Monthly Archives: February 2015

Can’t Describe

I can’t begin to condense the poetry of the feel of your lips on mine into a single line. One word can’t begin to describe, the flutter of my heart when you place your hands my hips. Pulling me ever so invitingly into your body. Feeling the warmth oozing through the thin fabric of our clothes. Letting go of my inhibitions to sink into your embrace.

I can’t begin to summarize, the velvety taste of you. The way your tongue seeks out mine in a tango eliciting sparks deep in my core. The way i am left breathless when our lips meet. The way common sense immediately ducks for cover when your hands roam all over me. The way my legs turn to jelly when your teeth slightly graze the softness of my mouth.

I can’t excuse my manners when your breath warms me up so hot i want to rip off your cloths. When you trail kisses down my neck and i have to hold on to the only sliver of sanity remaining not to tumble down the brink of desire.

No vocabulary can cover the wave of desire i feel for you. The gust of naked want i feel when your eyes catch mine from across the room. The way the multitude fades to the background and only your beating heart and the fire in your eyes is all that i can feel. How the fire inside of me comes aflame when our hands touch and then, just then, i am consumed by a raging need, a stubborn itch, a feeling that can’t really fit the alphabet.

It’s enchanting, the way my eyes light up just at your sight.

This blatant need. This itch that wont go away. This desire that can’t be doused out no matter how deep we go. I can’t describe it.

I don’t understand it.

Yet for some reason. I am glad i don’t know how to describe it.

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Posted by on February 16, 2015 in Muse, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing



Of Poles and Thongs


Good morning, really? Motherfucker i am Googling hangover remedies. Can you take your chirpy self further away from my pounding headache? That would mean the world to me. Thank you. I am literally asleep on my feet. Not to mention the yawning. I’ve been going at it for a while now. The fact that i am at work hasn’t registered on my poor brain.

Apparently water is a remedy. At least among the list of 11 remedies, i can easily access it. Am not feeling it though. I feel even drunker than i was last night. And my coordination is next to impossible. I bet i will be slurring my speech soon. Perfect! Just the way to get fired. As if i couldn’t do normal stuff, like get on the boss’s bad side to get canned. I had to outdo myself and drag my drunk ass to work. At this point i am really not sure whether i am drunk or hangover.

I have been yawning like a sailor since i set my ample behinds on my seat. Yes they are, don’t gimme that look. Turns out i can still party like a rock star but can’t recover like one. Otherwise I’d be snorting off a line of cocaine off of a crack-whore’s butt. But no, i have to recover like a train-wreck. Typing this is excruciating. Yes i said it. Age finally caught up with me. I can’t pretend anymore. I wonder if i’d be feeling this way had i spend the night getting laid. With the kind of hangover i have, i’d probably be feeling sore and tired as fuck.

Anyhow, it all goes back to last night. The memory is still clear. The scents too.

So me and my friend Kim hit up some sleazy strip joint. At least that’s how they mislead you into going there. With the promise of ass and titties shaking to some exotic music. Well, at least that was my expectation. So we go in. It’s my first time in one of these you see. Kim has a thing for exhibitionists. Me? Am just here for the booze and a lap dance. Well, that was my thought before we walked in. Now i will settle for booze.

The strippers I’ve seen, well, the ones I’ve watched in movies are something else. When you walk into this joint, you’ll be assailed by a cocktail of thoughts and emotions. My first thought was, that chic can do more justice to that pole. My friend shared the same opinion. Well, in our defense we’ve watched too much and our expectations were higher than the empire state building. I’ve heard people say that. Not that i know crap about the building, or its existence .

We down bottle after bottle of alcohol. At least they start looking better with every sip. One has a very large body with love-handles to match. She is on six-inch heels she bought from some hawker. No. I am not judging, i know genuine and fake. She can dance though. She can shake the fat right off that pole. There are some skinny girls in there too. One looks like she just joined campus. This hustle is not for the faint-hearted.

And so it goes on and on. The good dancer with curves comes over. If love-handles qualify as curves so to speak. Don’t hate on me…i am just having a bad day so am simply going to run my mouth.

“Is he your boyfriend?”, she asks , about Kim.

“No. no…he is my friend”, I reply

At this point i find him looking at her derriere, which is clad in a pink thong with ruffles. I had earlier asked him what part of the female anatomy he is into, and he had avoided answering the question. I guess i just found out the answer to that.

