i wait for him to finish his shower, steam escaping into our bedroom like tropical mist, reminding me how cold it is. i am calm and breathing deeply. i feel self conscious in my jammie pants and sweat shirt, maybe i should change into lingerie. the water stops and large droplets fall from the faucet, announcing the end of his shower. several steps and he is there. using the towel to ruffle dry his short chop of hair, he dresses, even though i plan to undress him several minutes later.

throwing the heavy comforter aside, he cozies in beside me. kiss of lips, kisses on neck, sucking of breath, escaped sighs, touches of tongue; the dance has begun. clothes disappear and damp flesh presses to flesh. from foreplay to hard and fast. loving long, greedy and hard. i cry out and melt. he collapses. we linger.


Sex Positive!

i’m not here to tell you what to do with your saucyparts or your goods, but we all need to finally realize that being SEXY and SEXUAL is for everyone- no matter what body type, shape, gender, sexual preference or part of the rainbow! boy parts, girl parts, dirtybits, trans, no-no spots, special purposes, whatever!

because we all need a little boost now and again- here are some AMAZING sex positive tumblrs!
i guarantee you’ll find something to make you smile! (among other things.) ENJOY!

oh- and these are SERIOUSLY nsfw- so wait until you get home where you can (ahem) view these with more privacy *coughs*… because you will!

love your body! love yourself! be sexy! be pervy!
(didnt i just say i wasnt going to tell you what to do? but these are good things- and you should do them!)



by ComaWytch

The wind hit my face harshly as I sat on the white sand, on the beach, on my island. I had been here for two months now, alone, taking my hermitage and spiritual retreat, preparing my mind and heart for my Love, for my Husband. I had been fasting on the island, meditating, spending nights awake staring out at the sea from the clifftop, sleeping in the white sand on the beach. The island was so small, barely more than two acres, and my husband lived on a much larger island nearby. We had traveled in canoes to get to this spot, and he had dropped me off with enough food to last me a month, and me being there for two months, this naturally meant a fast. This was a ritual I had done once a year for the last five years of our marriage together, and I would break the isolation and fast with him every year the same way: with sex in the white sand, in the moonlight, the salty spray of the deep green ocean surrounding us on all sides. The air was warm and moist, the wind fresh and fierce all around.

Tonight was his arrival, and he rowed a few miles to reach me, bringing luxury food and wine for the both of us. When he arrived, pulled his canoe in after setting the paddle down on the side catch, placed it under a palm tree, and took out the vodka and grape fruits he had brought, as well as the delicious lobster tails, scallops, potato wedges topped with a delicious honey mustard sauce he had hand prepared, and buttered soft shelled crabs, all of which he had sauteed at our home for us on the main island. My husband learned how to cook these things from me, and he had prepared them very well I noticed. We now sat under a giant palm tree near the shoreline a ways away from the canoe, sipping the semi-frozen mixture of the best vodka he could get his hands on, mixed with freshly squeezed grapefruits, and a fine sugar having been added to this. We ate for some time like this, pausing in between bites and sips from our glasses, to kiss intimately. I nosed him affectionately quite a lot while we were eating, stopping from time to time, in between bites of seafood and the vodka grapefruit drink, to gently and softly nose him on the neck. He would stop from time to time, the hair bristling like so much fur on his chest, his back upright, to lean in ever so conservatively to give me a french kiss, locking mouths and tongues, as he would suck on my tongue repeatedly this way, and then kiss me on the bridge of my nose.

Time went on into the night as we ate and drank, and eventually time came for dessert. He pulled out a delicious strawberry cheesecake that was still partially frozen, and we lay there in the darkness, the moonlight providing a strong but dim grey light for us, partially in the shade under the palm tree, the roar of the ocean in the background and the strong wind tearing at my waist length hair which I had restrained in the back with a simple scrunchie. The wind massaged our faces so much so that, after awhile he became very relaxed like me, by the wind on his face. He had prepared a mixture of blackstrap molasses and Irish cream liquor, which we drank with the strawberry cheesecake. He stopped every now and then while eating, as I leaned on his chest, resting my plate there, to play with my vagina using his very large but lovingly dexterous hands.

My husband was a brain surgeon, and very skilled with his hands in many ways. After a time of eating the cheesecake and drinking the delicious molasses concoction, both of which I trained him well to prepare, my husband and I began to lie down in the sand and lazily kiss, the heavy wind massaging our faces. I had spent all of those two months clothed in a large one piece dress, wearing a veil that covered everything but my face, bathing in the ocean as I needed to. After a time he pulled the dress up and over my head, and took the scrunchie off of my hair, and we began to make love more and more as the night went on, the clear starry sky in the backdrop, a full and gorgeous milky way in clear view, with no light clouding the view.

