“Real Love” by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30days

“Real Love” rose

 

Maybe the imminent and overwhelming arrival of the lunar eclipse accorded some responsibility into Nina’s bitter mood. She knew how to explain herself, her position, her sense of self as a writer, when she spoke before her readers. Her audience usually sat mesmerized or at least soothed as when she “performed” as resident poet at The Atomic Cafe, a run-down coffee joint run almost entirely from donations from locals, students, and permanent exiles from the dullness of city life and suburbia. Burlington, Vermont was a haven for those young enough to transform isolation from New England cynicism into active and optimistic sociopolitical coalitions determined to see permanent social change; for those too embittered to still believe in or hope for much of anything, Burlington served as a sort of thin shield, like fish scales, from the hostilities to which no place in America could be immune.

 

Nina found that she could easily move through the pauses and silences that cut short her creative desires by cutting to the quick what most people found beneficial to their egos. Nina could not cut, however, through the thick partition that separated herself from her desires, the wall of silence that froze her tongue as if in fear when she touched her last lover, who broke off with her in apparent bewilderment at her seeming lack of interest in him, his attempts at conversation, and most disturbing, his sexual needs. Nina, as if intuitively, felt him withdraw from her presence, and silently wished him quickly gone, but not for the reasons he divined.

 

Nina was, in brief, a woman who yearned to touch and to be touched in ways that could not be easily explained in pop psychology terms, or for that manner, Freudian terms. She spent the better part of her twenties searching for some semblance of the surge that charged her nerves at the turn of a certain phrase, look, or push through the male bodies that crash-landed on her bed. As they departed bearing the same expression of sheepish satisfaction mixed with confusion, she would look on with a visible expression of impatience and a not so visible feeling of rage and bitterness at the presence of emptiness, at the dryness she felt in her mouth and between her legs.

 

With a notable exception, her sexual experiences in her thirties was a far less frenzied version of the previous decade, as she settled on a twenty-seven year old attorney who initially saw her as an exotic, if not tasty experiment with the racial and class other. He had not touched the otherness that surely separated them in ways that his cock could not and would not bridge. She correctly feared his disgust of her, his fear of what he labeled as “edgy,” an “edge” that would loom in ragged and crumbly pieces over a dark, heated pit.

 

And so they parted, with him feeling failed as a lover, as a man, and perhaps as a conqueror of the dark other, for so clearly failing to move her to either ecstasy or tears. Some men are like that, foolishly staking their egos, their perceptions of themselves as conquerors, ignoring the moments that could unveil a more delicious opportunity and savoring the more shallow moments, when the public eye is more apt to appear, where desire is less likely to expose itself to public derision. Nina had found many of these fools in all shades and colors, but the now familiar disappointment never ceased to bring the bile to the surface of her tongue.

 

So it was with this overwhelming desire, combined with an awareness of an ache that would not be staved off with the strongest vibrator, that she wrote her latest poem. When she stood amid the studded and pierced women and men she noticed on the left covered with photos of poets who, like her, began and ended their careers standing and reciting in front of audiences like this one. She also noticed a vaguely familiar face staring at her.

 

At this sight, she closed her eyes, and after a few uncomfortable moments of silence, began reciting from memory the first stanza from her latest poem, a series of images written about a man she’d often imagined to exist in the real. When Nina’s mind began to generate the sexual fury she needed to recite her poem, she began to forget that her body was actually standing in a grimy, worn storefront that was already filled with other writers eager to draw from the sexual energy emanating from her frame. Her low, gravely voice trembled as she, eyes closed, softly swaying, spoke to complete strangers of her fantasy tryst with the man who would remain nameless, of the desire she could only refer to in Spanish when she titled it “Quiero”:

 

 

circling the cup

pressing inside soft walls

like fresh clay on a wheel

lifting layers to the top

spinning

muscle squeezing

gripping dense pottery

hardening in the cold air

an interminable movement

wrapped

in fleshy ribbons of moans

like a jack-in-a-box exploding

staining

hot grainy oily cement

in harvest heat.”

 

When Nina opened her eyes the first thing she saw was a man in the back of the room with a curious but intent stare. Then, as the audience began to field her with questions and suggestions, she lost focus on the man and continued her discussion. Later, during the communal vegetarian dinner feast, Nina saw him again, grazing on a steaming pile of black beans over brown rice. She waited until he swallowed whatever he was chewing, then sauntered over to a stool across from his chair near one of the gray, frosted panes of the storefront. The combined effects of the dimmed lights and the dark shadows cast by the rich, black panels and jagged masonry covering the walls, floor, and ceiling left an impression on Nina that she was walking through a cave.