She starts dancing before him, then slowly bends, in what could have been seductive had she been confident and a little bit more graceful about it. Leave it to her to make the move look so vulgar. We exchange glances and frown…she sits on his lap, with all the weight on her I secretly wince and pity Kim considering he is so slim I thought he’d immediately crumble. He survives it, and even seems to be enjoying the lap-dance.

She is giggling and giving me a pretty weird look. It’s supposed to look sexy I suppose. It comes out creepy. I smile harmlessly at her lest she freak out and stop giving Kim the time of his life. Am drinking straight from the bottle. Here they don’t give you a glass. Plus the way I am dressed up, I almost look like a boy. That could be the reason.

I have on these studded boots, skinny jeans, a baggy tee and a very large hood that I wore unzipped. I don’t sit pretty like a lady. No, I preserve that stupid look for when I am in the office or with strangers. Here I am easy as Sunday morning. My legs are sprawled before me…my head trying to process all the smells, moves, and the assortment of tits and ass in here. I forgot to mention, I have the vocabulary of a sailor…and this seems like the perfect platform for it.

Kim is in heaven. Till the girl decides she’s had enough of him and just ploughs herself right into me. She is smiling from ear to ear. I don’t find it slightly funny. But to make her feel better, I just nod away at the music. She gets up immediately and while I am wondering if I have offended her, she takes my hand and off to the dance floor.

We dance a bit. She is towering over me with those heels I can’t stand.
She starts talking and giggling when the wake of her perfume strikes me like a dead dog. She has on one of these pungent perfumes. It assails my senses in ways unimaginable. I think its smell will always haunt me. I can’t describe it, but I can tell it’s pretty cheap and she must have showered in it because it smells all over her. It is acrid.

She says I dance well. Almost better than her. I smile. She smiles too. She wants me to come dance with them. Are you fucking kidding me!!! I almost choke on my drink. Do you work? She asks. Yes I do, I reply. Too bad. You are a way better dancer than most of the girls here. Coming from a stripper, that’s a huge compliment. The dancing part, silly. The fact that she thinks I’ll fit with them is really questionable though.

I forgot to mention, I am the only girl there apart from the strippers. The spectators are all men. We buy her a drink and she is off to dish on more flattery for the night.

To reassure some old man that he still has it. That his is the biggest dick these sides of the world. That his touch makes her want to screw his brains out. That his big belly makes him look adorable. That his foul breath on her neck is an aphrodisiac on its on. That he is harder than a rock, even when the poor fool can’t get it up for a glass of water in the desert. As the bloody fool opens his wallet and takes out his daughter’s school fees to pay for the stroke on his ego. He needs it bad you know. His wife no longer does that. She just hurls bitter words at him and couldn’t touch him with a pole. So the night goes on, ego-stroking and more dancing. She’ll go pay the rent and buy more of the pungent perfume.

It’s the witching hour. That’s three o’clock for you clueless angels. I feel slightly tipsy. Kim is in a trance. He is hypnotized by some young’un doing wonders to the pole. Her ass is swaying to some beat, I stare. Then remember, I have to be at work in the morning. I nudge Kim out of his trance.

“We should go”, I tell him.
“What’s the time?”, he says looking at his wrist watch.
“Fuck it, let’s get outta here”, he exclaims.

The town is already deserted. The streets are littered with the homeless pulling their blankets tightly to protect them from the harsh cold.

Morning comes with my head pounding. I take a cold shower looking at the clock. It’s already 6.30. The smell of breakfast makes me dizzy. So I skip it and take the bus. I jam my earphones on trying to wake my brain to no avail. I couldn’t stay alert for a million bucks right now.

I scribble a few lines on my notebook trying to be awake so I don’t miss my stop…here is part of it.
“Cold water doesn’t really wipe out a hangover. You know the way people say , take a cold shower and you’ll feel god in no time? The people I know say that, don’t act shocked. It doesn’t help you feel any better. So I have my earphones jammed deep into my ears, blasting one of the creepy songs on my playlist. Suffice to say my eyelids won’t keep open for a million bucks today”

That’s all I wrote I swear. Good way to start the morning. So here I am, in front of my computer…with a pounding headache and sleepy as hell. Kim and his chirpy ass just called to scream obscenities at me for last night as if it was my brilliant idea to go drinking midweek. He sounds saner than I feel. For that I hate him.