He started by continually playing with my pussy using a combination of his index finger going in and out while the thumb massaged my clitoral area, similar but more involved to the motions he would use while we had been eating. After a time of him doing this and passionately french kissing me, sucking on my tongue, passing his lips on the tips of my earlobes and suckling them with his tongue, I began to become a good deal aroused. He had done these things to me for almost an hour while I stared at the sky, my hair obscuring the view from time to time, as I lay there and he worked on me, when I began to hum a soft tune. As I hummed this tune he recognized, very sweetly and softly, he lay down next to me very obediently, awaiting the seductive things this tune hypnotically signaled to him. He became very relaxed very quickly, and I sat up slowly, as he lay there, propping my body on top of his, and I placed my arms and legs on top of his, and lay on his chest, and I told him a story….

“We are in the garden my love, the trimmed hedges all around us, we are in the center of the maze, by the fountain, sitting there, and you imagine yourself bathing me with the seashell clam half in the fountain’s water, palm trees reaching over the acre of hedged maze in the backgrounds, as you bathe me in water. As you pour the water, you can visualize everything so clearly, like sparkle of the sun on the drops of the water, and you will grow more erect as you imagine these sparkles glinting off the water you are bathing me in”

As I said this he became incredibly hard within a span of ten or so seconds, and I whispered “Ah haaa, what do we have here” while I took his penis and gently stroked it in my dainty and delicate, but long fingers, smiling gently, the wind wisping in my hair, my husband’s eye’s closed as he lay there, in a trance.

After some time of gently and softly massaging his penis, I hummed another soft tune, this one much shorter, and he regained control of his left arm, the arm opposite from where I was. He could move nothing else, anchored as he was in place, under the spell of my loving and gentle enchantment. For some time while I stroked him gently in my fingers, he would reach across to stroke my arm and cup my breast softly, his eyes still closed, the rest of his body immovable. I had done this for some time when I hummed another tune and his arm gently but firmly became immobile again, at his side. He was completely aware of everything, as he had been all along, peacefully but excitedly aware, and it was now that I began to suck him, taking his fully erect penis into my mouth, sucking and pausing to kiss his penis every now and then. After doing this for about half an hour he came in my mouth, and it was so delicious I swallowed it whole, pausing then to drink the last of my molasses Irish cream drink, to wash it down. I hummed another tune after giving my husband this oral gift, and he became mobile again. He smiled at me widely, and kissed me silently, as we continued to accept the profound silence between us, embracing each other and the salty ocean spray, the fierce wind all around us. A time went by of us kissing casually, and he became aroused sufficiently that I asked him to enter me from behind and I lay there face and chest up in the white sand. I watched the night sky over his shoulders, the stark and clear milky way galaxy in full view, as he went in and out for what seemed like ages, until I was brought into a state of strong orgasmic waves enveloping me, panting softly as he went in and out, in and out, firmly but gently, at a steady but not too slow pace. I came so much and smiled at him then, and he brought me up to his face, and we kissed, as I wrapped my legs around his back, him holding me there as we kissed.

After this was done, we went back to our home on the island, my retreat having been complete, a journey into myself, to reflect on myself and my husband, and what we had together. It had been a journey inside myself that I took every year, and the sex that sprang forth from it each year on the beach, and in our home on the larger island, was very profound and incredible. A meditation it was, I thought, as my husband rowed the 15 miles back to our home, his strong sinewy arms and hands rowing as I lay in the back of the canoe on my back, staring up at the night sky again, marveling at the majesty of the galaxy spread before me

My name is Alice, I am a poet and a writer, and I am from North Shore, MA.  I am a currently single woman (transwoman) in my early 30’s, I am a wytch, an atheist, and I like to output my sexual spirituality by writing for others so that my love can warm, heal, revitalize and uplift other humans.

Becoming ballsy

by Thomas Stevens

Troy wore a deep pink t-shirt and black jeans over an athletic expanse of body. His wide upper back, a weightlifter’s back, tapered to a butt like a couple ripe plums. His chest arced outward, stalwart as if on guard duty; when he turned, the tip of a nipple registered. His stomach was a short stretch of plain leading to stallion’s legs, tough, graceful, a glory to look at, say, as he played lacrosse, running to catch a ball in his stick head. Likewise a glory to look at was his hair, dirty blond hair that encased his head like the helmet of a centurion (I’d seen Ben-Hur).

