Crave

He craved her. Craved the smell and taste of her like one would crave chocolate, or wine. And when she left, she didn’t take the craving with her. She took everything else; took his joy, his peace, all the good things that had made life tolerable, even enjoyable.  But nights spent trying to fill their bed on his own, while seeing her being loved by another became too much. They piled one on top of another, a chaotic junk heap of useless emotion.

So he tried to bury the feelings. He went to the dog track and put his life-savings on a bitch with her name, Bella Donna. Bella Donna came in last.

He sat in dark, seedy bars until the wee hours, feeding lame lines to pretty women, and not so pretty women. He thought perhaps a little strange would satisfy it. Or perhaps a lot of strange all at once. But it didn’t. It only made him realize what he’d let go. None of them tasted or smelled like her.

He started hanging out in back alleys, scoring poppers off teenagers; he tried the candy store pills, the ex, the meth, the oxy. He liked the highs, but hated the lows. He mellowed everything with rank weed and cheap whiskey that tasted like charcoal dregs.

He agreed when a big burly guy with black hair on his knuckles offered his massive cock. He went down on his knees and sucked like his life depended on it; maybe it did. Donna’s face swam behind his eyes, and he got hard when he imagined he felt her hand on the back of his head.

It was no surprise when he awoke one morning, lying on the cold pavement beside a Dipsy Dumpster, with one side of his face a seething pulpy mass and a headache he couldn’t identify as being due to a beating or coming down off a wicked high. He didn’t need any memory of the night’s events; they were all the same. You pay to play.

But nothing stopped the craving.

Sophia

We find inspiration in the death of things. In the failure to thrive, in loss and heartache and pain. He wiped his tears and stood against a blushing sky. The song in his heart was a dirge, but his hand ached to write.


 

When Sophia was a girl, her laughter filled the stairwells of 1416 Tillwell Lane. A tinkling, musical sound, he imagined, that left winking lights behind its hearers’ eyes.

The day she stopped was the day Mr. Blessing dropped by. He delivered newspapers and fliers to the street, on foot, his sack slung across his rounded shoulders. His was a kind face, but Sophia had always been frightened of him. Mother often invited him inside for a glass of sweet tea, or in winter, a hot toddy.

The last day Mr. Blessing was in their house, Mother was out. Everyone was out except Sophia and Rosali. Rosali lived next door and came to sit with Sophia when Mother had errands.

On that last day, Sophia left her dolls on the stairs, engaged in their afternoon tea; Rosali was supposed to bring warm water for the tiny cups. But she must have forgotten.

The sight in the kitchen when Sophia went looking was the sight that took her innocence and deadened forever her tinkling laughter.


His pen stilled. He looked at the brown gunk under his nails, and his heart chilled. He wondered if what he wrote he wrote for Sophia. Or was it to feed his own foolish narcissism, so he could hold his beautiful words up to the world and feel good about mediocrity? Did he tell a story?

Or did he tell the truth?

The truth was too hard. The truth would show the foul Blessing’s fat hand on Rosali’s pale and bruising throat as he stood between her naked legs, ass pumping. The girl’s lips were already turning blue, and a drop of blood oozed from beneath one tightly shut eyelid. The sounds he made were vile, animal. The kitchen reeked with the vinegar and beer odors of his acrid sweat.

And Sophia’s tiny face peered around the door frame, cherubic, pale as talc, and framed in flax.


 

The house at 1416 Tillwell Lane stood silent after that. For many years after the fourteen-year-old girl was found stripped and lifeless on the gold linoleum, Mr. Blessing continued his deliveries. Sophia grew up. From a pale, silent child into a pale silent woman, her charge the secret that lived behind her eyes.

They left the house, finally, shortly after a third fourteen-year-old girl was found strangled and nude beside her family’s pool just down the street; also shortly before Sophia’s own fourteenth birthday. It was apparent Tillwell Lane had a predator with a lucky number.


 

He laid his pen aside and wiped his hand over his face. The story to tell ended here.

He looked over at her, sleeping amidst the rumpled sheets of their bed, her face peaceful. It was the only time Sophia looked peaceful, when her nightmares left her to rest – when Rosali left her alone.

They would find the old man’s body, eventually. And they might even tie it to the thirteen dead girls on and around Tillwell Lane. The only proof he had lay locked inside the mind of his young wife- as safe a secret there as in any bank vault.

But when he told her, when she awoke today and he confessed what he had done, maybe Sophia would laugh again. And maybe it would be all he’d always imagined.

Death Muse

She arched, cat-like. “Armand, paint me.”

He stood at his canvas, hard for her, blood heavy in his veins.

