Reliving the past.

Today, I was looking through old files for some inspiration. And I found a story I had written back in 1995.

On Green Street

     I love to play in Green Street. 

     Let me explain. In Champaign, Illinois, the main road through the University of Illinois campus is Green Street.  On the north side of the street reside the engineers.  To the south are liberal arts, ag, LIS, and the rest.  And the cities of Urbana and Champaign had been built over a swamp that had been drained.  So when it rains, the water table rises quickly and fiercely.  The Boneyard Creek flows fast and hard and the streets flood (along with basements and sewers).  On Green Street, when it rains, the water gathers and runs in the gutters, overspilling into the street ‑‑ turning this road into a fountain.

     During the brutally hot summers we get here, the summer rains are a blessing and a curse.  Sometimes they bring cool relief, sometimes they just bring more steam.  But they bring flooding to the cities, too ‑ dangerous, slippery.  And they fill the streets with water ‑ warm, inviting, cleansing.  I have splashed in puddles as deep as my ankles and waded in ponds up to my hips on Green Street.

     One very rainy day, my lover and I had walked to get food at AJ Wingers.  This was a very special man.  Of course, all of my lovers were wonderful but this one....Ah, words fail me.  Skilled, compassionate, loving, passionate, uninhibited, ‑  no words can fully explain this one.  Someone once tried to pin me down on his most wonderful trait.  Stammering, I had replied that he was a good listener.

            As we walked, the rain kept coming.  We watched the rain fall as we ate and we kissed the sauce off of each others' faces.  We began the walk back - giggling over our folly at not driving or taking the bus.  The rain kept falling.  Our shoes immediately drenched through, no matter how much we tried to avoid the puddles.  Our jeans clung to our skin.  We took off our shoes and splashed through parking lots, curbs, and streets.  Cars would pass and splash water as high as our heads.

            We got to his apartment, and shrieking with laughter at ourselves, we peeled our clothes off and draped them over chairs and doors.  We wrung out our socks in the bathroom sink, and put our shoes over radiator vents.  We eventually showered, embracing the heat and steam of this water as gleefully as we had embraced the rain.  We kissed and kissed and kissed under the hissing showerhead. His hands, so large and competent, lathered my back and legs, rubbing circulation back into my feet and neck.  I stroked soap into his chest and armpits, playing with his body hair.  We kissed some more.  For the rest of my life, I will see him like this, his head tilted under the streaming water, his hair slicked back, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open at the pleasure of taking a shower.

   

         We dried off using his one towel (for all of his wonderful traits, sometimes he was almost a stereotypical single man), still kissing, still giggling.  His kisses remain on my mind - so intense that the sensation of his lips blotted out the world and destroyed rational thought.  How to describe it?  He kissed like my mouth, my pleasure and his, were the only things that existed or ever will exist.  He kissed as if kissing alone were the most divine pleasure ever given, not as a prelude or introduction, something perfunctorily done to satisfy protocol.  He kissed me like my mouth was his Holy Grail and his True Cross combined.  He kissed as though he meant it.

            We shimmied under his covers and our bodies entwined, wrapping around each other.  Sometimes I felt like our bodies were two pieces of rope, coming together in a knot.  We kissed and touched and sucked.  We made love.

            Even now, my hips curl and my stomach clenches at the memory of that afternoon - at a lovemaking so profound, so powerful, so intense.  It was the sum of my universe - it was slow and powerful, it was fast and fierce. 

            We were falling in love. 

            In a way we never had before, and never will again.

            And our bodies betrayed it.\

***
Have you fallen in love in a way that changed you?

Why I fear description.

I do fear description. If I'm going to write a story that actually has plot and action, I tend to scrimp on setting. And I'll show you why. Here's a quick, off the top of my head snippet to show what happens when I describe.

In Champaign, Illinois, the main road through the University of Illinois campus is Green Street. On the north side of the street reside the engineers. To the south are liberal arts, ag, LIS, and the rest. And the cities of Urbana and Champaign had been built over a swamp that had been drained. So when it rains, the water table rises quickly and fiercely. The Boneyard Creek flows fast and hard and the streets flood (along with basements and sewers). On Green Street, when it rains, the water gathers and runs in the gutters, overspilling into the street turning this road into a fountain.