In class he delivered comments to the American literature teacher in a baritone voice that projected lasting firmness. Once he said: “I was surprised that we’d be reading Huck Finn but now I see it’s the sharp contrast to My Antonia”—opening the palm of his right hand—“to the narrator, the voice of the narrator that is”—closing his palm—“the unforgettable point.” I saw his palm opening and closing and drank in his steady flow of words, and I wanted his unforgettable point, the one at the head of his shaft, grazing up my chest, my neck, my face, into my mouth…he doesn’t even see you.

“Any other thoughts?” our teacher was saying. “Going once, going twice…” “Huck was a bore!” I shouted out. “I was much more interested in Antonia’s fate—I mean—the fate she creates for herself,”—Troy had turned his dirty blond head, now he saw me—“given her strength and—resourcefulness.” I looked from the teacher to Troy still looking at me with his lake-blue eyes, still, resolute. “And Huck is not strong and resourceful?” the teacher said. “You got me there,” I answered, dutifully doing a sheepish grin. I was always dutiful.

On my way from early 20th c. American literature to AP French and No Exit, I felt a hand touch my shoulder, give it a squeeze, and release. Surprised, I turned my head. Then I stopped and turned around. I was facing him, the mesmerizing beauty of him.

“Smart comment you made in there. On target. You should speak up more,—.”

“Definitely speak up more, David. It was good to hear from you. Well, see y’around the campus,” Troy said, flashing a smile at me as he walked on, an effusive smile that colored his cheeks and enlivened his eyes. It was a smile that threatened to melt my defenses (such as they were) and harden my dick into a flagpole, flag aloft.
I did see him around the prep school campus, but he was generally in fervent conversation with one or two other guys, the same guys, whom I came to think of as his entourage. They were not unattractive; neither were they Troy. When he walked by without his entourage, he had a remote expression on his upturned face, as if something were calling to him from far away, and I dared not so much as say “hi”. Although I was not speaking to him, I was speaking up more in the American literature class, as he had urged me, that one time, to do.

I pointed out, “Though we hear a lot from Darl, it’s Cash who gets my attention. He’s the one who’s doing something constructive, making the coffin for his mother as she lies dying. Speaking of which, there’s something about his mother that’s always been dying, in the sense that she’s never been alive to love. I think Cash is alive to love.” I pointed out, “It’s ironic that it’s called the Brotherhood. I can’t imagine anyone feeling the love from this group. It’s like 1984. Or Animal Farm.” Referring to Orwell was leaping onto a limb, but my goal, Troy-propelled, was to speak up. And speaking up generated more speaking up—about Fahrenheit 451 and The Bluest Eye—a good thing to do, I told myself, and virtue is its own reward, I told myself, on my way in mid-April to Albert Camus and The Stranger…I felt a hand touch my shoulder, squeeze it, and release.
This had to be Troy. His summons, maybe to something more rewarding than virtue. Maybe not. Whichever, I don’t want it now, I told myself, and I kept walking.

That voice, deep and level. I turned, but I kept walking. A little awkward to walk backwards, but not much.
“Troy, I can’t stop.”
“You’ve been able to stop, before.”
A matter-of-fact statement.
“On to French 3,” I said, turning, and walked off.

Troy didn’t follow me, but a rush of thoughts did—I hope that didn’t sound like “French me,” of course not, I don’t want him to french me, in my mouth or in my ass, methinks you doth protest too much, brain, brain, go away, come again in the next class. My brain didn’t come in French class. It didn’t come after class. A hand touching and squeezing my shoulder did.

I broke helplessly into a smile.
“Do you always say hello like that?”
“What are you doing this afternoon?”
“You first.”
I got an uncomprehending look that I assumed was disingenuous. I stood there.
“Well, do you always say hello—?”
“Only to the creeeaaam of the crop. Ok, you answer me.”
“Working in the garden. I promised my father—.”
“Too bad. Come on!” he exclaimed and ran off.
“Come on!”

I figured, if curiosity hadn’t killed the cat, then boredom would have, and I ran after Troy who ran out the fiberglass double doors leading from French (and Spanish, German, and Latin) to the outside, specifically, a field in back of the school that led to poplar trees that lined a little river. Troy, lacrosse guy, was easily a faster runner than my un-athletic self, and soon he had disappeared from my view. Both baffled and stung, I ran faster toward the river. He had to be somewhere along it. Not quite. Troy was doing the sidestroke in the river. Naked.

“Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it!” he yelled at me. “Said Goethe, anyway! Come on in!”
I looked down at my dark blue button-down shirt tucked into brown chinos.
“You know what they say about he who hesitates!”

I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it over my head, slid off my belt and chinos, gray socks and loafers, and—yes, I thought, boldness—my black boxers. I ran into the river, kicking up water around me, and plunged forward into a breaststroke. I swam for a third of a second, maybe, when Troy caught my arm and pulled me back to shore, as if I were a dysfunctional dinghy.

“Here,” he said, in shallower water. “Here we can stand.”
He put his hands on my hips and flipped me, from flat and afloat, back to upright and standing. Something else, I sensed, was moving upright, but all I said was “I know how to stand,” or, rather, I started to say that, because Troy pressed his lips onto my lips and his hands onto my ass cheeks. If beforehand I’d ever been like chaste Daphne resisting lustful Apollo, I was like her no longer. I took Troy’s right hand and brought it to my ass crack. Right away, I felt a finger up my ass, then a second, and a third, like the barrel of a gun, a warm-blooded gun, sliding, pressing, relaxing me, slow like a massage at first—like a massage for my butt—then fast and deep, in, out, in, out, while his palm brushed my left ass cheek. I shut my eyes. I didn’t want to sense anything else but his fast fucking motion.

Troy took my right hand and brought it over so that it was cupping his balls, then my left hand and brought it over so that it was gripping his dick.
“You know what to do,” he said.

I do? I do. I’ve got to. I buried my face in his smooth chest, the chest that before I’d only dreamed of, and I lapped it up and down, and licked and nibbled his right nipple; I stroked up and down his hardening shaft (I was getting my god hard!) and then covered his cock head with my palm (talk about the cream of the crop); I caressed his balls and followed it up with a squeeze like he’d squeezed my shoulder in greeting, firm so he felt my grip but not rough—and caress, then squeeze—caress and squeeze.
“You do know what to do,” he said and, taking his fingers out of my ass (alas), he twisted and bit hard into my nipples (yes).

I felt my body about to give way and fall back into the river, the brisk river currents, when Troy’s right hand slid down my torso and onto, lightly, my acute erection. I’d become erect fast, too fast to notice when it happened. My dick was really like a flagpole now, hard like aluminum, sticking up and about to spurt. The French phrase du calme suddenly came into my head, and it seemed that something like it had come into Troy’s head also, because he murmured, “Hold back, hold back,” as he slowly stroked my shaft.
Re-focusing on the mud on my feet, I held back. Detachment didn’t last. I gripped his thighs, hardened by the rigor of sports. I licked all over his chest, and his neck, and his ears, as if I were a dog licking its master.

“One more thing,” I said, low and fast into the ear I’d been licking, clasping the hand that was stroking me.
The hand stopped, followed by a courteous and curious “Yes?”
“I want you to—.” I stopped—I do?—I blurted, “—rub your dick against my ass. Cheeks.”

I felt my face cheeks go red. I sound like a porn movie. He’ll laugh at me. He’ll leave me here. He didn’t laugh or leave. He touched my face and smiled and kissed me. He did to me, gently, what I wanted him to do to me, and the rubbing motion of his dick against my ass cheeks sent torpedoes of ecstasy through me, and with a spasm I spurted and spurted and this time I did give way, and I fell back into Troy’s embrace.

Troy leaned over against my neck and intoned, in that baritone voice, that projected lasting firmness, “You are mine, yes, you sweet lovely boy, you are mine.

Thomas Stevens has been traveling through the genres for 36 of his 45 years. Recently he incarnated as a poet and self-published a book of poetry inspired by Joan Armatrading’s song “More than One Kind of Love.” Even more recently, after reading an anthology of gay male erotica, he decided to try his hand at writing gay male erotica. Resident of Roslindale in Boston, MA, Stevens commutes to an outdoor cafe in Boston’s South End to produce his writing.