 

In fact, Nina was so occupied with this appearance of what seemed to be physical manifestation of what she assumed to exist only in the shadowy corners of the dream world that she did not pay attention to the subtle signs of changes to the immediate environment as she sat down. Her heart stopped for five full seconds as she discovered she was no longer sitting in Atomic Cafe. She was home, and sitting on her couch. Freezing momentarily, she let out a brief shout of fright, as she believed, momentarily, that she had passed out and was dreaming yet again. It sounded less like a scream, and more like a loud “huh-a” ending with deflating tone at the tail end of her breath. Nina stumbled to her feet and looked outside through the living room window. The clear night illuminated the white snow on the front porch and the low steps of the ancient yellow house on Chittenden Street. He hovered over her, silently, watching her as she blinked in the shadowy room lit only by the street light and moonlight outside. Regaining her composure, she remembered that she had a guest in her home. She was still deep in thought as she stepped into the foray and flipped the light switch.

 

Drawing in the waves emanating from the light, he shimmered and swirled like a light mist before finally manifesting before her with what seemed to be a wry smile.

 

“Do you usually unveil yourself so completely in your work?” he asked in a low but clear volume, his rich, melodic voice carefully articulating each word as if he were speaking into a tape recorder.

 

“I could ask the same of you,” whispered Nina, as she looked around the room that seemed to lose its hold on her as the waking world of the real. “I no longer know which world is flesh, and which world is dream? What have you done with reality?”

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Queen of Heaven: story #5 (30 stories in 30 days)

Queen of  gray-angel-wings-heartHeaven

By Cherie Ann Turpin

James was showering for our night out with his ex-lover Eve at a Dungeon in downtown San Francisco, while I put the last touch to my red dreadlocks. As I stood in front of the mirror admiring my plaid miniskirt, Eve knocked on our hotel room door. I opened the door and greeted Eve, a petite blonde woman in a short leather skirt and skimpy but tasteful black top. Her large blue eyes sparkled as I reached over to briefly hug her and offer her a seat.

James called out from the bathroom that he’d be out soon–and he did exactly that, completely nude. He was happy, very happy, from his shiny, wicked grin to his rapidly turgid member. Eve and I laughed and shared a caress of his happy cock before he quickly dressed for our night out–after all, we weren’t going to just end our night in the room. We loaded up in Eve’s Ford SUV, and took off into the night on Freeway 101 towards downtown.

Eve parked in what seemed to be a very dark and lonely parking lot, and briefly spoke a tiny spell rendering her vehicle invisible to thieves and nosy police.  As we sauntered towards the dungeon it occurred to me that even on a night after the Pride parade, the three of us looked somewhat odd as companions.  Or perhaps my East coast anxieties were creeping up on me.  Still, it must have been odd to see the three of us: Eve, who was conventionally attractive; me, a dark-skinned, dreadlocks, voluptuous woman in a plaid miniskirt and 5-inch heeled platform boots; James, a tall, thin, middle-aged man with long red hair, pale skin and dressed in all black with a leather hat.

The front door of the club was locked, but the lights were on upstairs, so Eve rang the bell and watched a bald man dressed in a black leather kilt and Doc Martins–and bare-chested–descend the steep staircase to the door. His small wings bloomed out behind him like a living fur stole.  I could see traces of eyeliner around his grayish green eyes.  He opened the door and said, “sorry, this is a private party tonight. This is for Queen of Heaven members only.” His voice had a strangely low but musical lilt to it, as if he was accustomed to singing his words instead of speaking it.

Eve, James, and I groaned in disappointment as the Angel-man shrugged his shoulders.  We began to turn away to walk towards downtown San Francisco. Angel-man cleared his throat first, and piped up, “but, hey, you guys look like fun. Come on up, it’s just 20 dollars per person, just join Queen of Heaven tonight.” As Eve, James and I followed him we saw translucent blue and yellow swirls surround him, as if he had a sort of trans-dimensional entourage protecting him.  It made an impression on me, anyway.

We walked up to the sign-in table, where two women sat with piles of pamphlets, condoms, and lube.  The one on the left was a full-figured woman about 40, and the other one was a tall, slim woman about 35.  Both women were wearing see-through halter-tops and were as far I as could tell fully human.  I noticed that some of the participants were either half or fully Angel.  We were in for a treat.  I wondered if some of the party-goers were magical like us.  The night looked promising.

