leaned back in the bubble bath, inhaling the spicy
scent of Dragon's Blood, and gazed at the bruises
on my left forearm. One. Two. Three. Big. Too big
for fingerprints. I measured to confirm, using the
tips of my own small fingers for comparison.
Bite marks. They had to be.
I remembered the biting and I sighed,
slipping deeper into the hot, fragrant water, meditating
upon the marks, the last shadows left by Polymnos's
good-bye kisses. Fleshly echoes of primal love and
savage lovemaking. Fucking. Gloriously devoured,
used for his personal and shared pleasure.
I remembered the biting. And the
fingernails raking down my back. Remembered thinking,
"harder, harder, harder" like a mantra, groaning
and arching into the sensation, into the center
of the storm where there is no pain, only crystal
clarity. The perfection of my soft, sweet tissue
startled awake and submitting to the immediacy of
his sharp, inescapable pressure. The security of
his fist in my hair, pulling me deeper into him,
making me gasp and moan, wanting more--wanting to
And listening, always listening.
To my own breathing and my own sounds of fuck, to
his ragged inhalations and snarled observations.
How can I deny that I am a slut with my ass in the
air, his cock in my ass and my fingers scratching
at bedsheets while I beg for more? When I feel his
hot breath on the back of my neck, his rough verbal
touch in my ears, his teeth clamped on the meat
of my back, his palms slapping my ass cheeks--where
is the honor or virtue in denial?
I like it rough. That's all there
is to it.
I deny that I am a slut with
my ass in the air, his cock
in my ass and
my fingers scratching
at bedsheets while
I beg for more?"
Oh, I certainly appreciate and enjoy
the sweet languidness of gentle lovemaking. But
when push comes to shove, when cock comes to cunt--in
the long run--I like it rough. This is, after all,
sex we're talking about, not ballroom dancing. Nothing
more or less than what it is. Dominant? Submissive?
Top? Bottom? Whatever. It's sex. Raw. Pure. Simple.
Honest. If there is a force within us that is more
innocent, more free of pretense, I'm not sure what
I was freshly 18 and finally legal.
A community college coed studying journalism. He
was older. Long, dark hair. Perhaps his name was
Mike. It's been a while. But he was beautiful.
He told me stories of chickens and
cats, cars and country living. I told him about
my ravishment fantasies. We discussed possible meanings,
possible realization. He was intrigued. I was encouraged.
I knew the difference between rape and ravishment--the
first from experience, the second from books and
my imaginings. I wanted to know the second from
experience, too. Mike seemed like a suitable candidate.
Alas, it was not to be. His flesh may have been
willing, but his spirit was weak and the semester
too brief. It would be more than a decade before
I would know in my body what I had long felt in
But today I lean back in my bubble
bath and remember the biting, remember the scratching
and the pinched nipples, admire the delicious marks
of passion that kiss my skin like a long, luxurious
memory that has pressed beyond the edges of my mind
and overflowed into my flesh. Ravished and ravishable.
I am a vehicle for pleasure, a hunger feeding on
the hunger of another; a fusion of heart, mind and
spirit that animates this clay, maintains the secular
flame within. Love and sex sacred in their profanity,
their profundity; our rut another hymn in bone and
bruise, my mind and body afire beneath those of
my savage and tender tormentor, my male Muse, my
phantom lover made real.