Kiss #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin


run tongue over

your salted hairy lips

mixed with wine

give me my saliva

inside your tongue


I could burst

into a sticky hot stream


you linger


then erupt


a wet moan

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Nickels and Dimes by Cherie Ann Turpin #30days #30days2018


What I heard but didn’t really hear

until I sat down and

recalled it all in a moment of clarity:

“Your nickel, your agenda.

Your moment.

Your thought, not mine,

I just wait for something that matters.

Speak your mind, woman, we haven’t got all day.

We’ve heard it all before,

just hearsay,

just trifles,

not really important

or significant enough to care.

You don’t impress me

or move me

or even cause me to blink twice,

I just stare at you and wait for something to really make sense

because right now you sound

too angry,

too mad,

too emotional,

too sensitive,

too vested

in what really is not my agenda

after all.

You haven’t turned me on to what is at issue

at all

yet and you don’t seem to get it

yet that what you thought was my care in your well being is

just burning up the time

we don’t really have to talk about much of anything at all

but how you really should just not take it all so seriously and

not get so upset


I am not really listening to anything you’ve said at all.

No time,

no agenda,

no moments to speak,

not even worth a nickel to consider.”

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Kissing Soul And Tasting Love by Cherie Ann Turpin



When we speak of oral lovemaking we are engaging all of our senses, engaging in the concrete, engaging in the performative of poetic language.  Oral involves more than just lips touching one intimate space of one’s lover; oral renders the entirety of the body as an erogenous space at its most vulnerable state, while at the same time revealing a vulnerability about oneself as someone who tastes and hungers. Oral love celebrates a plurality of options from which lovers may produce sensual pleasure for its own sake. We nourish each other, but we are not food to each other. One carefully grasps that same flesh with a promise not to draw blood or bare sharp teeth.  On the other hand, sharing food can be a bridge towards other possibilities.


Flashback, 1986: I spent part of my summer break working as a cashier at a local gourmet restaurant in Buckhead, an upper-class suburb of Atlanta. I was nineteen and living in a tiny apartment near Georgia Tech on North Avenue.  The cashier job was low paying, but meals were free and I liked the staff. Though the owner was usually surly and impatient with me, the restaurant manager took a liking to me, and gave me time to properly train for the lunch crowd.  Marcus was a dark-haired, thin, and pale man with spectacles and large eyes that seemed to hold a smile or at least a promise of a smile.  He reminded me of a boy I once knew and loved from a distance from high school, though he was closer in height to me.  Though I was shy, Marcus’ flirtatious nature did not render me uncomfortable.  He surprised me one day by asking me out to a David Sanborn and Bob James concert at Chastain Park.  He stocked up on fruits, cheese, chilled seafood, and wine from the restaurant before we drove out to the venue.


The summer night air was hot and humid, as to be expected for Georgia in the middle of June, and we sat outdoors in hard seats wearing shorts, tee shirts, and sneakers.   Marcus spread out our evening feast and began to do something I had never experienced before: he began to slowly feed me.  At first he fed me strawberries, then grapes, then shrimp.  Our conversation was soft, almost muted.  The music, wine, and heat pulled at me, and I felt a familiar tug in my abdomen.  Marcus drew me towards him and our lips crushed together.  I tasted his salt, fruit, hot wine as our saliva mixed together.  I closed my eyes and ran my tongue over the rough hair on his upper lip, nose, and left cheek.  I felt his tongue inside my ear and down my neck, nibbling and sucking near my vein.  I felt high, as if I would burst into a sticky hot river.  The music soared, and the people around us cheered at the crescendo of tenor saxophone and keyboards.  We rode that wave locked in embrace, lips, hands, and heart.


Flash-forward: Recently, I had a long conversation with a spiritual mentor who asserted that I was not actually abstinent, but instead an extremely sexual person who was also extremely selective.  In other words, as I have matured, I tend to choose men who share a certain sort of energy, or as some people might refer to as a spiritual connection.  Perhaps that might be why I tend to see oral lovemaking as being something that goes beyond fellatio or cunnilingus.  I love giving a man I love pleasure, and I love receiving it, but “oral” is so much more than just giving or getting “head.”  For me, oral opens a doorway towards intimacy.


I often think of the ways in which I have enjoyed the seduction of kissing and being kissed.  I anticipate how my Dream Lover’s lips feel against my tongue:  I love the taste of urgency in his kisses.  The soft kisses that soon turned sloppy, then hungry and precise in its mutual seeking out of the correct angle to which to lock and hold two sets of lips in a grasping hold where nothing moves but rough tongues in tight, wet spaces just above teeth. A virtual buzz rises as two sets of breath break an otherwise dark silence. A need for fresh air breaks the hold, and we part, if only to reposition for yet another embrace.