Dear coworker lets skip the pretentious but extremely chirpy “Good morning” today, can we?

I wrote this post a while back in my heady days. Just finally gave it a slight polish and decided to stick it on this shelf. It’s a bit forlorn among the mushy and erotic stuff i at times post, but what the heck. Sit it out lonely post.


Posted by on February 12, 2015 in Uncategorized, Writing


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Screw Love


Don’t tell me about love. Don’t swear your undying devotion to me. Don’t promise me forever and always. I’ve heard that before.
And the script has always been the same. It has been a circle i can recite off the top of my head. Simple but outrageously boring.

I don’t know what it is about people that make them feel entitled to your everything the moment they declare their emotions with you. This alone makes me shudder at what marriage could look like. A simple relationship alone drives me crazy.

Because with me i know nothing about neat love. When i like someone, that’s my equivalent expression for love mark you, when i really like you…i do it with passion. It gets intense. Messy. I obsess over the emotion till it sickens me.

Because then i will want to kiss you as if my life depends on it. And in a way it does. I just want to sit and stare at you stupidly. The moment you are the object of my fancy, i somehow pity you. Because my desires are not neat

Love. I hate that word, love. It’s a word people toss around and use to blackmail others emotionally. I hate it when someone expects me to suddenly fit into their idea of what perfect love is about.

The way i see it, there is no perfection in love. It’s supposed to be messy. One moment you are looking at them with puppy eyes and the next moment you can cheerily strangle them. One minute you are holding their hand, and the next minute you want to gladly push them down the hill. One minute you are kissing, the next minute you are banging a door on their face

But the idea that love is perfect,That it should fit into a neat little box. That it shouldn’t have clutter. That’s the dumbest thing ever. It’s the most selfish thing ever.

For me you can either love me or leave me. I can never be owned by someone. I believe people should have their space to do what they enjoy. Space and support from their supposed loved ones. Am just saying.

I want a burning kind of desire. The type that leaves me breathless. The type that can’t be put in a box. Feelings that can’t be labelled. One without description. No, i don’t want the cliche idea. Movies and discos. No, i want to watch the sunset with you. Feel the cold set in and nestle next to you. Feel your pain and share in your joy.
Drown in your eyes. Catch my breath at your touch.
Well, i could wax poetic about it but the point is, i want raw, naked, genuine, burning desire.

Screw love.

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Posted by on February 12, 2015 in Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing


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Of Coffee and Back-aches



You’d be surprised at how much you can accomplish on a lazy afternoon. Till this point, my soul insists that am not cut out for dreary office work. I could comfortably do the same work seated at home in a pair of slacks and no bra on *tongue in cheek*. With my hair teased into submission by the wind , in a house overlooking the ocean. Am talking about that house i own in my head mind you. Calm your tittays honey-pie.
But the moment i come to the office, my enthusiasm gets stuck at the door. Totally. Seriously. Stubbornly to be precise.
Other days i manage to coerce it to just accompany me for the sake. Other days i am grumpy as fuck.
Well, if i had to come in dressed in jeans and converse, maybe my performance would be better. This dress-code is the ultimate motivation killer for me. That’s why i am pretty sure i’d never last a month working in a bank.
I am typing this just so i don’t doze off. Believe me i have done plenty to keep my mind sharp, bu the moment lunch is done, i literally have to seduce myself into working. Otherwise i’m getting canned faster that tuna.
Considering the fact that i am seated at a very awkward location, where every tom and Dick gets to see my screen, i can’t even afford to look at images of Penelope Cruz in the internet *sigh*. That woman is something else.
So i have to spend the dreary afternoon nursing a celebrity crush and wishing the damn clock could move faster.
But i swear today it seems broken. The minute hand is not moving. Generations could get married and have kids as i wait for the time to chuck this place in vain. A snail could crawl to town and have kids*whatever way they do* and come back, before this bloody minute hand moves.

And by the way i have a backache from the Devil himself. I don’t know whether to chalk it up to the dry-spell, or the office chair or it could be my lack of motivation. Or all of it combined. Man my back hurts. I feel like the devil took me out last night for a quick romp in the hay. Pardon my french.
I started writing this bit two minutes ago, according to my watch. Maybe time decided to plot against me today. Maybe it’s this part of town experiencing some intergalactic crap. Maybe its Maybe-line. Whatever that means. At least my brain can still think up wow words. It feels like a huge mass of poop right now. Just lying there dozing off and betraying me. For fucks sake, be a darling and help a sister stop dozing off goddammit! I didn’t mean to be rude, just get up, okay?

