Don’t explain


Don’t explain, I don’t want to know.
close the door when you go.

It was your transgression that killed love
I wasn’t perfect, but you weren’t close.

Don’t explain, I don’t want to hear.
She was my friend, wasn’t that clear?

Our trust is a torn curtain, gone,
A broken thread can’t be rewoven.

Don’t explain, I don’t want you here.
I can’t stand having you near

You hardly knew her, or so you said,
Until I found her in our bed.

Don’t explain, I don’t want to know.
close the door when you go.


You never forget how to ride

Banana and Cherry by niguin (hide)

For just one dollar, you may ride our fastest yellow bullet train.  Yes, we invite you to be a passenger on our pink submarine.  Ooh, damn, my knickers are in a twist, all twisted up, left under the bed, lost and dusty, as I watch the funeral donkey pass, widow in black, soul in white.  Or is that a blackened soul and a passing white ghost – a white witch under Dorothy’s bedroom.  Uncle Elmer left me with a dollar in my pocket, just in case.  Take her back to the North for a dollar, save her from Dot’s wrath, give her Dot’s rash, run time backwards – feet curled up in stripey stockings.  Mine under the bed with my knickers, discarded after my last bike ride; he ruined them again. He ruined it, me, forever and ever, one nation … am I allowed to say that?  What does Congress say, the right wing red necks banning my ruby slippers, grounding my balloon flights with that sham of a wizard.  I’d rather fly with the monkeys, fly to the moon, to the stars, as the gold sun declines on the autumn horizon.  Soul and body fresh in the failing light and clear sky, dancing to the funeral march.  Laughing at the silly witch who got mixed up with her stripey twin, as our black cousin cackles in her black leather knickers, whip, and flaming broom.  I led the cortege through the creaky gate, naked as the day I was born – no, created – no human could bear me, especially when I haven’t taken my medication, today’s white pills sold for a dollar, I’ve doubled my money, so I can buy a blue, pink and white bomb pop, and drop it on Dorothy’s crushed house, riding my bike backwards, we go both ways, he said I’m ambidextrous, foreplay, afterplay, time in two directions, making the corn taller as it wilts.  Green stalks from green shoots, bang!, killed the white witch before Dot’s house landed on her, tied her up in the coffin – witches don’t die – the black witch cackles – watch witchy dig herself out of this one, buried in the cornfield on the horizon.  Make her walk home in her dirty white dress hiding her tail between her legs, her mother will scold her as stripey witch jumps up and down with glee and blacky strokes her monkey.  I’m curled up in bed with my bike, having forgotten about my knickers and socks, playing submarine – up periscope!

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.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (29. Peculiar)

I hate the holidays. You play loads of concerts of crappy music. You hear lots of it, too, all joyous and cheerful, and what do you get for it? Yes, I get paid to play it, but I get no job satisfaction, nothing like the high of playing Strauss’ Alpensinfonie or the reconstruction of Bruckner’s 9th (to which I am listening while I write).

Nothing from Janice about missing dinner, nothing from Marcel … nothing from … anybody. I’m still banned from having fun … um, sex, but now I can’t even get anyone interested. All I’m good for at the moment is turning up the volume on my hi-fi. (At the moment it is very odd … err, UP.)

My card for today was fighting … fitting (as usual):

XX. The Aeon. (inverted) It’s a great card, meaning a definitive movement or decision in a peculiar … um, particular direction. It’s the end of a matter.

Yes, it was inverted, so strike all of that. No matter was decided today, no subject closed, nothing finished, except that I’ve gained all my weight back after my episode. I still have no other explanation for it other than obsession … err, possession, and I’m afraid to see a shrink … um, doctor about it. (Maybe a shrink would be better!) I’m healthy enough – I’ve even gained a few extra pounds for good measure – too many post-concert receptions and holiday dinners, none ending in “would you like to come back to mine?”

The urge to change something is there, but what? Maybe I should take a step and become initiated – as a witch. Jem says I already am one and don’t need (and probably don’t want) to formalize it. I’m different from the others anyway. I wouldn’t fit in an oven … a coven. (What do you think, Marcel?) I’d still have to reconcile it with my vacant … err, latent Catholicism.

That’s easy. I’m a sinner and going to hell. That’s what some of you think anyway. I have news for you.

I’m already in hell.

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (23. Small feet)

XVIII. THE MOON. Illusion, deception, bewilderment, hysteria …

My actions with Marcel seem to have brought on a wave of cynicisn … cygnets … um, criticism. I couldn’t help it. I’m still a little lazy … sex-crazed, and I’m flipping … gripping … slipping hot … err, a lot today – so bad that Marie Langer slapped me when I said, “Go fuck yourself.”

Okay, maybe I meant that one. She sits at the back of the wankers … um, second violins, and complained that we were playing too proud … loud. I shouldn’t have been a cunt … um, so blunt. It was Strauss, for God’s sake! Somebody backed out, so Christa is going to play in the poker game … err, off-stage brass ensemble. It was nice to be able to put one of my own lovers … (Christa, you aren’t reading this, are you?) … students forward. Okay, maybe with the other regular thorns … horns, they might be lovers, but it’s different with me. I must have a lover to do that, and Allen is gone. Besides, he don’t play chess … or French horn.

