Spunky and Slippery

The sex education I had growing up wasn’t too bad. Not that it was terribly memorable either (unlike finding and devouring my father’s Playboy cartoon books. Which I now own).

What do I remember? I remember making rockets out of tampons at eleven. I remember being amazed  at sixteen when I found out that spunk (a term we used for a sexy guy) was slang for sperm. I know that I was taught about condoms and spermicide and the pill – and early enough that I used all of those things. Just.

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Repeat: Hot Summer Night

It’s late – later than it should be on a school night, but we’re finally in bed. The lights are out, and we’re settling down to sleep. It’s slightly less humid than earlier in the week, so we’ve left the fan off for a change. Still, I feel hot, despite the duvet tossed back and the sheet only partially covering me. I lie on my back, feeling Apollo’s cool arse pressed against my side, and try to drop off to sleep.

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Touch me

I need to be touched.

I always liked being touched – a hug, a hand in mine, the press of cheek against cheek. I grew up adoring the closeness and intimacy and warmth of another person close to me.

But right now I crave it. It’s not enough to barely brush fingers, or bump bellies briefly in an embrace. I need full-length clothing-free skin-to-skin touch. Stretched out not-talking pressing from shoulder through torso down to genitals and thighs and knees and feet. I need the reassurance presence of beloved skin connecting with my own.

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In the shadows

I’ve been hiding in the shadows recently. Some of it’s been here, online – my postings have temporarily dwindled to my weekly HNT, with very little writing. But it’s been in person as well. I’ve slept a lot, done a lot of reading, done not a lot of wanking, and generally spent time at home, the cats and me.

*click*

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