Flash Haiku Friday

As there was no Flash Fiction Friday this week, for reasons I hope are nothing more than minor inconveniences, and as I have limited brain-space for much of anything, I've thought of the smallest thing I could do and done it.  Thus, Flash Haiku Friday.  The picture is something I had lying around; I don't know any credits, but I'd be happy to change that if someone else recognizes it.

flowing white silence

betrays energy within

she is the morning

lonely in dawn's light

or has he not awakened

to give her comfort

chill air warm bodies

temptation draws her to bed

day is forgotten

---

Three haiku.  I suppose if I were a scholar of Japanese poetry, I could have chosen a better verse-form for telling an extending story, but the haiku is brevity incarnate, and any of the three could be read in exclusion of the others.  I'm not a huge haiku fan (I'm much more into Chinese poetry, actually), but I do write them on occasion, although usually more as a joke and involving language not ordinarily found in courtly verse.  In this case, I've made an exception.

I thought about doing the haiku so each last line became the first line of the next, but I was too lazy.  There's probably a term for that, but I don't know what it is.

So, here's hoping that PB is okay and Flash Fiction Friday will return next week.  If not, I may start doing my own because it's basically the only thing I do any more.  Feel free to steal the image and use it for your own devices, although you could let me know if you do and I'll link to whatever you do.  Here's where I'd say something about how you should do that, but frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

My apologies for the lateness of the hour, but it is still Friday.  Had I been more on the ball, this would have gone up this morning.

Angry

Yesterday was bad. Actually, things haven't been going all that well for a number of days now, but yesterday was a climax of bad. I came home from work (yeah, working weekends sucks donkey scrotum for fun) feeling like I was about to explode and do something I would really, really regret, or possibly just curl into a little ball and never come out again. I was tired, pissy, hurting from numerous bruises and cuts, and just generally wanted to scream.

Dad tried to cheer me up; when he asked if I wanted a bit of cock before dinner, I said, "Yes please," with this extremely hungry glint to my eye because I hadn't had any all weekend. The football game (a football game, I should say, since I can't remember who was playing and I didn't care) was on and I lay back on the couch and tried to let him soothe the itch. But nothing doing. I couldn't just lie there. I wanted to punch him. My own father, whom I love more than anything, and basically I wanted to bite him, claw him, ride him like crazy. And I know he doesn't want that, and what's more, I don't want to do that to him. I normally don't want to do that to anyone.

But it was different. After a minute or so, I basically stopped him, which I almost never do, and said, "I'm sorry Daddy, I'm too pissed off to be a good lay today." With another guy, I might have gritted my teeth and let him finish, but with Dad, I knew that wouldn't work. Also, I knew he wouldn't mind as much. I still felt really bad about it. If Sveta or someone else had been there to take up slack, I would have known that he would get his no matter what, but as it was, he was the one who initiated the action, so he must have wanted it badly enough to do that. Fortunately, at that point Mom came in and heard the conversation, and she said she fancied some herself, so they started making love on the couch while I scowled off, because I couldn't stand to watch them either.

I was no good to anyone. It wasn't good. Not good at all.

I am not a ragefucker. Never have been. Sometimes I like it a bit rough (a bit, not rough enough to qualify for a lot of people), but sex and anger seldom combine to make it a good time for me. And when I like it rough, it's usually one-sided; I like to be done, rather than to do. But last night, I could have given as good as I got.

I wanted (perhaps I still want somewhat) to rip clothes, really rip them, intentionally, pulling and tugging, maybe leaving little red marks on the skin. I wanted to shout obscenities as a cock was shoved into my ass, hard. I wanted to ride him, to force myself down onto him. I might have even indulged in a little slapping, scratching, biting. I wouldn't have been myself.

Some people might read this as a side of me trying to get out, something I should indulge. Please don't think I hold it against people who do enjoy this sort of thing when I say that it isn't. I do not enjoy hurting people, mentally or physically. If I were to have gone out last night and found someone I didn't care about, someone whom I could have done various somewhat unpleasant things to, it would have been a very, very bad thing, and I would have felt really guilty about it. Sometimes my anger controls me and I do bad things, usually non-sexually which is how I know that it's not just a fetish that wants petting.