Marcel hasn’t spoken to me since the war … err, grope. Ah well. Maybe it’s better that I don’t get close to any straight-jackets … men. (Straight-jackets? They might just come and get me!)

I think I’m also developing a stool … um, foot fetish. Christa has amazing knees … uh, feet. Very small but elephant … elegant. (It’s not just her. One of the trumpet boys had his shoes off during rehearsal today. It was driving me potty.) Christa also has the tiniest hands I’ve ever seen. She could probably fit her whole fist in … her horn, that is … in the bell … like all horn players do. (That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it … with it.)

You must really be having proclamations … problems reading me today. I’d better leave you … wanting … yes, always wanting a whore … err, more.


More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (22. Too Soon – swearing)

Oops. I kissed him. Marcel. And I touched him in an inappropriate place. I couldn’t help it.

I was due to have Christa feel me up … err, retouch my henna tattoos, and Marcel took me to see his henna-artist friend, so Christa could explain what everything was, what they meant, and the best way to apply them. Excuse me if I became just a little egotistical … um, excited. I was sitting there completely naked for the better part of two hours with Christa and Evangeline (the artist) poking, prodding and painting me, all in front of Marcel.

Of course, Marcel had seen me naked while he was under enchantment … that is what he believed to be me at the time. What he saw was much more voluptuous than I have ever been, although he admitted later that he preferred the real me. I was so flattered that I kissed him, and so turned on that I touched him right in front of Christa.

That means, I’m afraid, that I’m still not completely recovered from the enchantment. It was too soon to go to rehearsal today. Just seeing a cute guy like Gary Everett (an extra trumpeter for the Alpine Symphony), made me ornery … orgasm … err, a little too horny for my own good. I couldn’t wait to get home. He’s too young and I still lack control, as evidenced by my tête-à-tête with Marcel in the evening.

Christa was lovely … living … um, livid, and wouldn’t speak to me until we arrived home after midnight. I’m still not sure that we’ve properly put on my make up … kissed and made up.

All was explained when I drew today’s card.

EIGHT of WANDS (Swiftness). Speech, light, electricity, energy, velocity … too much force applied too suddenly.

OK, I skipped a few, but you get the meaning. I emerged from my house arrest too soon.

I also dyed my hair back to it’s “natural” color today, a deep red. No more blonde bombshell … or blonde bomb, whichever you choose. It inspired Christa to recolor my leopard spots more reddish. No, they aren’t actually leopard spots (not all of them, at least), like my unfortunate friend on the X-Factor, who restored hers far too late to redeem herself. They never really went with her platinum blonde hair. (What was Demi thinking?!) She’s back on the plane home to Decatur.

I’ve been to Decatur, you know. I have distant relatives there …


It’s very dry today, and I just got fucked … err, zapped by static electricity. (Must stop using rubber sheets!)

Anyway, my spots have resumed their awesomeness, so I’m reading … ready to take on the world tomorrow. Well, maybe not, if today is anything to go by. Maybe I’ll dream of Gary tonight … or concoct some elaborate fantasy about time … him. (He’s not much older than Christa!)

Must get to it. Goodnight lovelies!

More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar (21. Hung up)

THE HANGED MAN. Redemption through sacrifice, enforced sacrifice, punishment, loss, suffering, defeat, failure, death.

No I haven’t died, but I’ve been confused ever since I drew that card two days ago. I wasn’t sure how it applied to me. I am now.

I would sleep with Marcel, if he wanted to.

There. I said it.

But I’m not allowed … and he, of course, is hen-pecked … err, married.

Max is gone off the face of the hearth … Earth. He has made no attempt to contact me, since before the first blackout. Allen … yes, him finally … sent me an email. He’s been having … thoughts … and I don’t blame him. It was a short email. He doesn’t understand me. He …

Sorry. I must stop there. I screwed up. I should pay the price. (More sighing.)

Do I love you, Allen? Do I know what love is?


Christa is still here. We went to therapy today … retail therapy, since I go back to rehearsing tomorrow. I wish she didn’t have to go back soon. I have so much wisdom to impart to her … NOT!

  1. Never fall in love if you don’t know the meaning of the word.
  2. Never allow yourself to be possessed by an evil spirit.
  3. Don’t sleep with trumpet players. (She already blew that one.)
  4. If you can’t be funny, stop trying.
  5. If you can’t stop thinking about sex, think about sex.

The last is my favorite. I think about sex all the time. It’s more than a habit or an addition now. It’s a routine, and horrible when I’m not allowed to sleep with anyone. Of course, before Max it had been a year or so … OK, 412 days, 4 hours and 43 minutes …

I’m not good at celibacy before marriage. Did Allen ever propose? No.

Case closed. I’m not the marrying type, and he knew that. Did he also know that I couldn’t live without sex? Apparently not.

*deep sigh*

Just to follow up on a few things, I haven’t had any visits from the police or the feds. There have been no unexplained disappearances, and Marcel won’t tell me about any of the occurrences during my blackouts. (I must have done something absolutely stupid.)

I’ve got to move on, and not think about him (Allen) … or it (my possession) … or sex …

Wait a minute. Not that.

Christa’s baby wants a feed, and my udders aren’t up to the task. I don’t want her peering over my shoulder tonight, while I’m wallowing in self-pity.

Time to cry myself to sleep.