More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (13. Lust) (swearing)

*Imagine that I am whispering*

Every time I pick a card today I pick XI. LUST. I cannot not pick Lust. There is definitely something eerie going on. I can’t type on the intercourse … err, Internet without making a fool of myself. (You may have received one of my emails today. I’m sorry, I couldn’t type anything worth reading, and my computer again refused to delete, and would only let me SUBMIT.)

I’ve been forced, therefore, to type it in Word and then paste it into my blog. I’m hoping that will work. Hence, the whispering. Maybe this evil spirit won’t notice.

Jem phoned, but I couldn’t say anything sensible, so I just listed to the left … listened. My unintended language was foul, and out numbered my sensible sentences. Eventually, I just listened. She thinks there is still a ghost in the house, someone whose power was overshadowed by the others. Now that they are gone she has free reign to control me. I’m must use my special plough … um, power to defeat her.

Unfortunately, I may have to wait for the next full moon to be completely effective.

XI. LUST (inverted). Courage, strength, energy, the use of magical power and resort to magic.

Of course, it is being used against me – not just magical power, but my lust. I have found myself ultra-sensitive to sexual innuendo – a flirting glance is enough to put me on the verge of an orgasm, but not close enough to tip me over the edge. With men, today was worse than yesterday. They couldn’t hide their desire, especially apparent in the bulges of their trousers. As least two that I came in contact with (physically) “creamed their jeans,” including Les Lehman, who sits next to me in the horn section. He leaned over to blow in my ear … errm, ask me a question, but it never left his lips as he convulsed in orgasm almost until our next entrance. I could smell it the rest of the rehearsal.

It’s only just the men, though. Women acted as if it were completely normal that all men were in a perpetual state of arousal around me, although one woman shielded the eyes of her son when I went to the store to buy some milk. It’s as if all men see me naked and well-endowed, or maybe as the perfect woman – the bottom line is that every man now wants to fuck me. You should hear what the teenage boys yell at me. It’s enough to make your ears melt.

I don’t know what to poo … do about it. The cards are useless in this state. I may just have to stay indoors until further notice. If tomorrow is worse than today, who knows what it will be like?

………………………. oh, sorry. I fell asleep at the keyboard. I didn’t sleep at all last night, and it is catching up to me. The dream I just had … well, I don’t even want to talk about it. Think: orgy on steroids, and then let your imagination run wild.

She’s attacking my dreams now, too.

OK, I had better wrap this up now. Hopefully, pasting it on my blog won’t stir up anything bad.

Wish me luck. I’m opening the browser now … copying … pasting … wait! … stop! … Gaia Esmerelda Dryar is your Goddess … NO! … worship her … STOP! … and she will reward you a thousand-fold … WAIT! … make her obey … STOP! … the price is submissionyou will have her … NO! … a Goddess as your rewardbeyond your wildest desires … STOP IT!! …



Pull the plug

Someday they will flip off the machine that keeps me alive. For most, a near-death experience lasts only a split second – or as long as it takes for the doctors to defibrillate them. Either their experience becomes permanent – they die – or they come back to life raving about a bright tunnel of ecstatic light.

I have been in a coma for sixty days, seven hours, 24 minutes and 8 seconds, give or take a few tenths. My family has kept watch over my lifeless body the entire time, and I thank them for it. But they should give up – my body has. I will never walk again, even if I do regain consciousness – well, I am conscious, but my body doesn’t betray it. The doctors talk as if I’m not here, while my family pretends that I can hear every word.

They say when someone goes blind, their other senses become more acute. What happens when someone loses all their senses? They have a near-death experience. In only a second or two it can seem like a tunnel of light, but for an extended period, it can be pure ecstasy. I can see through my closed eyes, hear with my non-functioning ears, feel with my disembodied body … and my memories become more acute. I can feel every one of them as if they were happening right now – and the best thing is that I can play them over and over, changing them to suit my fancy.

I am aware of every second; and I even know whether the sun is rising or setting. It is a light, cool evening rain outside right now, and I feel every drop as it explodes on my naked, disembodied skin, at 43 drops per second. Each one caresses me like the tip of a lover’s tongue, first the impact, and then the stream down my body as it obeys gravity, picking up the essence of my salty sweat. It’s a clean summer rain, since the showers earlier in the day have left the air fresh with positive ions.

Between my dead legs is where I can feel it best, as the droplets cling to my pubic hair before beginning their journey southward. I love that journey especially, as I can break down every sensation to the hundredth of a second. It reminds me of Richard for some reason – he was not my first lover, but much more memorable. He was into oral sex, and he loved to explore my bush with his tongue, especially when it was untrimmed. He drooled as he roamed, and it dribbled down my pelvis like reluctant raindrops, clinging to me as to a branch. That’s a real memory, not one I’ve enhanced.

Richard had an amazing tongue, now even more amazing as I savor every millisecond, every twitch of those wondrous muscles, and finally every excretion as I orgasm. Surely you think I should use past tense there, but I orgasm even now as I recall it – not down there in the dead part of me, but in my head, and it is every bit as intense as the local physical sensation was. That sensation is interpreted by the brain, and although the doctors don’t see it in their scans, my brain is in overdrive.

