An Innocent Transsexual’s Quest for Meaning, Commitment, and Gender-Dysphoric Redemption amid the Wormy Venality and Squamous Debauchery of the Worst Hell-Hole in Texas!!  

Chapter VI:  Enlightened Penology Comes to West Texas Correctional.

In a pensive mood, Senior Prison Guard, Mary “Biff” McGurk, swirled her steaming mug of morning coffee with her pudgy right thumb – a mannerism that she had picked up after watching a documentary on the lives of lumberjacks in the Pacific Northwest. Starting every morning with a cup of java and two or three unfiltered Camels in the prison cafeteria was a long-standing ritual for Biff. It gave the burly lesbian a chance to relax, meditate upon her schedule, and organize her thoughts prior to another day devoted to disciplining cons. For Biff, this particular day promised more responsibilities than usual. Among other things, it was the last day before The Warden’s anticipated return to the prison. Biff wanted everything to be just right on his arrival. 

The Warden had been gone from the prison for two weeks, attending an annual educational seminar in Galveston. As Senior Guard at West Texas Correctional (and the only WTC employee possessed of an Associates Degree in “Modern Criminology”), The Warden had left Biff in charge of the institution during his absence. 

The importance of her selection was not lost on Biff.  She saw it for what it really was — a test. 

The last time Biff had been left in charge, there had been an unfortunate inmate knifing.  Worse, the institution’s fabled basketball team had abused its gym privileges and effectuated a daring mass escape.  The Warden had been displeased with these occurrences and Biff, wrongly blamed, had been in his doghouse for a long time afterwards. 

Given a second crack at responsibility, Biff wanted to be “pro-active.” She was determined to use the two weeks to institute several reforms in the prison’s operations.  Upon his return, The Warden would find that not only had nothing untoward occurred at WTC, but that Biff’s changes had improved the operation of the place!   

Biff’s first innovation involved a much-needed security upgrade. Now, instead of nightsticks, each of WTC’s 57 prison guards carried spanking-new “X-27 Musculo-Electrical Debilitators” in their holsters.  

Biff had become aware of the X-27 Musculo-Electrical Debilitator from a promotional video she had cannily retrieved from The Warden’s office wastebasket – where, for some reason, it had apparently been discarded without first even having been viewed. According to the video, the X-27 had the advantage of allowing its users to zap miscreants “musculo-electrically” and “non-lethally.”  This had immediate appeal to Biff, who always viewed innovations in police technology with the same sort of respect that a Catholic schoolchild normally reserves for the Pope.  

“Damn!  That sucker’s just like one of those phasers that Captain Kirk and Spock used to use on Klingons and Romulans!” Biff enthused, raptly watching the X-27’s promo. “It’s like what happens when ya put a phaser in the ‘stun’ position. Ya don’t kill the aliens. They just wish they was dead!”  The thought of transferring this new Star Wars-technology to West Texas Correctional, and using it on aliens of the Hispanic variety, immediately occurred to Biff. 

There were added selling points. The X-27 came with lots of nifty gadgetry. There was a laser-guided sighting element and an optional mini-video camera that could be rapidly turned on or off with a quick finger flip so as to avoid, if necessary, unpleasant Rodney King-like situations where videotaping would be inappropriate. There was a “Sim Suit” – which looked like something Neil Armstrong wore during his famous moonwalk. The wearer could then be targeted “to allow for safe live-training simulations” and “scenario firing at a ranging dynamic target.”  The Taser even came with a fashionable and professional-looking leatherette holster “ideal for rapid extraction by trained law enforcement officials.”  

“People like us prison guards, they mean,” Biff translated, nodding her head in emphatic approval. 

The Musculo-Electrical Debilitator had the additional advantage of being manufactured by child laborers in grimy sweat shops on the Asian rim, enabling it to retail for 49% less than its closest competitor — the American-made Z-78 “Police-Buddy.” This cost differential was not lost on the always-pragmatic Biff. 

But what really “closed the deal” for Biff was the video’s depiction of actual “field use” of the Taser.  Here, campus police were shown using the X-27 to administer multiple “musculo-electronic bursts” to the body of a student radical that had been hell-bent on disrupting an otherwise peaceful university lecture.  

“Probly a fuckin’ Commie!” Biff noted immediately upon viewing the radical.  Biff knew a Red when she saw one.  

At any rate, after repeated beatings from their wooden truncheons had failed to totally silence the stubborn radical, two of the alert campus police shown in the video began blasting away at him with their X-27s.  The effect was immediate and telling.  Upon “musculo-electrical” impact, their target was left twitching violently on the floor of the university lecture hall, completely immobilized and at last susceptible to expert handcuffing by the alert campus deputies. Viewing all this left Biff entranced.  

“They shoulda just zapped him right away and not bothered with their nightsticks!” Biff exclaimed, grinning happily as she watched the electrified pinko flop about like a spastic chicken.  “We gotta get those things issued to every guard in this place. Mark my words, that baby’s gonna revolutionize prison discipline!” 