As it was, I was really in no condition to do anything other than glumly eat dinner and then fall asleep. And I thank whatever lucky star made that so, because I don't want to hurt anyone, sexually or otherwise, and when I do, it would just make me feel worse than I already feel about it. This was not a good kind of hurt. This was ugly and stupid and horrible, and I'm really only talking about it here because I have nothing else to say.

Now I've got to make it up to Dad; I'm feeling more like I need a cuddle now than like I need to throw tableware. I'm really glad Sveta wasn't there for this, although I know she would want to be there, to comfort me in my dark times, all that. But sometimes, you just need to be alone, not because you want to be, but because it's safer for everyone concerned.

Flash Fiction Friday - Car Song Trio

CB

"Breaker 1-9, this is Big Rig Daddy headin' down the freeway and lookin' for love." She could hear the twang of a country song in the background through the static on his CB.

"10-4 Big Rig, this is Top-Down Lady sittin' behind the billboard for Luigi's Pizza on 150 South, lookin' for fun," she said, her voice slipping into the accent without realizing it. "Why not stop by if you're in the neighborhood?"

This was it. Her voice trembled as she said the last words, not from fear but from anticipation. He agreed eagerly, said he was in transit, then signed off. She sat there, waiting, humming softly, fingers toying idly with the snap on her stockings, then reaching down to stroke the silk-covered wetness between. Her small breasts were chilled by the breeze of passing cars, the nipples hard and tender in the shadows. She didn't care if anyone saw.

When she heard the semi pull up behind her with a rumble of engine and a screech of air brakes, she turned to see him getting down from his cab, then sighed with satisfaction. It's not every day a girl gets her driver's license and pops her cherry in the same day. She leaned the seat back and prepared for some trucker love.

---

Drive-In

"It's okay." She'd said it so many times to me before. "It's okay." But it wasn't okay.

We were at the drive-in with the top pulled down, and she was reattaching the strap that had come loose during our fit of passion, not looking at me. The feature was some monster movie from Japan, but neither of us were paying attention to the cheesy plot. We were close enough to the projector to hear it humming softly, or maybe that was the compressor on the freezer where they stored the terrible food they deep-fried to death.

"I know you wanted to go all the way," I said from the back seat, head in hands. "I... I just can't. Not like this."

"Then how?" she asked, a snap in her tone which she instantly regretted. "Jesus, I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry, it's my fault," I said, looking up finally. "I just wanted it to be special. But something takes over when we're together; I just want to rip your clothes off, and then when it gets to the moment... I can't."

"It's okay," she said, again, looking at me. Maybe she believed it as she slipped her bra back on. In the car, in total silence, we watched the rest of the terrible movie, then drove home to our separate beds with wedding rings that felt too tight for comfort.

---

To the Metal

"Gun it!" she squealed as I revved the engine, naked ass writhing on center grill. "Oh god, right there, yes, yes!" My foot was to the floor; the car was rocking even though it was safely out of gear. She was cumming. I tried to see, to feel the spasms running through her, to time my foot to them, but in the end, she was in rhythm with the engine, not with me.

She laughed even as she kept pressing her hips down onto the body of the car, right above the drive shaft. Then she reached over and slammed her fist against the horn and wailed as the sound blasted out into the night. It was primal, the sound of horn and engine and girl all rolled into one essential noise of orgasm. Her juices stained the upholstery.

"Okay, I've got to try it," I said with a laugh as she collapsed into the back seat. The engine sat there, humming softly, a raging beast waiting to be unleashed. I undid my garter and then straddled the center of the car next to her, and as I felt the vibrations of it, of him, slowly run up my spine as I ground down, I gasped, then cried out, "Pedal down! Gun it!"