Reflections of Sin

by Dean Mcmanus

They like to experiment.
New things are common in their bedroom these days. James has always been more favorable to the vanilla, but Thomas likes to spice things up. Nothing as of yet has made them regret it. Though he’d been more than vocal in his appreciation for the idea of a mirror – a huge one, at that – at the foot of their bed.
Thomas had put a stop to his idea of it on the ceiling. There’s kinky and there’s tacky.
He’s likin’ this too though. His lover on his knees at the edge of the bed, back straight and pressed to James’ front. Whereas Thomas’ bare, James is still wearing his belt and jeans, and it gives a surreal sort of awareness when Tom remembers that fact. James’ got an arm around his waist, helping to keep him upright, and his lover’s got one arm lifted and wrapped around James’ neck, the hand on the opposite arm braced on one of the denim-clad hips behind him. Their eyes meet and hold in the mirror across from them as he mouths at the curve of a pale shoulder. Fingers are slick and sure as they grip and pull, up and down and back again. No tricks, just the bare basics to get his lover going.
Slowly, as the minutes pass, the bare chest in full view begins to heave, a thin sheen of sweat dusting his collarbone and a drop of it traveling in the hollow behind Thomas’ ear. James catches it on his tongue, feeling the vibration of the moan his lover releases as he does so.
Still he doesn’t speed up, he doesn’t move things further, he doesn’t allow Tom to do so either. He brings him to the edge and then stops, over and over again until Thomas has forgotten that English is in his repertoire, until he’s cursing and begging in every language he knows.
They progress when James nudges those hips with his own, and releases the hold he has on him. Quick on the uptake, Thomas moves and braces his hands on the dresser that holds the mirror up, precariously balanced between the space of flooring that separates their bed and the other furniture.
The drag of the zipper is almost deafening, but the moan Thomas gives when James finally gives what he’s been asking for is the best sound by far. Needy and frantic, hips have little to no rhythm. Their eyes are still held in the reflective surface only inches from them, and they only close when the long awaited release is nearly ripped from each of them.
Later, soaking in the afterglow and catching their breath, James stops the trail of kisses he’d been leaving over a spine that still occasionally shivers to murmur: “We’re totally keeping the mirror.”
Thomas’ laughter is just as sated as his own, so he’s okay with it.

About the author- “I’m twenty-three and I live in a small town in Texas. I started writing erotica at a young age, mostly through online roleplaying until I could gather my footing and confidence to do it on my own. I was an English Major during my time in college and hope to be going back to that soon. I have a family of my own, including a four year old stepson that keeps me busy.
I love to write in my free time, and I just hope everyone enjoys it as much as I do.”

When I Used to Love

by Mr. Wolf

I used to love…
When he would hold and kiss me
When times were better
When we didn’t care who saw
When we just discovered our feelings
When I found him again on Facebook
When he told me he loved me
When we held hands
When we held each other
When we slept in each other’s arms
When I was 17 and he was 20
When we were a grade apart
When we were in the JROTC
When we made love for the first time
When we cuddled in the backseat
When time knew no bounds for us
When we were two kids in love
When our hearts were synchronized
When our souls were one

Then…the heartbreak
When I found out he wasn’t the one
When he left me for someone else
When I used to love


“Mr. Wolf,” was born and raised in Detroit, MI. He graduated from Cass Technical High, but still hangs around with his younger friends from time to time. He’s 18, and has his share of hustles to get by. He loves to write and debate. He is also a Liberal Republican, defending both the NRA and gay marriage. He’s bisexual, and looking for his love once again. This poem is based on his relationship with a former schoolmate, and the first time he was in a relationship with another guy.

Coming Out of the Closet- a new feature!

Hello world,

I am Sarah Jane….Residing in the city of rain….
A mid-twenty something lady who has a lot to say about nothing. Or maybe it’s something, I guess you can decide?
I write in my blog about life as I know it, a journey out of an ever so stifling closet.

Coming Out of the Closet

Coming out isn’t the easiest thing to do, especially when you are trapped in a (friendship) marriage to someone of the opposite sex whose feelings you desperately do not want to hurt. Or when you come from a very Southern, Very Christian family who is sure to cut you out the second you refuse to keep quiet. Then again who doesn’t have it hard? I guess I could sit here all day long coming up with reasons why I sat around making myself miserable for 25 years when all I had to do to be happy was tell the truth. I like women. The decision to finally end the charade known as my “heterosexuality” wasn’t made lightly. And it’s a journey that won’t come easy but I am finally ready to take. So, here it is. As I live and breath it, the painful, the happy, the lessons, the triumphs and everything in between.

I won’t always have the right thing to say, the politically correct thing to say or do the morally right thing. But this is my journey, that I am taking and for better or worse I will always do things as I see best. And selfish as it is, for the first time in my life I am putting my happiness first, which means that some people are going to get hurt along the way, unfortunately. Hopefully, throughout this whole thing I will be met with at least some understanding, support and even more strength and determination to finally be true to ME!