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Banned, Burned, and Reviled...
You think you know about Victorian love and lust? Well, you do if you’ve read these steamy selections….
Got handed a new chore today. Turn one of my audio dramas into a prose piece. Gulp, yes: add DESCRIPTION.
No, I will not be adding purple prose. Not familiar with the term “purple prose”? Think “too much”. Think turgid, bombastic, over descriptive. Purple prose describing a vase would be something similar to: the delicate sides of the glass vase rose from the table in a fluted emerald stem that flared with the energy of a newly opened flower in the dewy morning sunlight.
QUICK THE BUCKET!
No, I shall not use purple prose. Neither will I use the oftentimes staccato style of my Lila Lovely pieces.
I will mutter to myself constantly the mantra I give anyone who asks for writing advice: Brevity, grasshopper, brevity.
Turgid as it relates to language, or not.
I like sex. I’ve always liked it. I mean, sure, it’s great. Its fun, a nice way to pass the time. But i’ve never considered myself a really lusty, sexual individual. I’m not the kind of person who makes out in public, fucks in a doorway, allows herself to be fingered in a public place, or even has actual sex with any frequency that might be considered eyebrow-raising.
Now that i’m on day 72 out of the last 77 days of sex i think i have no choice but to consider myself a “lusty, sexy individual”. I go through my day with one goal in mind : get fucked. And even while in the unspeakably delightful process of being fucked, i’m already giddy with anticipation of the next time.
What is it that floods my brain with dopamine? Bathing my synapses and dendrites in pleasure? The grazing of his chest hair against my nipples. The press of his hands on my hips. The heady, musky, undeniably male scent that envelops me when my mouth is filled with his cock, my nose pressed into that springy thatch of public hair. It’s him pushing my boundaries, pressing my buttons, holding my string while i soar above the mere mortals and explode into a thousand points of light. It’s not worrying about the weird “cat belly” that hangs and jiggles above his taut, flat expanse of body. It’s in hearing him whisper “I love how you move” and watching his gorgeous blue eyes roll back as the dopamine floods his own chemical receptors. And, Good God, it’s the coming. Every time, usually multiply, often together in a tidal wave of wet, squeezing, squirmming, squirting, bliss that leaves me slicked with sweat, gasping for breath, and trembling all over.
What ever the vehicle for the dopamine infusion, i think it’s safe to say that i’m addicted. Just as much as i need coffee in the morning i NEED to be pressed against, pressed into, my lover, my man, my master.
I was led to believe that Project X was a good movie.
I turned it off half way through because it was stultifyingly boring. I watched the rest of it the next day, hoping that there would be some redeeming quality about this film.
I preferred the original Project X. It had more monkeys.