How These Things Begin


I imagine the power of sexual energy attracts them. They are varied and persistent and will not be ignored.  They cloud my mind with thoughts I blush to share, but the rolling breaths of arousal push me forward and I find myself licking my already parted lips and whispering them into my lover’s ear.

I watch his eyes darken and his breathing change. The energy in his body changes once again… I hear another whisper and before it has ceased its erotic attack the same words are leaving my own lips. My lover’s breath catches and then he smiles sweetly and looks me directly in the eyes: “Damned if you don’t have one filthy mind, girl! Now get on your knees…” I laugh as I move for him.

And this is how it started.



She bleeds another’s dreams,
holding her white hands reverently to her chin,
preying in the quiet of a fallen night.

Her lips moistened with fear,
a placid grace plastered upon dead features.
No prisoners to take.

Feral;  brutish breath seeking lips of stone,
the coldness returning nothing she craves,
her gravity alone shifting this spirit’s calm.

Armed with arid lies to twist a mind,
a bitter seed beneath her tongue,
her lips scrape slowly across a soul.

Passions flare and evanesce,
an eyelid’s flutter scattering shifting shapes
and love sleeps softly by.

The words set softly on her lips
still wet with blood of broken minds;
a sacrament that needs no prayer.

‘Sleep’ she says in whispered tone
and eyes fly open to twisted light.
‘Still’ she sighs in a knowing groan
and limbs sit fixed against their will.
‘Rest’ she teases through gritted teeth
and shadows swarm from gloom-lit walls.

Boredom sways, she drifts away,
infected tide breaking in a terrored night;
placid grace attending a placid fright.


handsThese broken fingers… they continue tapping and dancing about the keys, clicking against the desktop, tramping and tapping around the steering wheel. Can’t stop them. They count the seconds in cut and synchronous rhythms refusing to stop for a moment’s rest. They dance about my own lips venturing in to glance against the enamel of my teeth, tasting the drama expressed by such thoughtless movements.

Breathing an Erotica Writer’s Dream


You play with words as every writer does, but in this game, the game of erotica writing, it seems the words have a way of playing with you. You plod on carefully through each keystroke waiting for just that right phrase, twisting its way out of your playful mind, to push your thoughts into fast-forward, but then find yourself blissfully lost in your own creation… as is your body.

You take a deep breath.

You stare into the distance and try to recover your composure, you laugh quietly to yourself… It’s just fantasy, dear; get over yourself. Then something shimmers in the dark corner of the room, your mind fires, and you’re off and running again, your fingers flying lightning-fast over the keys. You find yourself thanking the gods for that tedious college typing course and the pert blonde that sat in front of you squirming incessantly in her seat while sucking on a seemingly unending supply of Tootsie Pops.

You take a deep breath.

You let your thoughts wander. The first hypnotic words that come to mind now slip quickly out the tips of your fingers, never making any obvious sense, but seeming to magically land you on that softly lit path that takes you where the words flow like water. Nothing stops their advance now, pouring gently but unrelentingly over the stones in your mind until the page is nothing but a broken sediment of whiteness beneath the typed words and phrases. You feel content.

You take a deep breath.

…and dive deeper. Something dark shudders in your subconscious, something heavy with reaching arms, a million fingers to slip wetly into your waiting soul. They speak in whispers, whispers that coil around your senses, leaving you with a heightened perception of the darker reaches of the sensual desires that haunt a body… a heart.

You take a deeper breath still.

You tread carefully now. There are places here that smell of panic, and fear gains hold at once. Things one doesn’t want to witness… or say they’ve witnessed. How to tell their stories? How not to tell their stories? You let each finger strike its fated key carefully now and watch as the truth slips willfully out of your control, seemingly chained to the display as the words materialize of their own will. You are no longer the master you thought you were… you are merely another slave.

You sigh… gratefully.