---

Three? Yep, you counted right.  My stringent editorial controls are a bit lax this week; I just don't have the time to pick them over with a fine-tooth comb.  Nor, really, to go into the depth I'd like in the notes.  But some brief words:

I just loved the idea of sitting in a car on the side of the road in nothing but panties and stockings.  I don't know why, but the CB radio connection clicked somehow, and so I knew why our intrepid heroine was waiting in that state of undress.  Then I decided to give it a bit of a twist, because what the hell, I think the idea of hooking up with a trucker on your 16th birthday to lose your virginity is kind of sexy, in a "God I'd never actually do it nor do I want anyone else to" kind of way.  Plus, I liked the sobriquet, "Top-Down Lady" to describe both the car and the driver.  The first one was just a bit of fluff, really.

Number 2 is a bit more awkward.  I wasn't really going for a twist, but rather to explore the difference between horny teenagers and people who are inhibited.  I don't know; it's a bit of a sad story, and I suspect all too common in marriage to build up expectations that one can't possibly meet, then, of course, fail to meet them.  Hell, that's probably common everywhere.  Or is it about the difference between intention and action?  I don't really know.

And then, of course, since I'd put aside the "humming softly" line, not using it as a descriptor of the car's engine, as seemed quite obvious to me, I had to think about things which hum softly, and why not turn a car with a bit of a vibration into... well, you get where I'm going with this.  I don't care if it's physically impractical.  If this car had had a gear shift in the center, I might have used that, since most of the old cars with sticks that I've driven have had a bit of motion in the gear shifter.  Anyway, car as vibrator.  I was going to be a bit more metaphorical about it, but then I just said, "Fuck it," and wrote something simple and fun.

Are all three of these stories connected?  I don't know.  They're just vignettes about cars.

There, I managed to write more fiction than I did exposition of said fiction.  Victory!  If you'd like that same victorious feeling, deep inside, where you're soft and pink (don't tell me you're not soft and pink inside, because everyone is, and I have the graphic crime scene photos to prove it)... where was I?  Oh, yes, feel victorious by participating in Flash Fiction Friday.  Don't murder people just to prove me wrong.

November State of the Blog

I hate elections.  We should all just go back to the tsar.

No, I really don't hate elections.  I just hate campaign ads.  I think the British are much better about it.  Makes me envy Sephi.  Thank God, November will soon bring an end to the ads (I hope).  Not so happily, it will doubtless also plunge us into a nightmare world.  There, I've said enough.

And now, a list of numbered announcements:

1. November is NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and I'm thinking I may do it again this year.  So this month I shall struggle to write those 50,000-odd perfect little words but wind up writing 50,000-odd terrible ones.  No, I will not be inviting readers.  It's bad enough that I have to read them, let alone allowing someone else to do it.  I wish I could write erotica, but I'd think that was cheating; erotica is too easy and too trashy for me.  Not to malign others' erotica, simply my own.  I will keep doing the Flash Fiction Friday thing, before anyone worries.
2. I believe Sveta may make an appearance just in time to spoil any thoughts of spending any time doing anything but loving her fully and well.  Thanksgiving, maybe?  Maybe?  Please?
3. Work is going to be crazy in November.  With a capital K.  And little googly eyes on all the letters.  Flashing in hot pink neon.  Is neon actually the gas they use to make the hot pink lights?  I don't know.  See, I'll be crazy.  I'm already a bit crazy.

Therefore:

Blogging may get a bit light on the ground during the November-ly month.  Things may happen that go unreported, at least until December.  Comments may go without reply, or perhaps even for days without approval.  Messages may be a bit shirty.  Phones may be unexpectedly disconnected (this only applies to about 3 people though).  Doors may be slammed (that applies to even fewer people).  Hair may be torn, pens may be thrown, throats slashed, bodices ripped, swashes buckled... no, wait, that's a pirate raid.

Anyway, if we drop down to about 1 post a week for the next few weeks, that's why, and I'm sorry and everything, and I wish I were hardcore like some people, but I'm just not.  Also, I must force myself not to use the blog as a means of procrastination.  Like I'm doing right now.  Away with me!

Oh, by the way, congratulations to San Francisco, and Tim Lincecum, your name makes me think naughty things, but your body makes me do nice things, so between the two, I could make you very happy.