“Lay your brush over my skin.”

He coated the largest brush in alizarine crimson. He knelt. She slid her hands against his flesh, into his curling dark hair.

He bathed her in red until she shimmered like a naked organ. When she cried for him, he thrust his cock into her. She took the paintbrush in her mouth and he fucked her until her gasps became whimpers became choking; until she was gone.

He held her, kissed her painted tongue, and followed her, the linseed thick in his throat.

Traces

I was speaking with a friend the other day about writing exercises. The creative mind is a muscle, and like any other muscle in the body, it must be flexed, stretched, pushed to its limits, and allowed to heal and repair. The one exercise I find most helpful, and especially through times of creative drought, is stream-of-consciousness writing. Find a quiet place, put pen to paper, and write every word you see. For me, it quickly unlocks the doors… after a few words, or, at worst, a few sentences, what is really on my mind begins to emerge. Most of the pieces you find here have their birth in that exercise, though I do then take them, like gems, and cut and polish and make them presentable for the world at large.

But I thought it might be interesting, and an exercise also in letting go, to share with you one such piece, before it undergoes any change. I waged internal war over this. It is far from perfect. But it is honest. And it is part of the process.

I hope you find some enjoyment in it.

Love, Felicity

Image editing done by Kat. ©Felicity Johns
Image editing done by Kat. ©Felicity Johns

You Are

It pauses on a breath
Floating on ether inside your kiss
A promise from you, we are more than this
Moment of passion-
But passion is all there is
I sink or swim, fly or fall
On every word spoken, whispered
On each call, each denial – while you waver
I stand tall, certain, I am strong
Because I know we’re not all
There is-
If I could hold your heart
Inside my heart for the length of one beat
You’d see what it is to love
With your last breath, your final wish
To hold what you cannot own
With arms that you don’t control
And you might then begin to see
Just what it is you are to me.

The response to yesterday’s post “All That Stuff” has been over-whelming. Not only have I received amazing advice and encouragement, but you each serve as a reminder of the why behind everything. I will keep writing. Even if what I write isn’t up to my impossible standards, I’ll keep moving forward until I get back to that place where I’m pleased with what I hear myself saying. In the meantime, maybe these ramblings I have to offer will speak to someone. Because we all hear things differently.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Love, Felicity

All That Stuff

We all go through stuff. You know the ‘stuff.’ Also known affectionately as shit. Patches. Funks. We all know what it is, and how it cripples the mind. Sometimes it’s helpful to the creative process, and sometimes it’s not.

I don’t get very personal here; ironic, considering this is a blog about the most personal stuff a person experiences, that of the erotic mind. Sex. Love. Pleasure. Desire. I’ve had other blogs where I did get personal, and did piss people off. That’s unfortunate, because it’s never my intention to cause discord. I’m a peace-loving creature by nature. I’d have done well in the 1960’s as a flower child, but I wasn’t born yet. Anyway, the things I’ve learned over my life is that most people don’t want to know about your particular brand of stuff. So keep it to yourself. But people really seem to like it when you listen to their stuff.

Where is the line?

I’m going through stuff right now. I’m fighting for every word I put down. I’m doubting my abilities as an artist. I’m wondering if I have anything valid to say, or am I simply in love with the sound of my own voice? What am I working toward with this blog, and if I were going to succeed, wouldn’t I be there by now? How many times does one fall down before they realize they weren’t meant to be walking, because we’re in the middle of the goddamn ocean, and you’re supposed to be swimming! Only, no one ever taught me to swim. All I know how to do is walk.

Where does a person accept defeat and choose a different path?

Or, conversely, how do you convince yourself that you’re on to something and the only way is through it, right through the fucking middle of it, because, hey, baby; no guts, no glory?

Material is sporadic right now, and I needed you, this handful of really special, important readers who have chosen to walk beside me down this meandering path, to know why.

I’m going through stuff. I hope to be back.

Love, Felicity

Brutal

Not worth a buffalo head nickel, that piece of paper. That parchment with the scrawled signatures gave claim to no one but her. It said she could take what was his in the event of dissolution of their union.

It did not make her love him.

It did not keep her faithful to him.

It did not even make her stay in his kitchen or living room or shower.

What it gave him was the right to be cuckolded. Without it, he’d have only been broken-hearted, perhaps for a moment or two. But he had to put a ring on her finger and lay some physical claim to her body and soul. He’d showed his love for her. He’d pulled her by the hair and tossed her across the bed, and the fear and tears in her eyes had made him hard. He fucked her ass, her pussy, her mouth, and she took it. He thought she wanted it. She sucked him like she did. She’d never been one to smile much, or say the words, but she took him and screamed at the right moments…

The first time she came in late smelling of sex, he’d thrown her against a wall with his hand on her throat, and dared her to lie. She’d met his gaze with uncharacteristic defiance and said nothing.