The larger woman explained the house rules for the party: “all sexual contact must follow the rules of safe sex, so oral, anal, and vaginal contact must be covered by latex and gloves. Women may be dressed or naked, but the men must be completely nude. That’s because we want the men to be as vulnerable as the women.”

“Can I wear my hat and shoes?” asked James, quickly turning pink, then red, though smiling. He was wearing a leather hat he’d just purchased at one of the booths set up for the Pride Parade.

“Oh sure, go right ahead,” she replied, and took the 60 dollars quickly produced from his wallet. I disrobed completely, seeing that most of the partygoers were naked and in various physical shapes, while Eve only removed her top to reveal her dainty bra and trim belly. Meanwhile, as I placed our clothes in the paper bag provided for us, I noticed James’ penis becoming quickly “happy” again. The women at the table applauded, and we three adventurers walked into the play-space.

The dungeon was a converted townhouse space with a playroom on the upper floor, kitchen and lounge area–and bathrooms, while towards the back, a set of winding stairs led to the lower dungeon area, complete with cages, partitioned play spaces, and a special room with a bed and restraints. Slings, St. Christopher Cross stands, and whipping poles were scattered throughout the dungeon, as well as play tables, day-beds, and chairs. Eve wandered off, while and I watched several couples play. This was truly a mixed crowd, sexually and magically, unlike our experiences back East at Leather Heart and Lustprinzip conferences.

Clearly, not everyone there was into BDSM, but everyone was grooving on consensual erotic contact and laughter filled the room–as well as squeals from those who were being spanked or fucked. We watched a tall burly man with gray hair, small horns and a long beard methodically spank a dark-haired man with pointy ears who lay on his stomach, grunting as the larger man provided him with a sound, loud spanking on his ass cheeks, which grew bright red with each blow.

After a while, the man stood up, and rubbed his behind, his stomach oddly round in contrast to his thin limbs, but seemingly matching his now dark red ass. He thanked the bearded man and soon ascended the stairs.  I watched two model-handsome Angel-men, one blond, one black-haired, roll around on the carpeted floor with a slender brunette, who kept laughing as they kissed, and toyed with sheets of plastic wrap.

James and I played on three different pieces of equipment that night: a St. Christopher’s Cross, where he flogged my thighs and tits with his black leather flogger; he strapped me onto a sling in the play-space upstairs, securing my wrists and ankles with leather restraints and rope first, then flogging my inner thighs, mons, and buttocks, before donning gloves (safe sex, remember?) to deeply probe my insides and bring me; the coup de grace was when he finally took me from behind in one of the nooks, both of us extremely taken with the sex that seemed to permeate the air, as well as the spiritual lifting of the earlier invocation of the Goddess by those who organized this party as a celebration of Her rituals.

Eve had rejoined us, and we were talking in the space where James and I had earlier made love, noticing a young man with dark, curly hair and ice-blue eyes watching us intently.   He had watched James and I as we played, and was quite aroused.   Unlike the Angel-men, his wings were translucent with changing colorsFaery.

“May I rub your back, my lady?” he inquired with a strange formality.  I nodded, and sat down in a small chair.  He stood behind me, gently squeezing my back, then kneeled next to me and began licking my ear. James watched, amused, but relaxed–he knew my limits would only let this one go only so far. The man licked my breasts–and then I said, “thank you, that’s enough.” The Faery-man seemed taken aback at my abrupt dismissal of his attentions, but quickly stopped.  He then melted away, and I felt a brief regret at my rejection of his further attentions.  On the other hand, I knew that later on that night James and I would spoon together and sleep soundly after such sights and sounds of ecstasy.

Eve, James, and I deeply kissed each other, and ascended the stairs to dress and depart. We three walked into the night like we were drunk–and we were–with joy.  We were empowered with this unique experience of seeing us all rendered undone by passion. I was Queen of Heaven, and I ruled my Court with pleasure that night.

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Ouroboros Rising

Unlimited power? Thaddeus does it again–read on!

Hub City Blues

“Apprentice.”

“Yes, master.”

“It’s time.”

I help him up and walk him into his study. He is paper-thin, light like a bird, a wisp of the force I remember from my youth. I can feel the fire burning through him, my second sight, even shielded cannot block the visions of his power. I help him to his workbench, a central seat of his gift. It was only as we drew close could I sense it.

The bracelet. It shimmered in darkness the way his power glowed brightly. A cool black metal that flickered like glass, lit from within with a sinister madness. This was my last time to say no.

He sits, his palsy stops when he picks it up. His eyes harden like flint and his unspoken gaze beckons me to sit across from  him. The light from the power within him dims. “Once you put this on, you will…

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