During the brutally hot summers we get here, the summer rains are a blessing and a curse. Sometimes they bring cool relief, sometimes they just bring more steam. But they bring flooding to the cities, too, dangerous, slippery. And they fill the streets with water, warm, inviting, cleansing. I have splashed in puddles as deep as my ankles and waded in ponds up to my hips on Green Street.

One very rainy day, my lover and I had walked to get food at AJ Wingers. This was a very special man. Of course, all of my lovers were wonderful but this one....Ah, words fail me. Skilled, compassionate, loving, passionate, uninhibited, no words can fully explain this one. Someone once tried to pin me down on his most wonderful trait. Stammering, I had replied that he was a good listener.

As we walked, the rain kept coming. We watched the rain fall as we ate and we kissed the sauce off of each other's faces. We began the walk back - giggling over our folly at not driving or taking the bus. The rain kept falling. Our shoes immediately drenched through, no matter how much we tried to avoid the puddles. Our jeans clung to our skin. We took off our shoes and splashed through parking lots, curbs, and streets. Cars would pass and splash water as high as our heads.

We got to his apartment, and shrieking with laughter at ourselves, we peeled our clothes off and draped them over chairs and doors. We wrung out our socks in the bathroom sink, and put our shoes over radiator vents. We eventually showered, embracing the heat and steam of this water as gleefully as we had embraced the rain. We kissed and kissed and kissed under the hissing showerhead. His hands, so large and competent, lathered my back and legs, rubbing circulation back into my feet and neck. I stroked soap into his chest and armpits, playing with his body hair. We kissed some more. For the rest of my life, I will see him like this, his head tilted under the streaming water, his hair slicked back, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open at the pleasure of taking a shower.

We dried off using his one towel (for all of his wonderful traits, sometimes he was almost a stereotypical single man), still kissing, still giggling. His kisses remain on my mind - so intense that the sensation of his lips blotted out the world and destroyed rational thought. How to describe it? He kissed like my mouth, my pleasure and his, were the only things that existed or ever will exist. He kissed as if kissing alone were the most divine pleasure ever given, not as a prelude or introduction, something perfunctorily done to satisfy protocol. He kissed me like my mouth was his Holy Grail and his True Cross combined. He kissed as though he meant it.

We shimmied under his covers and our bodies entwined, wrapping around each other. Sometimes I felt like our bodies were two pieces of rope, coming together in a knot. We kissed and touched and sucked. We made love.

Even now, my hips curl and my stomach clenches at the memory of that afternoon - at a lovemaking so profound, so powerful, so intense. It was the sum of my universe - it was slow and powerful, it was fast and fierce.

We were falling in love.

In a way we never had before, and never will again.

And our bodies betrayed it.

It's emotional and lovely and nothing happens. There is no plot, there is no conflict, there is no character development.

I was going for a little slice of life with this piece- I wanted to record a beautiful memory. I succeeded at that. Unfortunately, I can't use it anywhere else since it doesn't move any action forward.

Dammit!

Sexy, sexy, sexy.

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Getting Silly.

In my short story challenge, another friend dared me to challenge the stereotypes of absolute dominance and submission.

The deepest submission

“Tonight, our pet, is the final test. If you pass this one, you will be our fully collared live-in slave, both owned and cherished.”

Her words sent a shiver down my spine and through my cock, making the bell on the end of its cage chime.  I kept my lips firmly pressed to the shining floor by her foot. What would my Master and Mistress do to me? They had tested me over and over since I approached them to be their slave.

Their stern hands and whispered orders gave delights, and revealed my secrets. They peeled me open like an artichoke, demanding I give up my tender heart.

“Wait for us in your basket,” his deep rumbling voice ordered. I kissed his feet, careful not to brush my stubble against his skin, and scooted to my dog den -a deep wicker basket lined with cushions. To be kept like a dog, waiting on their whim, was all I wanted. I yearned to found worthy of their permanent collar.

