and forget to buy her something for Valentine's Day?

Which brings me to my second example: genders.

If everything you hear about the opposite sex is true then 1.) All women are crazy and 2.) All men are lying sacks of shit.

Fuck you. Fuck you so hard.

I love sexist jokes. I think they're hilarious. But when it comes right down to it, they're hilarious for the exact opposite reason racist jokes are funny: None of it is true. It's all bullshit. Women aren't crazy. Some of them are unstable. They're clingy, sure. Jealous, whatever. But an equal or greater number of them are regular people. Just going about their lives. They don't fly into a shit-flinging rampage every time you mention another girl's name. The ones that do, while terrifying, aren't as common as you might think.

Likewise, not every guy out there is a raging jackass. They don't all lie and cheat and use the same lines over and over again to get a little action. Trust me, girls, you aren't that fucking hard to get into bed. Stop flattering yourselves. Do you know what kind of men feel the need to do those things? Shallow ones. Guys that don't want for anything, don't have trouble getting along with people based on surface attractions, don't actually have anything to offer you. You know, the kind you actually want to fuck. The nerdy guys? The shit-ugly guys? They wouldn't cheat on you. They wouldn't need to. But you don't know that, because you're a shallow bitch, too.

Now how does that feel, ladies? Being called out like that. You're sitting there insisting it couldn't be you, right? Has to be that men are just predators. Just taking advantage of your vulnerabilities. That's a crock. You're just playing both sides. You don't get to be the independent, liberated, fuck-off woman you claim to be and then turn around and tell me a man tricked you and lied to you.

Because it's not true. No one can convince you to go out with them, or go to bed with them, if you don't already want to somewhere. Unless he literally raped you, that shit was your decision. If you didn't manage to do your homework before you agreed to it, how is that my fault as a man? And likewise, just because a few assholes played tricks on you why am I at fault for it? Because we have the same genitals (and his are smaller, obviously)?

That's like me deciding that since one girl lied and told me she was pregnant so I wouldn't leave her, every woman that has ever told a man she's pregnant was lying. Do you see how fucking ridiculous you are?

Now, men aren't any different. You try to play the stud card until a girl find out what kind of person you are and drops your ass like a newborn in a dumpster. Then you cry heartbreak. You're so pitiful, I wouldn't dick-punch you with Chris Brown's fist. You don't get it both ways either. You can be the swaggering douchebag or the emotional, deep-feelings sort but you can't be both. Because they're opposites and its ridiculous.

Likewise, if you go after a girl because she's just so hot you can't believe it, and all your friends agree, and every man you encounter agrees, and she turns out to be not only batshit insane, but incredibly high-maintenance? You're a fucking idiot. Of course she is, because no one becomes that full of themselves without having a whole gaggle of morons kissing her ass. The first time you don't, she'll tear your god damned lungs out. Maybe you, too, should have thought about it before you put your dick somewhere with teeth.

My point is this: These gender stereotypes are utter bullshit. They account for maybe half of the population. If we'd stop being so shallow, maybe pay a little attention, we'd have a lot less of this kind of nonsense to bitch about. But we won't, because we're shallow creatures. So, girls, please keep going after the kind of men that will treat you like shit. Because you deserve it. And guys, keep chasing after that fiery brunette in the jeggings until she's got your balls in a vice and your friends on speed-dial. You deserve every second.

You dumbass.

Yours,
-S.R.

Fucking and Punching?

The first time I took her, she wore nothing. Whether by chance or intent, I stumbled upon the room where she stood nude, surrounded by bare floors and walls. Perhaps there wasn't even furniture. Without time to register what I saw, I can't say for sure. Without thinking, I was on her, in her, all gnashing teeth and claws, leaving my marks on her throat and breasts. Territorial, of course. There was a hammering in my chest, a feeling that this was wrong. I paused, long enough to decide if she was protesting or encouraging, and I can not recall what I decided. Only that when I was finished with her, neither of us remained asleep long enough to know if it was all a dream.

In my dreams she wears mini-skirts and thongs, thigh-high stockings and stilettos, blouses only half buttoned, hair falling down around her shoulders like molten gold, eyes burning into mine like sapphires. She all but commands me to take her, the very antithesis of that erotic innocence she wields like a dagger in the real world. She needs me here, buried up to my hips, thrashing, screaming, my name falling from her lips like a curse or an oath to some high god. And yet, even before the shudders have subsided she lies folded carefully in my arms, a precious thing that I would see the world burned to protect.

I recall the first night in clips and bits of sensation, all out of order. The feel of denim beneath us, the soft ground, the smell of fallen leaves, the way her throat tugged on me when she swallowed, the way her cries of pleasure were soft, but insistent, like spurs in my flanks. There was darkness.

Most of all, I remember the bruises I left. Biting and scratching until your back was a mass of blacks and blues, hues of yellow and purple and red, swolle welts scattered angrily about skin that was, just a few hours before, pure and white. I remember why that night taught me never to vent my fury with a lover, regardless of how much she deserved it.

I remember the couch, and how I wondered when I awoke if she was ever there at all or if my mind had somehow made a nightmare out of a blowjob.

In all my fond recollections of her, she always seems more skilled than anyone should be. Its romantic, in a way, how I forget the awkward change of position, the occasional, unintentional collision of heads, the sharp intake of breath when something became suddenly painful. Instead I recall fluid motion, the rocking of hips in steady circles, rising and falling down the length of me, the oddly attractive wet slap of flesh on flesh, the way my fingernails looked when they raked down her back and dug into her thighs. The way her lips tasted.

The taboo here is delicious, in a way. I find it exotic, somehow, like making love on bleached white sand without the risk of syphilis. She can never be the things I dream of her, and I would never ask those things, despite the often overwhelming desire. Instead, for once, I am content to push boundaries, to explore, to be patient. All things I thought unattainable. Attachment does strange things to a man.

The images of her are burned into my retinas like tattoos on the surface of my eyes. Lying naked, vulnerable, entirely at my mercy, flushed from the neck up with desire, fingers absently wandering over her breasts. I remember watching as my cum settled onto them and wondering if I would ever see something more unbearably pleasing. I remember the need that washed over me in the wake of another orgasm as it littered her back, her ass, her legs, as if even that part of me felt some intrinsic need to touch her everywhere at once. And suddenly I felt both supremely satisfied and insatiable at the same time. A paradox, if ever I have been one.

I am still sorry for all the times I pulled her hair. She claimed to like pain, and a man that young does not understand the finer points of sadism.

I clawed at her throat as if she were more enemy than lover. An idea that there is some degree of truth to, I think.

She left gouges in my back that bled like mortal wounds or the beginning of stigmata. I, in turn, left her. Not for the pain, which was dulled with the aftermath of coming, but for the simple, undeniable, disgust.

I would take her as if nothing in the world mattered, and when I was done, not even the world she knew would remain standing. I mean that not as boastful, wishful thinking, but as the word of a man who knows nothing of failure.

Erotically Yours,
-S.R.