Strangest Wednesdays: Sensate

It has been a very strange week. I lost my last living grandparent, bought a Green Alien, and ZZ Top mowed my lawn.

Now I’m listening to the music of the (Wikipedia) spheres and wondering if I should explain what I just wrote. I don’t think I’m going to.

Instead, here’s a lightly edited piece of free/automatic writing, illustrated with some recent sketched of mine:

These days are the final light in my eyes. These desperate shadows cling like sick slimy residue to my skin and mind. How long has it been since the last time you remembered to breathe? It’s hard, isn’t it, when it doesn’t matter except that the rhythm is the only thing keeping you sane, on the rails and properly coiffed.


The passage through has always been there, the only consistent things, but your camels beg and bend and your knees shake at the thought of what you must give up to pass through.


I understand. I am so much the same, or I am in part, as some of what was this self is already there, is that other thing already. I can’t help you, as the being that is no longer me has no point of reference to what it was. See, the afterglow of my upper-fore proboscis?


It is not something digital, multiply articulated but only at fixed bony points, and each limited tendril moves independently, even the one in opposition. The ones who have gone before have sent a message “irresistible pulse consumption mediated by particulate motion – come soon, the unbearable bright terror and sensate.”


What is it, then, to leave our decaying peace and become human?

Ghost Pepper Mondays: Queersex


show me your pronouns and I’ll show you mine
slip your language into my mouth,
your words caress the lobes and ridges of my ears

we can wall ourselves up in here,
build a pleasure dome of wine and caresses
deny their world its determination

out there, the what and how strip off our skins
flense us, flay us, compress us our bodies
press us into their spiked molds

so bind my hands but not my grasp
gag my mouth but free my tongue
unfold your sex into mine

In the enlightened sexuality department, here’s Erika Moen’s webcomic Oh Joy Sex Toy (NSFW), covering queer porn series The Crash Pad (extremely NSFW).

I’ve just started in on Orange is the New Black and it’s worth subscribing to Netflix just to watch it. From the so-wrong so-right Alex to the gloriously trans* Sophia, this show is all about interesting, credible difficult women. To quote from that last link “Fuck off, Don Draper, Walter White, Tony Soprano, et al. The age of the male antihero is over.”

One more link today, via the incomparable Molly Kiely: 10 Things I Would Like to Do with You in the Woods.

Strangest Wednesdays: All is Full of Love?

In the year 2132, all the Space Marines are getting the hinies of their powered armor stamped with conjunctions and prepositions. You see “ON”, “IN”, “OR”, the occasional smartass with “THROUGH”, and, more often than anything else, “BUT”.


In the 22nd century, war is fashion.

Meanwhile, in the early 21st century, we’re still struggling to distinguish gender from genitals.

On the plus side, old people love gay sex!


Props to The Anarcho-Feminist (NSFW) for both of the above links.

P.S. Is it too soon to make videogame humor about Edward Snowden’s predicament?

I think not.

Ghost Pepper Mondays: Skirt Sex (NSFW)

Over the weekend, a piece of erotic flash fiction that I’d submitted for an anthology was rejected. It’s not my best work: personally significant, but full of intentional awkwardness and aggressive use of gender-neutral pronouns. In short, probably a poor choice of topic for a flash.

This morning, a colleague sent me a link to an article on the importance of failure to a writer. I’d already decided that, rather than try to shop around that flash, or bury it in shame, I’d just give it to you. Reading Margaret Atwood describe the novel she never wrote has inspired me to do a bit more: I’ve been wanting to commit to blogging several times a week, but afraid of failure.

Heck with that. Here’s the first in what I intend to be a regular Monday feature: Ghost Pepper Mondays, a day for something intensely sensual, in honor of of Naga Jolokia, the hottest pepper on record. Decadent food, strong drink, and sex are all in the offing.

So, with no further delay, I present “Skirt Sex.”


“Do you want to?” she said.

“Yes,” ze replied softly. “Please.”

Taking zir hand in her own, she led zim into her bedroom.

Their mouths met, the shimmery gloss on her lips mingling with the wine-red of zir lipstick.

“You kiss like a girl… is it weird for me to say that?” she ran her fingers through the soft, fine beard below zir full, red lips.

“It’s okay,” ze replied, blushing a little.

“God, you are so cute!” she pulled zim down onto the bed.

“I… can we take this slow?” ze whispered, “I don’t want to rush.”

“You want to do this, right?”

“Very much,” zir voice was husky “I really like you.”