Spooky

At the moment I'm out working (having scheduled this post beforehand), and anyway most people probably celebrated Halloween before now, but suffice to say that it is in fact All Hallows' Eve, and thus it seemed like the time to say Happy Halloween or whatever you call today, if you commemorate it at all.  I've grown too old and tired for costumes and too busy for much in the way of fun, but were I to be wearing a costume and having fun, here's an artist's rendering of what I'd probably look like.

Before you ask, no, it's not me, nor do I know from whence it cometh.

And here I told a Halloween story which was eaten by Blogger for reasons beyond my ken.  It was okay, but I can't type it again.  It wasn't really a Halloween story anyway, more of a story which happened to fall around Halloween.  You're not missing a whole lot.  Some, but not a whole lot.  Go back and read one of my other Halloween stories instead, because they're sexier.

Flash Fiction Friday - The Post-Modern Prometheus

There was nothing more I could do for her. I had tried everything, but still I cursed the fates as I sat, listless, before her corpse, slowly decaying, cold and dead. Then I remembered the musty book I had seen in the library, rushed to it, pulling it open, searching, searching... and found my heart's desire. New life surged through me, as it would through her...

They called me mad! Mad? I am saner than the soberest man. I shall have her back, I swear it by the God that has forsaken me! Mad?

And now her flesh was warm to my touch, and I waited, breathless, for her eyes to open, to greet me with a smile...

No. No movement. The warmth was merely the heat of decomposition. The stench was terrible. The incantation was a failure. I threw the book from me in disgust, knocked over the candles, obliterated the pentacle, then sank, spent, into the armchair.

I sat there, cock softening, wondering if I could get in a quick one before she completely went to mush. Mad? She charged $250 an hour and I'll be damned if I don't get my money's worth.

I held my breath and made do.

---

Yeah.  If I haven't mentioned it, I'm drained.  This could have been funnier or more interesting or more sexy or all three, but it is what it is.  I confess a lack of motivation based on the picture alone.

And now, some random thoughts: Frankenstein is the doctor.  His monster is usually called Frankenstein by the uninitiated, but the monster has no name, and is certainly not Frankenstein.  The subtitle of Frankenstein is The Modern Prometheus, hence my titular reference.  Everyone remembers Prometheus as the guy who is chained to the rock and has his liver pecked out by eagles every day (that is, if people remember him at all), but that was because he gave fire to man in violation of the gods' will.  Some legends equate fire with life; others say that Zeus (the king of the gods, in case you missed Clash of the Titans) also withheld the means of life from humanity.  This was all premised on some other legends where Greek gods prove just how capricious and jerky they were.  Thus, Frankenstein, the eponymous doctor, is a modern Prometheus because he violates God's will and gives life to a corpse.  It's not a perfect analogy, but then what is.

Interestingly, in retribution for the theft of fire, Zeus sent Pandora to live with man, and she had her box (everyone knows about Pandora's box, right?) with everything bad in it, and thus one could draw a comparison between fire causing great sorrow and defiance of death causing great sorrow as well.  That Pandora had a "box" rather than, say, something less suggestive, has led unenlightened commentators to suppose that the vagina is the root of all evil.  But fuck them.

I figure that, if someone came up with the means of creating life and they were a man, they'd make a woman first because who wouldn't want to create the perfect sex toy?  Okay, many people wouldn't, but the people who would go to the trouble to come up with the mechanism to create life might.  Or maybe not.  But there are some people who would really like a living RealDoll.

Frankenstein is also often supposed to have either used technology or magic, but in reality, he's something of a Renaissance man; he discovers clues in the past but uses the technology of the present.  It's not an indictment of technology, but rather of knowledge.  But then it's not really about that either; it's all about bad parenting.  Babies are pretty disgusting when they come out, and if we rejected them because of it, they'd probably grow up to be maladjusted serial killers too.  So, be good parents or else your little monster will wind up destroying everything you hold dear and then going off into the Arctic.

