Planet Ezzie (2. The P-word)


Photo by fall maple from Pexels

I’m not dis- dis- dis- … I can’t type it. I am not p-0-s-s-e-e-s-s-ed. Not by a succubus. Anything but. Definitely not. Not!

Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Underneath, undercover, underdressed, undressed, … understand?

She is like a light rain, literally in a certain way. She clings onto me, but can’t enter, due to the henna. She cannot force my actions, but she can prevent some. Sometimes, I can find a world, err, workaround. I have never been particularly sensitive to the spirit world, but I can sense her. She is a go- god- godd- … an annoyance. She does things to me that are out of my control. She surrounds me with a light rain of post-coital sweat, leaving me teetering on the edge of arousal. Wet on the surface, but not drenched. I orgas … wait … orgasm at the slightest provocation – just thinking about it, seeing something sensual, like a kiss, hand-holding, a love scene on the telly, being touched – not every touch, but when I least expect it. (Hold on … I’m OK now.)

4 of SWORDS. Truce.

Over the past several months, I have learned to live with the constant itch to have sex. I have decided on a strange form of celibacy, having orgasms several times a day, but no relationships. Someday it may happen, but I’ll put it off as long as I can. And I dream – wild dreams – wild sex dreams – naked wild sex dreams (she loves it when I say that).

She has particular tastes. She likes tall blond men, and I’ve noticed that my hair bleaches much more easily in the sun – almost immediately. I’m quite blond at the moment. Blondes proposition me on a frequent basis, and if I touch one, either intentionally, but especially by accident, it is a certain orgasm. She also likes to be discussed. Notice that my typing is fluent, as long as I’m not resisting her. It’s appeasement at the moment.

I’ve been appointed assistant personnel manager of the orchestra. That means more contact with my colleagues, physical as well as figurative. I’m spending more time with people, and accidental contact is more likely. People that don’t get me or understand me are attracted to me. They hate, yet they adore. They would elect me President if I spent too much time in public. This dis- dis-, you know what I’m referring to. It does that. I’ve been dispossessed, but not repossessed, she hangs around me, but I am definitely not, you know, the P-word.


A Black Photograph


I’m dreaming again,
an imageless dream,
a black photograph.

A stir in the darkness
pleases this moonchild,
this waterbaby.

My night is clear and light,
as bright to me as day,
calling to me.

Darkness toys with my spirit,
a sensual game,
my distraction.

My dream, being taken,
loved by the night,
my day, my moon.

I swim in the pool of life,
dreams obsessed with lust,
my desire.

Darkness yearns to include me,
to please me, to love me,
to make three.

Sleep calls me,
come out to play,
so I must go.

My nightdress is lonely
on its hook tonight.
I’m in the mood.

Gimme more (reprinted from WC blog, some adult language)

Well, the answer, in short, is no.

A number of people have expressed a desire for me to go deeper into sex scenes, or to provide more detail in them. My point is the plot, not the sex. Yes, I like to talk about sex, but in my opinion what defines the difference between erotica and pornography is what is described and what is hinted at.

I write erotica, and while it is meant to titillate, I consciously avoid crossing the line to where it becomes gratuitous. Discussing what a man does with his penis is not plot significant beyond a certain point. Erotica, to me, is all about foreplay (or consequences/afterplay), not about the act.

Let’s discuss erotic art for the moment. And when one does, the first name that comes up is Maplethorpe. I just had a quick look at the portfolio on his website, and it is notable for what it doesn’t show. It doesn’t show genitalia, but that might be partly for legal reasons, reasons that we should probably heed on this site, since there are members as young as 11 here. More importantly, what we see is suggestion, no physical acts. That is erotica. Start the mind racing, but let the viewer/reader fill in the blanks. Give them a push, but let them run where they want to.

The sexual experience is different for each of us and what drives me might not appeal to you, and vice-versa. The moment I begin to describe in detail a sexual encounter, I will lose a reader or two, or more. How many people found my story “In Come” disgusting? Some said I went too far, either with the sheer quantity of cum involved, or by the fact that I allowed my theoretical reader to pleasure me. Of course, I didn’t describe what my reader did (specifically). My intention was to let you imagine what you might do to me in that situation, your arm shoulder deep in cum.

I would rather describe what one feels, not what one does. To me, that action (in most cases) is porn. Erotica is about the senses, not action, so next time you get to a point in the story where I’ve got you hooked and then fade to black on a sex scene, play it out in your head. Don’t ask me to sully my page with it.

I remember reading The Time Traveller’s Wife the first time and getting to the sex scene. It pushed me right out of her narrative. I just didn’t see the point. OK, they had sex. So? Cock and cunt just didn’t fit in with the rest of the story, and it took me a while to settle back into it. (I have some grammar issues with her writing, too, but we’ll leave that for now.) There have been so many times where I’ve used the words screw or fuck where people said it bounced them out of my story. They are right, although there are some times when the words are appropriate.

Rather than bumping you out of the story, I would rather lift you to where you can take flight, fueling your fantasy, not lose you in a dark corner of mine.

Bodice Ripper

pulling, tugging
can’t rip my clothes off
quickly enough

forget his

unconventional, this love
sex without seduction,
this erotica

drip feed

licked without taste
consumed, yet whole
cherry exposed


no temptation
just worship and desire,
lost mine


meaning lost in clouds
of passion, his
mine absent


at least I play the part,
the vessel of his empty act
my cup still vacant


that’s all it is
rampant experimentation
to find what moves me


his lewd words
drive me full throttle
around an emotional cul-de-sac

no entry

subtlety turns my key
opens the invisible barrier
to my yearning heart


not for love, that fickle admirer
but for inspiration, dreams
the drop to disturb my still pool


keep ripping my bodice, love
stay interested
until you know better


now I’m his smutty photo
come to life in his hands
his fantasy

someday he will become mine