So he fucked her.

The second time, she not only smelled of lust, she came in with smudged makeup and her blouse buttoned wrong. He heard an engine outside rev away from the house. He’d bent her double in the entranceway and looked at it running out of her before claiming again what was rightfully his. She didn’t humor him that time. She stood when he was finished, pulled her skirt down over her bum and gave him a look over her shoulder that ignited an anger unlike anything he’d ever known. She walked into the shower, as though he were nothing.

Nobody. Just a guy she let fuck her, out of pity.

He broke the Ming vase on the table and put his fist through the wall.

The third time she came in late, she was smiling.

He’d put an end to that.

Rejection

Drip like tar or blood drying on the blade of
a word, a knife, so sharp and trying to laugh
not cry, don’t cry for me, for my broken heart

Eyes like ice-water or pools of cool blue sky
they used to see me, to see need and love and hear the sighs
of lust and longing, of us in youth, belonging to

something larger, like passion, whispering in willow boughs
sighing through meadows of clover and horsetails and bowing
‘neath changing winds, exciting, enticing, inviting you in

Now cracking this desert, windswept and ageing
beneath a fire sun stroke and stoked and burning and raging
and waning, you wane for me while I burn like a star into

A cool black night, my skin is alight, my pussy is wet
and you turn your back, close your eyes, choose to not see
where my hunger takes me, in this eternal yawning galaxy

Alone.

The Kiss

I don’t know when he’d left the bed, but his side was cold. I was cold. Sadness washed over me, an inexplicable wave of loss and grief, and then the memory flooded back. He’d said once, I will always be with you, you’ll always feel me here, no matter what. Was that true?

His body hovered over mine, momentarily, before he settled his weight on me, his hips and stomach pressed me comfortingly into the mattress. His elbows took the weight of his upper body, but his chest flattened my breasts. His face, just above mine, soft, kind, intense gaze, his breath like cigarettes and Listerine, his warmth like the blood that flowed inside my veins.

I knew he was going to kiss me. It was our first time, our first time lying down together, alone together. For me, the first time I’d been looked at in such a way. In his face were hunger, and tenderness, and awe. And more hunger. We’d kissed before, but this was different.

It was worship.

“I adore you,” he said. The touch of his breath was as erotic as his full lips, inches from mine.

“I adore you, too,” I answered.

“I want you. I want to taste you.” He licked his lips, but still didn’t touch me with them. I licked mine, instinctively. When I did, I felt his tongue touch mine, so lightly, and he moaned. I tightened my hold on him. I wrapped my legs around his waist. I felt his fingers in my hair, playing, almost absently.

Foreplay with John was a religion. It began when we got up in the morning. With a sensuous, lingering kiss on my neck as I stood over breakfast preparations, his arms always around me, his breath like summer raising goose flesh over my entire body. It continued with a surprise smack on my ass in passing, or his reaching out to grab my hand as I walked by him, catching my eyes and holding me captive. When we were apart, foreplay was text messages, or a phone call, a silly comment like, I miss your titsor I got hard just now, thinking about you. John understood something about life. He understood that the shittiness of it steals the passion. So he made me laugh. And he reminded me, constantly, that he was close and that I was important.

Did I do the same for him? Had I done enough? Had he felt as loved by me as I had by him?

He finally touched my lip with the two of his, a caress. Then he took me in his mouth, so warm and wet. He sucked on my lips, released, repeated, over and over. Then my upper lip. Then he let me taste his tongue.

That kiss had deepened, and turned into the kind of sex one only has with each partner once. You always try to get back that first time, and John and I came closer to replicating it than I ever had with anyone else. But with him, the pleasure was in the trying. Something else he understood – you never stop reaching for better.

He won’t be back, not this time. He didn’t step out for a smoke. I hadn’t known that the last time he made love to me would be all I would ever have of him.

He’d promised to never leave me here, alone, but he’d done it anyway. And when his soul left this world, my will went with him.

Praise for Erotic Passages

“You write so well. I loved the pacing and the joining of the mundane and the passion, if that makes sense! You deserve to be on the shelves in book shops.“ ~Katie – kittykats-bitsandbobs

“You have such a way with rhyme and meter.“
~Rachel – RachelWoe

“There is just something extraordinary about your words.”
~George Agak

All quotes are used with the permission of the commenters, and appear, with many others, in Erotic Passages.

book teaser

Cover reveal, January 11! Book release, February 11, 2015!