Have you ever really been intimate with someone?

No, I said. I’ve whispered around the edges of it, skated over the skin of it, traced its outline. But no, not until you.

What’s different about me?

I looked at him, his brown eyes, brown hair, the faint dimples in his cheeks and the strong line of his jaw. I felt the air slide over my skin, kiss my nipples to erection, and watched his pupils dilate as he looked at me, waiting. I don’t know.

His finger sketched a line from my armpit, down the full side of one breast. This is intimate, he said.


No? His finger tip brushed over a nipple, and it reached further for him. My breath caught.


His hand travelled downward, over my belly, lower, and he paused with the pads barely caressing my freshly shaved mound. His eyes challenged me, his breath coming quicker. I watched his body, his tongue wet his lower lip, goose flesh race over his ribs and hip, his nipples harden into tiny points, his cock lengthen on the linen.

I shook my head. Stop, I said softly, my hand on his wrist.

How is this not intimate?

My voice quavered slightly. It is. I’m not sure it’s intimacy.

I love you very much, he whispered.

That’s closer. I gently moved his hand aside, and my eyes held his while I slid my own fingers where his had wanted to go. I shifted, opened my thighs slightly, I exposed that part of me I never showed anyone, and I touched, I let my eyes drift shut, and I forgot about him. Almost. That I knew he was watching, that I could hear his breath thicken and catch, these things pushed me higher.

It ripped through me like a tidal wave, destructive and liberating, and sooner than I expected. It was when his voice, low, husky, said close to my ear, You gonna come for me? that I let it go, all the fear, opened the cage and let the fucking beast roar out and reveal itself. So many years of wanting and being denied. And it kept coming.

His arms were around me, and his mouth covered mine. I wondered if he could taste it, the release on my tongue, the blood in my throat. I trust you, I said. That’s how you’re different.

I felt him smile against me, felt his erection throb against my thigh. I felt the closeness and eternity, the beginning, middle and end of everything in a single moment. And in a thousand moments to follow.


He never waited for her. Not for her to sit down at the dinner table. Or for her to come out of the grocery store. Not even for her to actually come.

She called him to the table each night at suppertime, and would often return to the kitchen for this or that. She’d come back to see his face bent over a half-empty plate, usually a blob of mashed potatoes or a dribbled trail of gravy across the clean table cloth. He’d grunt an acknowledgement. He’d keep going.

She’d tell him she was just going to run in to pick up a loaf of bread or a pint of cream. She loved cream in her coffee, thick, rich, and just cooling enough it didn’t scald. He’d say “I ain’t got all day,” and light a cigarette and hang his corded forearm out the window. Invariably there’d be a line, and she’d come out knowing the car would be gone, knowing she’d have to walk home in the heels he insisted she wear because they made her ass look hot. “You sag when you don’t wear ‘em. Ain’t nobody wants to see your sad saggin’ ass, Thel.”

He initiated sex the same way each time, too. He didn’t ask. He’d grab her tit in his fist and squeeze and grunt. He never bothered to undress any more. He made her strip, then he’d climb on top and take his dick out of his waistband and shove it in, whether she was wet or not. She never was. He hadn’t made her wet in years. Been almost that long since he tried. He’d pump twice easy, then give it four or five good ones… unless he’d been drinking, then it took ten… and he’d grind his forehead painfully into her breast bone with a groan, and roll away.

He never waited. He never asked. Bobbie was all about the telling.

It was, therefore, surprising to everyone when one morning after Bobbie’d gone to work, Thelma cleaned up the breakfast dishes, wiped the grease off the stove top, put kibble in the cat’s bowl and left the house, locking the door behind her. Or it would have been surprising had anyone noticed. She carried her suitcase with the big pink daisies on it, and the matching train case. A pair of black and white canvas Keds replaced the black pumps. The taxi at the curb waited patiently, even when she paused to take mental stock of her possessions. He didn’t honk the horn. Or tell her to stop wool-gathering. Or drive away. He stood by the open trunk and waited patiently to take her bags when she finally walked down the path towards him.

“Where are we headed today, Miss?”

“The airport,” she said calmly.

“Off to see your mother?”

She pulled the seatbelt across her, and smiled sweetly at his reflection in the rear view. “Yes. Yes, I’m off to see my mother.” Mother passed years ago, worn to the bone by a man who never waited for her.

Thelma smiled again, a private smile.


There hung in the air the thick blue smell of ozone, and peals of thunder rolled off the horizon, heavy, threatening. It was neither the breeze nor the anticipation alone that raised the down on her forearms and the back of her neck. Beneath the low branches of a centurion oak, she waited for them, her heart racing the storm, or time, or the pulse of her own hot desire through every channel in her body. Her skin was as alive as the flashing lightning. She thought the fear might suffocate her. She thought if she did not wait here for them, the death awaiting her at home was far worse than anything met inside these crawling woods.