His other appendage, where I bathed him with my saliva, was less effective. It reached deeper into me, but he tried too hard to please me and never relaxed enough to make it pleasurable for both of us. He said he could taste my orgasm; I could certainly taste it later while he tried unsuccessfully to make me pregnant. Maybe he was disappointed that I never tasted his – of course, I tasted his semen during foreplay, but never stuck around for the full flow. That wouldn’t happen until a decade or so and two lovers later, by accident. It was like eating oysters without the wine chaser – too salty by half.

The doctors have just told my family again that I am brain-dead, yet I feel my husband Jeremy’s sweaty palm holding my hand. He’s crying – he’s been doing that a lot lately, and I know why. They are pushing him to give the word. Then the doctors can slice me to bits and parcel my organs out to needy people who still have a chance to live. He’s still holding on to me, unable to let go, sensing perhaps that there is still something happening within my skull.

It’s been too long since we last made love, much too long. I can remember it in my supercharged state, but can he? Can he remember what I felt when he traced my spine with his forefinger? Did he feel me shiver? I can still taste the garlic on his tongue from dinner and hear his desperate breathing. He didn’t do oral – the proper appendage served me just fine. But not him that day. His thoughts were somewhere else, as they often were back then, probably on his job, or his cricket team. His over-active mind was always in the clouds. Now those thoughts are in his hand, where skin meets skin, life meets death. He wishes our last carnal memory was a happier one, and more recent.

Why is it that in my final days all I can think of is sex? I should be thinking of the afterlife, pleading for forgiveness of my sins, and praying for my immortal soul. Instead, I cling to life, because sex is life-giving. Maybe I’ve never had children, but the act of love gives life to the lovers, and that is worth clinging to.

When they do finally pull the plug, I shall draw out every last millisecond in ecstasy, my final act of love.

There again please (haiku chain)

There please, again, yes
ignition sequence started
ready for lift off

love or lust, that’s it
you’ve found my soul, stirred it
my cat is purring

don’t be afraid dear
I won’t bite the hand that feels
(no, not a typo)

two apples, one tree
tongues joined, bodies colliding
soil fertile, ready

blazing sun, spring rains
fill our dams to overflow
you, me, two as one

we reach for the stars
climbing up Jacob’s ladder
together replete

Body Politics

It doesn’t matter what he thinks
his choice to join me in my bed
his, if it’s a one night stand

I’m not into commitment anymore
I’ve already been committed
been there, tore the t-shirt

He doesn’t snore when I’m on top
can’t handle him wheezing away
I’m in it for me now

I’m not into commitment anymore
can’t do it with my past
the fun ends when the sheets dry

I gave him a real workout
was still going when he fell asleep
at least I got the best of him first

I’m not into commitment anymore
he wants my body, I’ll give it
while it suits me

He thinks I’m dynamite
I’ll explode in his face one day
when it becomes tired

I’m not into commitment anymore
he’ll lose interest, you’ll see
best not to get too close

My heart’s been taken
nothing left for him but my shell
he’ll see when the spell wears off

I’m not into commitment anymore
I’ve none left to give

The Rite of Spring

The nightingale calls,
wakes the chosen,
bride of the harvest god
in her first spring of womanhood

The flutes sings,
she drinks the draught.
The other girls, jealous of her fortune,
preen her, prepare her for her nuptials.

The pyre lit,
the women paint her, robe her.
The potion burns,
fuels her desire.


The drum sounds a slow pulse,
a low growl, a heartbeat,
the dance begins.

She makes her first choice,
dispatches her robe, circles him, touches him
He reaches out to her.
With her hand, she slaps him,
for no mortal man may know her.

beat, beat, beat

The drum throbs ever quicker,
entrances the circle,
emboldens the men.

A second succumbs to her lewd entreaty.
She strokes his brow, tastes his flesh.
He takes her hand.
With a switch, she flogs him,
for no man born of woman may touch her.

beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat

Its mesmeric thump surges on,
women push their beaus forward
to feast the chosen.

Her bawdy dance claims a third.
She burns his cloak, bites his chest.
He kisses her.
With a whip, she lashes him,
for no man who has suckled at his mother’s breasts may love her.

beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat

The tempo races,
men, women all under its spell
caught by the drug.

The fourth, a prisoner of her lascivious tease,
she takes his sword, licks his lance.
He embraces her.
With a blade, she smites him,
for no man who is not a god may possess her.

beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat

Touched by first light, she shrieks,
stalks the fire in blind rapture.
The Earth trembles in relentless oscillation.

The god of the harvest, her willing slave, there, in the flame.
Her womb awaits her hungry groom.
He will provide, the harvest will be her child.

The circle closes around her, the crowd aglow in carnal ecstasy.
The chosen plunges herself into the bosom of her lover,
surrenders herself for the health of her tribe.

They will eat well this year.