My Master and Mistress were flawless physical specimens of dominant power. She towered at six feet, with radiant skin and glossy black hair. He was even taller, and surely heaven would forgive me if I thought of a Tom of Finland drawing whenever I saw his sculpted body and strong features.

The heavy tread of his boots heralded his arrival.

“Come here.”

I crawled out of my nest and touched my lips to the boots I had learned to polish to his exacting standards.

“Look at me.”

Smiling in delight, I let my gaze range up his perfect body encased in black leather. His strong calves, muscular thighs lead to an enticing bulge in his codpiece. I always knew I had done well when he rewarded me by letting me look at his rippling belly and chest. I finally reached his face, and gasped.

A bright red clown nose sat in the middle of his Greek god features.


Astonished, I flicked my eyes to my Mistress. Her face carried no such outrageous adornment. Her corset and opera gloves hugged her body as closely as I yearned to touch her. A six foot long singletail slithered behind her.

But instead of her usual sky high heels, pink fuzzy bunny slippers waggled their ears at me as she stepped forward.

“Well?” Her imperious voice snapped me out of my stare.

I looked at the object in her hand.

“Do you accept our token?” he asked.

I stared between them. A grin broke out on my face. I grabbed the deely bobbers from her hand and shoved it on my head. The bright green glittery shamrocks wobbled back and forth as I sat up.

“I’m yours,” I declared.

Ice Hard.

A long time ago, I challenged my good friends to stretch my erotic imagination. Give me a scenario, a kernal of an idea, and I'd come up with a short story from it. One person said I should write a sexy scene in an ice fishing hut.

It's a Minnesota thing. Just roll with it.

***

Ice hard

Minnesota in winter was a hard place.

But not nearly hard enough, Mrs. Bjorn Johnson concluded. That damn Bjorn, fishing addict he was, had been up in that there damn ice fishing hut for the entire weekend, tending to the entirely wrong set of holes.

How was a woman supposed to get any lovin’ this way? She’d even wore her sexiest nightie -the long insulated green one without any feet – to bed last night, but her beloved Big B merely gave her a wet smacking kiss on the cheek and rolled over.

Discouraged, she’d put her footie pajamas back on and spent the night coming up with her cunning plan. If Mohammad couldn’t come to the mountain….

Already dressed in her warmest garments, Julika, sturdy, independent woman she was, strode across the three foot thick ice and throw the blowing snow to Bjorn’s sizable red ice-fishing hut.

Not even knocking, she flung open the door. “Hello, darling,” she sing songed, walking into the heated room.

“Holeee cannooooli, Julika, what are you doing here?” Bjorn’s arousing Minnesotan drawl tingled her neglected places as he leapt to his feet, nearly upsetting the chair he’d been perched on watching the black waters under the ice. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up, revealing strong forearms. Julika pressed her thighs together at the sight.

“Why, can’t a devoted wife see to her husband’s comfort?” she purred, peeling off her thermal mittens, her scarf, ear muffs, and stocking cap with the panache and confident cocked hip of a showgirl.

Bjorn gulped.

She unzipped her down coat, tooth by agonizing tooth, holding Bjorn’s gaze the entire time. He swallowed as she tossed it onto his small table, scattering fishing magazines and a lone copy of Maxim. She’d pin his ears back good about that later. Right now, this real life woman’s real life needs demanded attention. She was on a mission.

Her insulated vest went next. She peeled and tugged and unzipped and unbuttoned until she stood before him in her boots and clinging silk thermal long johns.

“Bjorn, I just had to know how your…pole…was doing.” Julika ran her hands up and down her torso and breasts just like she’d seen in the stripper aerobics tape Annika had snuck to her under the table at the last Church Ladies’ Social.

Her man’s blue eyes bugged out at her hard nipples and unbound hair. A gratifying lump appeared in his flannel lined jeans.

Leaning against the table, she spread her legs, letting him get a good look at her puffy hoo-ha pressed against her longies. Her fingers delved past the waist band of the drawers and stroked aching flesh.

“Now, you gonna provide for your woman, Bjorn Johnson, or am I going to have to become a DIY gal?”