Soft kisses become hard kisses, and we soon roll and rustle over rough, cotton sheets, his hand grabbing me by the hair and holding my other hand tight and still, capturing me, my heart in a panic, then anticipating his tongue running up against my lips, running over my teeth, me wondering if he smells and tastes the smoke on my breath, me tasting the salt and musk of his saliva, me resisting the impulse to pull back, me darting my tongue towards his tongue, touching that spot where his lower lip split, tasting slightly raw flesh, wondering why it seems so hard to breathe it out fully while mutually sucking out each other’s breath. My eyes blink twice and I find myself staring at him staring at me and I feel greedy, needful, and restless. His lips are smeared with trails of my cherry red lipstick as he lowers his head and body to brush tongue along the petals of my nether lips.  Our bodies become “oral texts,” where knees, inner arms, ears, necks, and nipples “speak” to us, as we taste the salt and musk of each other’s skin.  I squeeze his trembling legs while savoring his tender, hardened flesh, brushing my tongue between his thighs.

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Starve (Phorzhicoa Story) #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin


Last time I saw him he stared at me without blinking for 20 minutes straight.  I sat in a low leather chair sipping on an extra dirty martini pretending to not notice him as I read my phone messages.


I’ve seen that before.  The last stage before converting to us, the Phorzhicoa.  He’s so far gone he wouldn’t have known the difference between the food and the feeders.  To most humans he is, in urban vernacular terms, “thirsty,” in need of something other than the usual attention given to men and women who are moderately attractive.

You’ve encountered the type before, the kind who were surrounded by sycophants and fans in their younger days, the popular set of folk who were sharply dressed, well-spoken, and of course never missing out on receiving some really delicious sexual heat from lovers and bedwarmers.  But eventually that sort of heat gets cold, and the thirst grows sharper with age.  The young, nubile, strong bodies of hopeful fans are replaced by earnest, desperate, and somewhat shrill voices of men and women who hope to taste a bit of an aging star who begins to realize with more than a bit of panic that she or he is no longer being fed and maintained but in fact is being sucked dry.


The makeup is flawless, the haircut is perfect, but the soul is in great need.  The hollowed out eyes of one who is ravenous enough to not know that he is staring at a version of himself is unmistakable and indeed, quite irresistible.  Truth is I’ve kept myself off the radar of the Queen by refusing to feed for some years now, and it has kept me safe from some of the more aggressive types who look to compel us solitaries into joining families to hunt. And yes, he is desirable, but I do not give chase.  I prefer to be chased because the taste of his astonishment is so much more satisfying.  It’s a moment of mutual recognition, that we are more alike than different, that I am not prey but a sister hunter like him.  But he is still in pre-conversion, not quite Phorzhicoa yet.  He may give chase, but I saw him long before he even realized he saw me as a meal to consume.

This fledgling sitting across from me has been semi-stalking me for some months without speaking or even admitting to himself that he hungers, that his body and soul feels the crush and call of the Phorzhicoan way.  The sex itself is beyond words, but the energy that floods you is like a tidal wave of ecstasy that floods every cell of your body for what seems to be an eternity.  Time ceases as you are filled once again.  To be mutually fed by your own is to die and live again in a state of utter joy and relief.

But I don’t chase fledglings, especially not in my own starved state. I feel no motivation to move, much less speak.

Instead, I watch and wait for him to turn.


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Ideas from my dreams coming through #30days #30days2018

quick note: I just had the craziest dream I’ve GOT to get down in one of my stories or two actually: floating metal that’s weaponized to cling to you like glue or like you are a magnet with sudden motion;flying through the air with a rocket propelled gun battling these robot like sentinels who think I’m worth capturing for a rogue billionaire with plans for building a bigger army of invading robot soldiers; I even saw another Independence Day like alien invasion movie set in this dream. Guys—when I’m done writing about my feelings I’m going to get back to my fav topic—space aliens, kickass weaponry never seen on this planet before, and ships I think we might see if we can impeach that idiot trump and get back to scientific innovation. Nice bit of dream work in less than two hours!

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2013-08-31 06.50.34

Some say the world will end not with water but the fire next time. Until then, pass the wine as the sun comes to shine.   Blessed Be.

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honeysuckle #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin


I would swallow my contraception pills faithfully each morning with my cereal or applesauce, but I could not seem to completely mask the metallic oddness over my tongue, nor could I shake the feeling that it remained in the back of my throat.  Over the course of ten years I walked around coughing and swallowing half the morning away to dislodge a phantom pill.

After I stopped taking the Pill I thought I was free, and indeed I was free until I was diagnosed with high blood pressure ten years later.

My bp pill was large, oblong and chalk-colored and thankfully tasteless.  I swallowed it with fruit and coffee and gave it no more thought.

Ten more years passed, and one more pill was added.  I began having dreams of pills spilling from my mouth in a flood of phlegm and bile.  My blood pressure quietly rose as I forgot to take them or just refused to remember.

My eyes began to flutter like hummingbirds.  Blood rushed behind my ears like rivers.  A stroke was imminent, said a spirit guide.  After running back to my doctor who forgot my first name I was now taking three pills.

I dream of honeysuckle now.

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