It's also always assumed that the monster is horrible to look at, misshapen, ugly, etc.  I think the uncanny valley provides a much better reason why Frankenstein's monster turned out ugly; it's close to human, but not quite.  It's horrible to look at because it reflects the horror in ourselves, because its life isn't quite real, because it reminds us of what we've done.  And yet, the monster is more human than his father, in many ways.

In conclusion, don't blame the monster.  He's a person too, with faults and features, and if he'd just been raised a bit better, if Frankenstein had taken responsibility for his actions, who knows what might have happened?

That was all much more interesting than my piece this week because my piece this week was about having sex with a stinky prostitute corpse because you can't bring it back to life.  Yeah.  Yummy.  How can you stand to be left out of Flash Fiction Friday, that can inspire such greatness?  You should read Frankenstein too, if you haven't already.

In and Out

In.  The first touch of the head on my labia, moving them firmly aside, feeling them spread over like water that follows the contours of it until it opens the passage within, the edges of the head like a speed bump, a dip in the road.  Then the entrance.  The vagina is actually quite shallow, much more shallow than a cock is long, at least at first.  Even after foreplay, after aching for penetration, the cock is an intruder.  For an instant, the natural defense tightens even the most practiced cunt.  But he is an intruder who is meant to intrude.  Why else would the parts fit together so perfectly?

Out.  The gentle suction as the piston of the plunger is pulled back.  I often wonder if sex can produce a vacuum within me.  It feels like that, when he's been all the way in, to the root of me, and he has to pull out sometime otherwise there's no sex, just penetration.  Not that I don't enjoy the penetration alone, but without movement, it's not complete.  I haven't grown used to him yet, this early.  My muscles still ease back into their old position as he exits, as if they expected that to be a one-time thing.  It's just the suction, the loss of warmth to the vacuum that may or may not exist.

In.  The first time I wanted it, needed it.  Now, no matter how much I know he's coming right back, after the first withdrawal I'm surprised he returns.  Maybe not in my brain, but my body is surprised; the flesh was just beginning to feel normal without him there, and here he is again, warm and hard and thick.  It kindles the desire, rekindles it, inflames it, throws gasoline on it.  I never want him to leave again.  I want to have him inside me always.

Out.  The second retreat is easier, quicker, less time to get used to the idea of it, building up to a rhythm which will see further penetrations and withdrawals.  He's not even all the way out this time, not most times, not when he's not teasing me.  The cock head stays securely inside me, the lips moved up and down his shaft by the thrusts.  Now, when he pulls back, my body wants him back.  It's like holding your arms up for a long time; you want to let them fall.  He was supporting me, and now the support is gone.  I feel like I might cave in.

In.  More quickly, less thoroughly.  I've grown deeper, like a pool that only seems shallow above the water, but when you dive in, the light tricked you and the bottom is miles away.  Only if he dives very deep will he touch the bottom now.  He's not looking to touch the bottom; the splashing is what we enjoy, most times.  Fully wet, completely lubricated, he can slide in and out of me, and if he does it in rhythm with my own movements, it's like he's within and without simultaneously.

Out.  I don't even notice it now.  I know he's coming back.  Maybe we had to switch positions, and there was a brief moment where my insides got used to the idea that maybe that was it.  Maybe I came, and the spasms drove him out for an instant.  But I can feel his energy there, ready to press into me again, and each penetration, each thrust, has merged into one long movement, unable to pick out the individual moments, just a continuum.

In.  Out.  In.  Out.  In.  And he grips me tight, and presses deep, deeper, and then if I can feel anything at all I feel the surge as he begins to cum.  There's a moment, just before the actual fluids, which I think should count as the beginning of orgasm, the moment when anticipation has reached its climax, when what is to follow is a foregone conclusion.  He stiffens, his breath catches.  When the shots are fired, things are remarkably still, compared to the rest of the activity.  The pulses are forceful, but they don't move.  He may press, but he seldom does anything but tense and relax.  Sometimes I feel the spurts of his semen as they splash against my womb.  Sometimes not.  It almost doesn't matter, after what has gone before.

Out.  At last.  He can't stay.  He may stay next to me, we may warm each other, even work up to another heady climax, but in the end, there must be a final retreat.  Until next time.