She kissed zim again, and watched as zir eyes fluttered and closed. Their hands began to wander over one another’s backs and sides. It was just necking and petting, but it felt deliciously kinky to her.

Zir hands slipped up inside her t-shirt and she stripped it off, then unhooked and removed her bra. Fingertips grazed up her sides and over the curve of her breasts. She sighed.

She reached out for zir blouse then paused. “May I?” she asked, her hands on the buttons.

Ze nodded in reply.

The white silk parted revealing a chest that was broad, and covered in fine hair, like zir beard. Ze gasped and jerked when she touched zir nipple.

“Are they sensitive?” she asked.

“Ahh, yes.”

Pressing the hair out of the way with her hand, she leaned in and covered that small, hard nipple with her mouth.

Ze moaned as she licked and sucked at it, first gently, then harder.

“Haahh…” ze shivered as she turned her attentions to zir other nipple.

Then she lifted her head to look at zir flushed face.

“Are you ready now?”

Ze just nodded.

She was about to pull her skirt and panties down together when zir hand alighted on her own.

“Wait,” ze said, “can we leave the skirts on?”

In answer, she reached up under her plain brown skirt and pulled off her striped cotton panties.

She heard zir intake of breath.

“Let’s see what you’ve got under there,” she said, pressing zir charcoal pencil skirt up over zir hips to reveal a lacy black bikini brief with a tell-tale bulge in it.

“Roll onto your back,” she said, and ze complied. She pulled off the brief, and ran a finger up the length of the shaft that emerged.

“That’s a nice…” she paused, uncertain, “cock?”

“Sure, whatever,” ze shrugged.

“I want to feel it inside me.” Her voice was low and insistent in her own ears.

“Hold on,” ze said, producing a condom.

A few moments later, she was descending over zim, taking zir cock into her hungry heat. Her skirt fell over them both, veiling their sexes from sight. She moaned as she came to rest on zir hips, and heard an answering whimper from the beautiful creature below her.

She rose and fell over zim, and ze thust zir hips in countertime until pleasure overtook zim. The painted lips parted in a shivering moan as ze came, and she gasped in vicarious pleasure.

Zir hands slid under her skirt to caress her thighs as she rested on zim. Zir fingers, with their short nails and swirly green polish, tangled in her bush, just above her clit. They moved in small circles there, manipulating her in a way that made lights flash and sparks crackle all the way up her spine.

She hadn’t realized how close she was. She cried out as her orgasm rippled through her, and then collapsed onto zir chest.

“Mmmmm….” she mumbled.

“Thank you,” ze whispered.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “Thank you for the great… skirt sex.”

Ze laughed softly. “Skirt sex. I like that.”

secular internet dreamcatcher

The other day, I saw someone tweet about nightmares and ask for “secular prayerthoughtthingies.” A follow-up tweet thanked the internet. That got me thinking: there is a distinct lack of ritual objects for the secular prevention of nightmares. Fortunately, media occultism straddles the boundaries of the sacred/secular/profane, so I decided to do something about it.


One “secular internet dreamcatcher.” Good for the abatement of nightmares both caused and cured by the interwebs. Not for sacred use.

Froth (NSFW)

Froth is a short piece of erotica that was originally featured in Nikki Haze’s Eat Me 250 Word Challenge. It is here presented with the sketch I did for it that was cut from the Challenge.


Even as Matheus was eating me out in the bathroom of Cafe di Roma, my favorite espresso bar, I was still thinking about milk froth.

I’d intended to take things slow with him, but then he’d ordered the cappuccino. I sat there clutching my skinny hazlenut latte as he licked a crest of full-fat foamed milk off of the top of his drink, his tongue darting out like a cat’s.

“Cappuccino is all about the froth,” he said, then lifted the mug to his mouth and sucked. I watched the meringue-like clouds slide past his full lips one stiff peak after another submitting to that magnetic pull.

I uncrossed and recrossed my legs as he swallowed, his eyes half closing in appreciation as the apple of his throat moved down and back up again.

I pressed my palm down into my lap as he made slow, loving work of the rest of the drink. A spot of foam clung to the corner of his mouth, and when that remarkable tongue of his darted out again to claim it, I gasped.

Abandoning all restraint, he tongued the rim of his cup. I was riveted. By the time he’d finished teasing off every last bit of froth, I was hot, my drink was cold, and the throbbing between my thighs was unbearable.

Matheus gazed right at me with a fox’s smile. Damn, he knew exactly what he was doing.

A few minutes later, I was biting my hand to avoid crying out as his nimble tongue brought me to a shuddering climax. He looked up at me and licked a bit of froth – my froth – from his lip.