Perhaps

Perhaps he is small, short, reedy, weak. Perhaps he wears thick glasses that need to be pushed up the nose every now and then. Perhaps he keeps folded papers with tiny writing in his dress-shirt pocket, and a couple of pens of different colors to update them. Perhaps his book-bag is almost more than he can carry.

Perhaps she is different, not part of the social set. Perhaps she is absolutely gorgeous but doesn’t seem aware of it or to care about it. Perhaps she does too well on tests, or reads too many books, or speaks too strangely for her friends to understand. Perhaps her maturity is daunting, her concentration and foresight too mysterious to deal with. Perhaps it is easier to label her as odd and go plan the sock-hop.

Perhaps the teachers seem a little different with them, in ways that are hard to interpret — smiling, strangely, in an undecipherable way.

Perhaps they see each other across a busy classroom.

Perhaps a note leads to a meeting.

Perhaps a meeting leads to a lifetime.

Perhaps it is paradise.

— Frenulum

Anatomy

Tragus and Anti-tragus, Helix and Anti-Helix, Fossa Triangularis, Concha, Lobule, Scapha…

So many familiar places, touched or kissed or tongued or just admired for their beauty. So many names unknown, unlearned, mysterious.

I think I need a good anatomy course. I have a friend who teaches the subject — perhaps one year I might audit the class. (Though I don’t think I would look particularly fetching in a tartan mini-kilt, I could at least offer some insights during Reproduction. Oops, I think I just killed my chances of admission.)

— Frenulum

Up late

…Dealing with the discomforts that accumulated years bring; reading When the Thrill is Gone by Walter Mosley, noir detective master.

The protagonist, Leonid McGill, is providing a home, bed, and nursing to a dying friend. Mosley writes for him:

If stomach cancer was a man I’d’ve slit his throat, tossed him in the Hudson, and then gone out for a rare steak and red, red wine.

Oh, to write that clearly, emphatically, directly… I aspire to it.

Peeking

Of all the many wonderful things there are about being a girl, one is surely this: whenever you want to see one of the most breathtakingly beautiful wonders of the natural world, all you have to do is look down and peek.

— Frenulum

Four Bars

My latest short story, Four Bars, is now available at asstr.org.

I hope you enjoy it! (And do please keep in mind that your comments are my only compensation.)

— Frenulum

ὀνοματοποιία

Those who pursue erotica on the net are most likely familiar with the word squick and its derivatives (squicky, squicked, etc.).

As typically used, the word refers to subjects or images that cause an instant, visceral reaction of repulsion; it implies not a moral judgment (“Oh, that is so wrong, how disgusting”) but simply a personal reaction (“Eww, I can’t read this”).

For example, my index entry for More Than a Mouthful says: “…if cum play is squicky for you, skip this one.” Some readers may be quite at ease with the idea that men have orgasms involving certain side-effects, but very uncomfortable with a story’s extended focus on semen itself.

All of which I find very unfortunate.

Not because the concept doesn’t need a word to express it, but because squick needs to be available for a much more delightful meaning.

To me, squick is the perfect word for the sound of wet labia parting.

I paused to assess the condition of her heated bottom, gauging the color and testing her reaction to touch. I pulled her near leg closer to me, spreading her wider, and the squick from her soggy pussy told me that, despite her muted sobs, she was as always intensely aroused.

I can go with the majority here and use the word as a warning when I think one of my stories might cross a line for some readers. But in private, squick is going to be a happy word for me: the sound of arousal and readiness.

— Frenulum

Anthem

I don’t listen to country music and don’t know its stars. So the name, career, and reputation of Jack Ingram are mysteries to me.

I will say this: his rendition of The Star Spangled Banner before game six of the 2011 ALCS was sweet, delightful, unaffected, heartfelt, and delivered almost with the sense of a lullaby. His question about whether the flag was still aloft seemed genuine, as it might have been asked by a fallen soldier who was out of sight of the standard under which he had fought.

I found it intensely moving, and from this vast distance thank the man who performed it.

— Frenulum

Taking notes

My belovèd and I went out for lunch Thursday. The conversation turned to a story idea I have been developing that seems quite promising. It happens to involve many elements in which she has expertise and I do not; so she was filling me in on lots of details to lend verisimilitude to the story, and we were tossing ideas back and forth.

There were so many interesting details and plot points to remember that I knew I wasn’t up to the task. “Let’s go home after lunch so I can write this down before I forget,” I said. “Maybe you can help, and make sure I haven’t missed anything.”

I saw a sly smile on her face. For years, she has been asking to help me write by finding a place under my desk and tending to anything that… comes up as a result of the erotic subject matter. I have always replied that I thought it would be too distracting.

“Are you thinking…”

“Yup! Just talk as you type, and I’ll chime in with anything you’ve forgotten.”

I thought about it for a minute. “Ok — as an experiment. This doesn’t mean it’s the new policy.”

We ended up on our bed instead. I had my laptop on a pillow by my side, and my belovèd between my legs. I started writing notes. She started… supporting my avocation.

“It’s awkward to type at this angle,” I said after a few minutes.

I highly recommend the experience of inducing paroxysms of laughter in a deeply engaged fellatrix. The sensations are more than interesting.

Finally she lifted her head. “Do you realize what you just said?” she asked, shaking with mirth. “Can you imagine any other man in the world, in the middle of a blow-job, complaining about how hard it is to type?” I joined her laughter, enjoying the absurdity.

For the record, it was a more successful experiment than I imagined. I got the notes done, with occasional prompting as needed (though they are full of typos, not surprisingly). And it did take a long time, because of frequent breaks from looking at the screen (that is so good for the eyes). Perhaps we will try again. I have a terribly difficult time writing the sex scenes in my stories, and wonder if doing so while making love would help or hinder.

— Frenulum

Thank you, Tigers

And all the sweeter for A-R*d’s three Ks.

Four Bars — preview edition

I want to reward the people who take the time to visit me here. I know how much competition there is for a few minutes of free time at the computer, and I am very much sensible of the honor of your visits.

My newest short story, Four Bars, is ready for publication. I am going to withhold it from asstr for a while, and release it as a private edition to any blog reader who would like it early.

Here is the index entry:

Four Bars «~» It’s not about a pub crawl, a cell-phone signal, a 2mg Xanax tablet, or the epaulets of a U.S. Navy Captain. It’s about wanting to be a good girl always; about impulsiveness, misbehavior, discipline, absolution, and gratitude.

[CONS] [MF] [Rom] [Sp] [Cum] [Fac]

I should probably mention that there is anal play in the story, so if that is squicky for you, you might want to take a pass.

I tried to devise an automated system by which you could acquire copies, but gmail’s auto-reply feature specifically prohibits attachments. So here’s the deal: just drop me a quick (even empty) letter and mention Four Bars in the subject, and as soon as I have a chance I will reply with a copy for you to read. Please be patient with me.

Thank you again for your support and interest. I hope you enjoy the new tale.

— Frenulum