spittlerattle

stuff i write

Cable ties (Autistic erotica)

She’d initially glinted me that look and said she wanted stretching. I immediately thought medievally of cranking contraptions I’d seen in a dungeon sometime, the cable ties in my rucksack, and the bars of her brass bed; and this dilemma: She is demure, but her bed is large. I could tie her arms or her legs to the rails, but not both. Not without rope.

First world problem, I know.

At first I thought I’d tie her arms.

This, I anticipated, would be aesthetically pleasing but, on reflection, lacked the primordial feel I was going for, so I changed my mind and allowed the reptillian part of my brain to choose. This stark reality presented itself: “Do I prefer unfettered access to her top or bottom half?”

Ankles then.

And Face up/ Face down?: The places of her to love multiply.

I tied her wide enough for hip room, and tight enough for no nonsense. There would be the inevitable chafing, requiring her to pull her socks up to hide the soreness from friends.

So, I find myself sitting cross-legged, my back to the bedstead, with one of her strong calves either side of me; a ritual magic triangle with a spectacular view: Her already slighly swollen labia, her trim and glistening pubic hair, her rhythmic breath moving her breasts, her magic mouth, and the merest sliver of hazel and black glances in the peach tinted light.

I wanted to howl with orgiastic delight.

She couldn’t stop herself and wriggled, testing her strength against the black shiny vinyl that coiled around her reddening ankles. Perhaps, if we put the sex play aside for a moment, it dawned on her that she was actually, not just play-trapped, and although she could retaliate with her arms if necessary, it couldn’t be denied that her vagina was at my mercy.

I pushed myself back up against the rails to give myself space, and, while I was in the vicinity, generously rubbed some feeling into her ankles. I don’t want her suspecting I’m callous.

Or give her calluses.

Raising my arms high opened my diaphragm and made my penis twitch hard, almost barking. Lowering myself, and twisting my trembling spine, I pushed against her labia and clitoris with the ridge of my nose,  light-flick licking with the tip of my tongue around the entrance to her vagina. Pulling my dry, rough tongue across her genitals into her pubic hair, I coiled it, like twisting it around my little finger. I could smell her salty lubrication before feeling the moistness. I spelt my name with my tongue on her clitoris. Then her name. Between, I trace an anti-clockwise, gentle ♡.

I reposition, cross-legged, so that my knees rest under her soft, lifted thighs with the head of my penis glistening with her wetness, just circling the event horizon of her vagina; stirring the lip of her inside. I flourish the (getting sloppy) shaft of my penis across her labia (like fish dancing through tentacles of coral or anenomae). Rubbing the glans insistently on her clitoris – (the meeting of nerve clusters) – caused a warm throb in my stomach that felt like love.

I lean across her and reach for her hands, pushing her arms back over her head. Her back arches and the horizontal angles bring us into alignment. My lips nudge and kiss her breast. Her vagina yearns in waves of palpitations. She grips me with her knees and clutching fingers, then devours me.

I am levitated.

And extend, forcing the soles of my feet against the brass rails, pushing and unravelling my spine like stretching new wings until I am flying above her, touching only at our genitals and our finger tips.

Pressures become pleasures.

In waves.

I sink into her kiss.

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Amourgeddon

Part 1

Ignore me. Love poetry isn’t my forte. Emotion via words often equals silence. I steal my best lines from Rimbaud or Baudelaire and then I mess it up with science. Or philosophy. And look where that’s got me!

Arguing from analogy will be the death of me, tut, I know, but my feelings are a-flutter, so I beg you, just this once, to let it go.

What’s love feel like?

Sometimes I want to cry when I look in her eyes but, at the same time, she brings me to life. It’s a blended tea of oxytocin and adrenaline. Damn,
there, I did it again.

Her kisses are sublime.

I want her all the time. She shakes me until every atom vibrates,

then takes me.

Actually an analogy may be beyond me. I feel like I’m experiencing something new; beginning, like a revelation; gasping, desperate, clinging;

Existential self-preservation.

Horny for days just watching her walk up corridors.

Stroke her hair, read her stories; crush her to me, elicit moist noises. I want to give her what makes her happy despite my inadequacy.

Part 2

Stood outside your door
Waiting for your smile:
I was thinking
That,
For snow,
This was as good as it gets. Y’know?

– fluffy flurry, no slushy trouble, brightening bone-bitten branches,
Silking the street with clean pages –

Was perfect.

Until

One

Unique
Flake
Melting into your hair.