Another peal of thunder, and her nipples pushed against the thin knit weave of her dress. She wore nothing beneath it. Mama would call her a whore. Mama would call her worse than that if she knew why she waited. For whom she waited.

The crack of a twig beneath a crepe-soled work boot. She imagined that part, as one breaking twig sounded like another. But she knew it was him. He was tall, thick through the trunk, rounded ass hugged by ragged denim. He had a beard, cut close and shaved low on his cheeks. He wore a red cap, faded and soiled to the color of brick.

The muffled crunch of leaves to her left. The other, smaller, with blue eyes possessed of a cool, piercing quality. He had crooked teeth and pock-marked cheeks, and large, big-knuckled hands she wanted to feel on her body.

Her breath caught, and she fought the urge to turn, to speak. She stood still, rigid, until hands came around from behind and the beard brushed her neck. She smiled, leaned back and moaned her acceptance, and he kissed her skin and clasped her large, loose tit, thumbing roughly back and forth. Hands caressed her calves, running up the considerable length of her legs, taking the skirt with them. The tall one spoke against her neck, exciting goose flesh along her limbs. “You go around, Eddie. Put your mouth on her.”

What an odd feeling to be handled, to be spoken of as though she weren’t there.

He was speaking again, this time to her. “I don’t think we were formally introduced,” he breathed over her skin. “I’m Joe. This is Ed. And the only reason we’re here is to make you come harder than you’ve come in your life.”

She thought that was fucking arrogant. But Eddie was working her skirt over her thighs, and those big hands were coaxing her feet apart as she leaned against Joe’s barrel chest. He was getting so close to her cunt, he was about to find out just what a whore she was.

“What would you like to be called?” Joe whispered. He was sucking her earlobe into his hot mouth, then releasing and allowing his breath to cool it.

“Call me beautiful,” she whispered, hoarse already.

“That’s no stretch, Beautiful,” he whispered. He’d moved her hair and was working the nape of her neck while pushing his hips into her ass. “My cock thinks you’re beautiful, too, you feel it?”

She nodded and gasped as Ed’s fingers found her heat and wet, and a guttural sound rumbled from his throat.

“You want him to eat you out, Beautiful? He’d love to do that for you.”

God, yes, her mind screamed as Joe’s hands worked her breasts with just the right amount of pressure and teasing.

And he was pulling her back and down, cradling her body with his, opening her up and laying her bare, and before her eyes wandered into the canopy of the old oak, she caught the flash of Ed’s eyes, dilated with desire as his mouth found and consumed her.

Her mind drifted while her body writhed, while she listened to the clap of thunder and Joe’s baritone murmuring how beautiful she was, and when she felt his skin, his massive cock throbbing beneath her, reaching and wanting, she accommodated him. He filled her while Ed continued his ministrations. There were a thousand hands on her, on every hot spot, on every pressure point, and the waves were tsunamic, engulfing, lethal. Her gasps escalated until Joe clapped his hand over her mouth and pumped against her ass.

The two of them rocked and coaxed and fucked her into a place of mindless abandon. She vaguely remembered being flipped over, and being offered a cock which she took, savoring its salt and silk on her tongue as the other pushed into her ass and into another uncounted climax. She recalled being left, the thick shaft being taken from her mouth, and in a flash of purple electricity, saw Joe taking it in his, his hands still on her, guiding her touch him, to stroke him… she was insatiable. When the first drops hit her upturned face, she couldn’t be sure what, or whose, they were.

A crash, glassware, or cutlery, and the murmur of voices and laughter and country music. The salt on her tongue was from the tequila, as was the warmth crawling between her thighs. Faces swam into focus, and she was looking into a pair of piercing blue eyes. He nudged his friend, and Joe turned, and smiled a small smile. “Buy you another, Beautiful?”


I lose myself
In the sound of my name
Wrapped round your tongue
As you ask
For me, only me
Beautiful feeling, to be craved
Held and tasted
Wasted in an
Embrace unyielding
Gentle and shielding
The horrors of this life
We bear beneath
Bared, unsheathed
A knife cut
Sweet and merciful
Lost within
The whispers and gasps
Firsts, lasts, trembling
Reminded of why
You begin and end
With me.


I’d apologize for my absence, but sometimes life happens. It’s been a busy spring around here. On top of which, I simply seem to have not much to say! I’ve been taking my emotions in a more visual direction the last couple of weeks. And have been sporadically without a computer while attempting to get a new machine set up.

I have bits of stories floating around in my head, but they seem to have no beginning, end, or physical form. Just words and phrases, and ghosts of ideas that slip in and out, usually when I’m on the cusp of sleep. They’re so diaphanous, it’s as though I take a deep breath and they’re gone. They almost take the form of mists.

Echoes on the Stairs, the new volume of poetry I’ve assembled, missed the June 1st pub. date I’d set. It’s still awaiting finishing touches. I will be working on getting it out by July, hopefully. And I will also return here, and see if I can catch a few of those mists for you guys.