andromeda II

This story is not pornographic. It is an excerpt from a larger work which is also not pornographic. When I first posted this story, it included a naked statue photo that Facebook would not allow. I’m sure there’s something I can switch on or off in FB to remedy this, but I don’t know what that is, so I’m reposting (without the “porn photo”) so I can put the link on my FB page. If you would like to see the offending picture, go to andromeda.

 

 

In the Andromeda tale, the hapless young maiden is offered as sacrifice to an enraged Poseidon. Her foolishly mortal family had pissed off the God and she was bound to a wave at sea to appease the monster Poseidon had sent to ravage the city; the young beauty saved (of course) by the iconic monster killer, the magnificent half God/half human, Perseus. Francis would play the part of both monster and monster slayer and I would play the heroine, who (not according to script), would turn into the whore as whoreish behavior was the end game in all of our fantasies. We didn’t actually “play” these parts, there was typically no dialogue, no attempt at authenticity—we simply imagined ourselves as these people and let our bodies tell the tale. I sat naked on the floor and Francis tied my wrists behind me, both his hands and mine shaking just the slightest. I closed my eyes and listened to him undress, I felt him in front of me, I felt his cock at my mouth. He slapped me lightly and I opened my eyes and the rape by monster began. I gave myself to him. Submission was freedom. Submission was letting go of convention and inviting in all that is unknown and possible. Submission not just to monster or man, but submission to the instinct that courses through our veins. Submission was power as it eliminated fear, submission was sensual, submission allowed sex and fantasy to soar.

Monster claws pulled at my flesh, a forked tongue tore the walls of my insides. Just when I thought I could take no more, scream no more, Perseus appeared brandishing weapons of sex and steel. Francis spoke in character. I will fucking save you, woman, fucking save you. I will fuck you till you beg me to stop. But I never did such begging, as much as Francis would have liked it; my rhythms matched his, my urgency, my need to release somehow contained until that moment I saw his face tighten. Our bodies exploded upon the wave, orchestrated by a jealous Poseidon no doubt, an explosion that blew pieces of fantasy and flesh around the room like burnt paper pages, an explosion that I would revisit many times. We lay spent in sea and salt on the floor. Francis wiped the hair from my face and minutes later he asked me, “Are you okay, darling? You know you’re still tied, don’t you?” “No, Francis, I didn’t,” I replied. “I couldn’t tell.” The heroine was sated, the fantasy over.

 

andromeda

an excerpt from a larger work

 

 

In the Andromeda tale, the hapless young maiden is offered as sacrifice to an enraged Poseidon. Her foolishly mortal family had pissed off the God and she was bound to a wave at sea to appease the monster Poseidon had sent to ravage the city; the young beauty saved (of course) by the iconic monster killer, the magnificent half God/half human, Perseus. Francis would play the part of both monster and monster slayer and I would play the heroine, who (not according to script), would turn into the whore as whoreish behavior was the end game in all of our fantasies. We didn’t actually “play” these parts, there was typically no dialogue, no attempt at authenticity—we simply imagined ourselves as these people and let our bodies tell the tale. I sat naked on the floor and Francis tied my wrists behind me, both his hands and mine shaking just the slightest. I closed my eyes and listened to him undress, I felt him in front of me, I felt his cock at my mouth. He slapped me lightly and I opened my eyes and the rape by monster began. I gave myself to him. Submission was freedom. Submission was letting go of convention and inviting in all that is unknown and possible. Submission not just to monster or man, but submission to the instinct that courses through our veins. Submission was power as it eliminated fear, submission was sensual, submission allowed sex and fantasy to soar.

Monster claws pulled at my flesh, a forked tongue tore the walls of my insides. Just when I thought I could take no more, scream no more, Perseus appeared brandishing weapons of sex and steel. Francis spoke in character. I will fucking save you, woman, fucking save you. I will fuck you till you beg me to stop. But I never did such begging, as much as Francis would have liked it; my rhythms matched his, my urgency, my need to release somehow contained until that moment I saw his face tighten. Our bodies exploded upon the wave, orchestrated by a jealous Poseidon no doubt, an explosion that blew pieces of fantasy and flesh around the room like burnt paper pages, an explosion that I would revisit many times. We lay spent in sea and salt on the floor. Francis wiped the hair from my face and minutes later he asked me, “Are you okay, darling? You know you’re still tied, don’t you?” “No, Francis, I didn’t,” I replied. “I couldn’t tell.” The heroine was sated, the fantasy over.

 

Sculptor: David Chester

 

my key west

 

 

It was a year ago (August 1st) that I moved into the Colony Apartments on Olivia Street, Key West, and a year ago tomorrow that I put a down payment on my home. I can positively say that this past year went by faster than any year of my adult life—which I find very interesting because 1) I had next to no social life and 2) I had no car with which to go places—I had a lot of down time, alone time, and still time went screaming by. I can only chalk that up to the notion that transition, if you are committed to it, fills your everyday, often without you even noticing. An update on my Key West:

It’s hades as sauna down here right now and yes, Robin, it still takes 2 days for my bra to dry, even if I hang it on the doorknob under the fan. The heat index is over 100 everyday, I don’t even look at the weather anymore. Everybody sweats. All. The. Time. I keep a washcloth in my freezer (truly) as an aid to getting dressed for work—but then I bike to work and all attempts at keeping cool are shot to hell. October cannot come fast enough. Fortunately for me, I am the unofficial “pool girl” for my neighbors. Their house is up for sale and vacant, and with their blessing I skim off the leaves every evening and swim. My jobs (2) are about to end, both shops closing for the remainder of August and all of September. Again, fortunately for me, I am wanted back at both places. Challenges come at me daily. While the iguana invasion has stopped, termites loom. I don’t think there’s a reliable handyman on the entire island. And the challenge du jour was a flat tire. I had to walk my bike home from work—and by the time I got home, the sweat was not dripping off my chin but running down my neck. I went straight to the neighbors pool, sans suit.

As far as that transition goes, I can put it best by saying I feel like a square peg in a square hole. And it’s not just about fitting in, in part it’s about being in an environment where fitting in is not an issue, and that suits me perfectly. I’m divorced now and I grieved the loss of my marriage more than I thought I would, but I’m so proud of my living with less and with my ability to rely on myself that I’ve regained a tremendous amount of self-confidence, once lost to criticism and comparison. My writing mojo has returned, my understanding of myself and others has grown. I’m softer yet stronger, smarter and sexier—and I’m smiling as I type this because it’s true.

Perhaps it’s better said that time flies when you live with intention. Live juicy. Happy Key West anniversary to me.

 

photo: not me!