Part 3

Greatness grates
The tetchy teeth and jarred jaws
Tight
Smileless
Kissless
Polite but lipless.

Birthday sleeps:
I full of edgy sexy
Compexity,
And the creeps.

I would loose me in her deeps,
And lose my senses
In her densityness.

Which matters

As a force of nature
Takes her and shakes her.

Mustn’t wake her.
Mustn’t wake her.

Haunted by John Cale’s angel

A halo of hormone harmonics vibrating me a hole in the string and sonics.

I have become hurdy gurdy.

My gangly gait is
A bait to the beat,

Or the metal plate in my head is picking up schitzy creeps off the fillings in my teeth and is projecting it into the street.

I swear I hear it

Even over the unheard cacophony and tinnitus

I ooze scrapey strings.

I’ll brings the rats out.

Psych sketch 22.01.2015

I poured myself a large glass of wine
And started talking to myself.
I rehearsed the best lines I’d learned from my self-love manuals –
Like The Joy of Me, The Tao of I –
Stacked on my shelves.
I smiled and looked me in the eye,
Diverting my focus
With sleight of sly
Hocus pocus.
I fell
For the hard sell.
And flattery.
Naturally.
I might appear attractive
In the right light
Or proof.
My moves could be devastating with the right groove.
This, look, I have perfected:
The personality traits I have corrected.
Obliquing the truth.

The walk to and from therapy

The morning is filled with cuckoo spit and loosed, bloody feathers. Grey air is clogging my lungs and a thin, oily residue of shame seperates me from living things, once again. Need to shake it off before it crusts over.

Relation-ship-sinking-drowning-waving-goodbye went the psychobabble stream of association as I plunge and glug bubbles. Panic stations.  Sucked in by emotional hyberbole and, if I’m not mistaken, a true feeling. It’s hard to be certain. But. There’s something hurting.

But at my age something usually is.

Bones creak in the cold fog and my boots are sodden. Rotting wood, tangled tape, fungus, fumes,magpies chattering. I suck the nicotine and strychnine in like vitamins, then turn the ignition.

On a mission. Engage.

Talk about the whether

All the jerky-in-the-wind-litter clumps like lost kittens and the leaves are grounded fledglings. Turbulence and pressure pockets unravel the evening sky. There is infinite mess smashing against itself infinitely, like love and bosons, throwing off spinning splinters of Newly Created, before decaying into anxious and obscure remnants of the done and dusted. The mess doesn’t care but I’m scared.

This kind of power can’t be trusted.

Pedant

After two days of radio silence,
At 7.40am,
I got a text from my daughter
Saying she loved me too 😛
It was more nourishing than breakfast.

And the love,
Beautiful as it was,
Got an extra boost with the thought
That at least one of my daughters remembers
The difference between to and too.

Numb

Poised
But no thought emerges.
Lost, vacant and numb
I followed my existential axioms
To the vanishing point.
Dots to infinity
……………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 
with the lack of insight.
Tautological circles of crushed chalk protect me.
I go into spin mode and witter about the whether, or not.
Remember some platitude or indiscretion from the job.
Or some trivia or distraction,
Or throb.
Some chemical or fraction,
To take my mind off the possibility of acute myocardial infarction.

Psych sketch 21.09.14

Life! –

Likes surprises,
Action potentials:
Chrysalises of possibilities,
Ripe, supple, armed with all the essentials;
Hot for the frenzied fever of feasting and fucking,
Squelching and sucking,
Moved by the moon
And tunes.
Choice and Chance
Will dance:
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick tock
Tick
Death,

Is life’s way of telling us to fuck off.

Psych sketch #8.14

I’m Surrounded:
Cleopatra and an amplifier,
Manufactured in China;
An opulence of blues and pinks;
A cigar-box full of forgotten thinks.
And Kierkegaard’s Works of Love.
Incense and daggers, downloaded distractions;
A mush of green;
Tobacco and vanilla. Broken springs.
Lovers in factions.
Life-left counted off in fractions.

Cochlear discombulations
Tip me off guard,
If I don’t grip your shoulder
I might fall on my arse.
I say piss on my poise
And fuck the poison,
Like spiders –
Spasmodic, sporadic, lethal liaisons.

Like a faux-leather glove, dragged on a wire across the carpet –
Like one of those, y’know, that metaphorical malarkey –
I might be a shadow, or a ghost,
Or a migraine;
Or another episode.
A glitch in the code.
Who knows.

I check my phone
To see if I exist.
I couldn’t resist.