Today no amount of coffee is enough to keep me going. I just switch off one caffeinated cup after the other.
Oh golly, could this be old age? Jeez, i think i just found the trick to being awake. The sheer thought of it being old age….screw that!
Can’t say i’ve accomplished nothing though…i wrote this piece, didn’t i? Stop smirking and be on your way already, smart-ass.
Aaaand, back to office work!!


Posted by on February 10, 2015 in Writing


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Random Quote


Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them, disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They invent. They imagine. They heal. They explore. They create. They inspire. They push the human race forward. Maybe they have to be crazy. How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art? Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written? Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels? While some see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones that do

~Steve Jobs

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Posted by on February 10, 2015 in Uncategorized


Tastes Like Heaven


We are lying there in post-coital fervor. She is teasing my neck with soft kisses. She knows it drives me crazy when she does that. And i am running my hands on her back…slowly, sensually. She is moaning softly. We do this over and over and it always ends the same way it began. She is a fucking good kisser. And the best fuck too.

She later gets up to light a ciggie. Naked. She has hips to make one weep. She has legs that go on and on you just want to run your tongue up to their junction. She has curves to make an atheist believe in a higher power. Damn she is perfect!

As usual I am dumbstruck by her bum. I love the feel of her butt against my back. I love the feel of it on my hands. I love the sway of it as she walks over to the balcony for a puff. She has one of those butts…the very shapely ones. Not too big and not small either.

“We need to stop doing this”, she starts and immediately i tune out. No, i am not being rude or something of the sort. She does this every time we make love.

She has a boyfriend you see…and the guy has no idea she loves girls. It’s her problem, so excuse me as i focus on more important things, like the way her nipples are hardened by the cold or is it her desire for me?
So she drones on and on…some crap about how she needs to focus on her relationship and other such bull. My mind already took a hike.

I am remembering my lips on hers…the feel of her breasts on my hands…the way she quivers in ecstasy every time i trail my tongue down her belly…how she sighs with pleasure when i trail my tongue over her womanhood…

She stubs out her cigarette and comes over. “ I know you haven’t been listening to me”, she says with a smile. She takes my mouth in hers and kisses me fiercely.

She tastes of cigars, and apples. She runs her tongue over my lips gently, coaxing my lips apart. I open my mouth to her tongue and am invaded by desire so strong i grab her ass tight as i mercifully drown in her.

When she is done making me fall into pieces…i take my time pleasuring her. She is one of those screamer types. The neighbors keep giving us weird looks. I think by now they have figured out what goes on. If not, then they are dumber than i thought.
I kiss her neck, turn her over and trail my fingers all over…she trembles and sighs when my tongue trails over her waist.

She turns over fast and pulls me closer. Patience has never been a virtue for her. She wants it then and there. The breeze coming in through the balcony and the curtains swaying, coupled with her moans make the moment magical
She has her legs wound tight around me, throbbing so fast with an intensity that makes me give in. I bite her slightly and tease her bud with my tongue.My mouth is on her sex.

Her taste is intoxicating. She archs her back  tight pulling my head down. I should have tied her arms….I love to torture her this way. Her eyes are begging. I don’t want her to come just yet. She is making an undulating motion in rhythm with my tongue. She is moaning softly.

I tease her faster, hold back just when she wants to tip over…She is now begging. I bite her hard and she screams my name as she comes over and over. Her eyes are glazed and she is clutching me so tight i have bruises all over.

She is trembling ,trying to smile at the same time as she clings to me, her legs in a tight grip over my back.

She tastes like heaven.


Posted by on February 9, 2015 in Erotica, Muse


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Unschooled Desires


She kisses like a virgin

Explores like a teenager

Trembles like a pornstar

Archs her back like a tease


It’s the fact that she does all these

Unaware of her effect on me

Oblivious to the world

That drives me mad


Mad with a need so brutal

A passion so intense

Unschooled desires

I have to ignore it


Because at the back of my mind i know

Giving in to my lust

Will spell disaster





Unquenchable disaster

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Posted by on February 4, 2015 in Erotica, Muse, Poetry