I write when I’m inspired.How-to-Stay-Inspired-5-Steps-for-Writers

Usually, this is as a result of a meeting and its rollout consequences. Rare is it that there isn’t a catalyst for a piece.

Yet here we are.

It’s been a dry week. Desperately dry. Sheet-twistingly, lip-bitingly, knuckle-gnawingly dry. And yet, lubricant has been provided in the course of some (temporarily long-distance) correspondence, about the nature of the what, where, how and why of he and I.

Dammit, he writes a sexy game. He gave me food for thought, which set the cogs a-whirring, and then he delivered a parting shot that pulsated through me like so much sexual electricity.

It was enough, quite enough.

Words do it for me. Spoken or written, the power of the pen is almost as mighty as the power of the [insert body part here]. Anyone who cannot string a thought together in an effective manner doesn’t impact on my life at all. There’s simply no place for them, no slot. In terms of everyday, asexual/vanilla friendships, that also largely holds true, although not in the same way. For some reason, in such cases, I’m more forgiving.

Why yes, I am a literary snob. Would you like fries with that?

My life and relationships could easily be described using the Facebook idiom “it’s complicated”, but I’d rather not. The connotations are so negative. My life is complicated because it doesn’t conform to any regular dynamic. I know I have readers who will instinctively understand far easier than others — but either way it’s irrelevant. There’s a reason that the majority of what I write is non-specific with regards to who it concerns, and the nature of my connection with that specific person. This is my haven, my space, the writer’s desk of my soul.

That you care to join me here is my privilege and honour — and I am ever and eternally grateful.


Comfortably Hot (Redux)

It isn’t an everyday feeling. It’s not even one that you can largeguarantee a person will ever have in their life. So how do I justify having felt it more than once? Am I super-special or just damn fucking lucky?

And how does a person quantify the feeling of complete and under comfort in the presence of another? The one where you feel as though you’ve known them for a thousand years. Where you gaze at them with warmth and affection, until they put their hand on your thigh and then your gaze turns to one of smoldering longing.

This is comfort born not of familiarity but of chemistry and mutual likeage. Incorporating NRE with unbridled lust, and a propensity to constantly feel the skin of the other beneath your fingertips. Where a finger run softly across your back turns your knees to mush, and you thank the deity of your choice that you are sitting down, as you know that were you not, you’d be in a crumpled heap on the floor.

And then later, as you tingle all over from their touch, and try desperately to catch your breath after a protracted and deeply satisfying gush of an orgasm, you realise that you have to bid them farewell in a few — but you know you’ll see them again.

And again. Soon.

Ain’t nothing better.