Aside from its obvious utility in dispatching students, Biff’s agile mind readily conjured up other potentially useful prison applications for the X-27. Biff envisioned herself using judicious bursts of the X-27’s high-amperage firepower on inmates handcuffed to chairs, thereby ferreting out secret escape plans, clandestine marijuana rings; and cleverly hidden pornography stashes. 

“Hell, I bet some of the bozos here that are always trying to kill themselves would think twice about it if I zapped ‘em a few times!” Biff mused.  The potential “non-lethal” uses of the X-27 at West Texas Correctional did, indeed, seem endless. Therefore, using her authority as “Temporary Warden,” Biff wasted no time in placing the necessary order and insisting on expedited delivery of the fantastic new weapon. 

To help pay the $30,723.00 cost of arming each of the prison’s guards with the X-27, Biff implemented another long-needed change at West Texas Correctional — the installation of a souvenir stand bearing the wholesome name of “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe.” 

The thought of establishing a gift shop at WTC had been percolating in murky areas of Biff’s cerebrum for a long time. It strongly appealed to her mercantile instincts. Relatives and loved ones usually arrived at West Texas Correctional on their visiting days empty -handed.  Most had learned from prior visits that all gifts or packages intended for cons were seized and subjected to thorough searches by WTC’s ever-vigilant coterie of guards.  Furthermore, following such searches, no visitor was ever permitted to give anything directly to a WTC inmate. Instead all deliveries were made by WTC’s turnkeys. 

“Leave it with me, Ma’am.  I’ll see that he gets it!” was a public pronouncement solemnly made by solicitous guards to every tender-hearted donor bringing a package from home intended for a con.   “Leave it with me, Ma’am, I’ll see that he gets it!” was also a statement certain to generate peals of private laughter among WTC’s bevy of jovial and fun-loving guards, who after mouthing it, invariably confiscated anything of any potential worth or value. Biff had personally obtained a dandy set of Ray-Bans, as well as a regular supply of homemade cookies and several appealing nude photos of prisoners’ wives through her participation in WTC’s inspection and delivery process. 

Thus, to Biff’s way of thinking, “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe” made a lot of sense.  For one thing, it was a lucrative way of profiteering on visitors’ well-intentioned impulses to give incarcerated loved ones pre-approved tokens of their affection. For another, the same visitors could buy a little souvenir of their own – like a key chain or an ashtray – that would suitably memorialize their own happy visit to the penitentiary.  

“Hell, this way we’ll get ‘em coming and goin’!” Biff grinned, as she shared her “Gift Shoppe idea" idea with Tansy Delgado, The Warden’s Tex-Mex secretary. 

Tansy did not share Biff’s enthusiasm.  “I dunno, Beef,” Tansy responded.  “I yam steel kinda wooried bout alla thoze Tazeer theengs you buy.  Now yoo wanna do thees.  Maybe yoo be better wait an’ ask The Warden wen he come back foorst. The State maybe haf a law or sometheeng ginst all thees.” 

“Don’t you worry about the State, Tansy.  I already checked the regs,” Biff responded.  "There ain’t nothin’ about no gift shops in any o’ them books one way or t’other. I’m a-doin’ it!  I gotta pay fer them Tasers some kinda way and this here’s a sure-as-shit money-maker! Get me the phone number fer Hallmark Cards!” 

Biff’s resultant brainchild — “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe” — was strategically placed next to the Visitor’s Entrance to the prison – just past the institution’s row of metal detectors.  On opening, the emporium featured a display area containing a festive assortment of trinkets, high calorie comestibles, and items of cheap clothing. Cards, coffee mugs, candy-bars, ashtrays and T-shirts were all on prominent display.  

The cards were specially ordered by Biff to be “Prison-Specific.”  The delivered product featured poignant thoughts like: “To My Darling Husband in Prison”; “My Heart’s There With You in Jail, Honey”; and “I’m Still Waiting For You Here Beside the Old Oak Tree“(opening up to an arboreal feast of gnarly trees festooned with yellow ribbons).  

The Gift Shoppe’s specially designed souvenir T-shirts were in red and blue. The fronts of each depicted, in white, the silhouette of the prison’s guard towers as seen from a distance in the moonlight. Their reverses offered several lettered options:  “I’m the Proud Parent of a WTC Inmate”; “My Husband’s a Model Prisoner at West Texas Correctional”; or “My Loved One’s Getting His Mind Right at WTC.”  

Biff provided a cash register for the Shoppe and installed a Trustee to oversee its activities.  A large sign behind the counter read: “GIVE THE PRISONER YOU LOVE A THOUGHTFUL GIFT! – WE ACCEPT ALL MAJOR CREDIT CARDS! SE HABLA ESPAÑOL!” 

Uncertain whether “Ye Olde Prison Gift Shoppe” alone would generate sufficient revenues to pay for her much-needed X-27s, Biff had presciently hedged her Gift Shoppe bet by administering another imaginative tweak to the prison’s commercial affairs. 

The Warden’s long-standing policy at WTC had been to charge $6.50 per minute for all collect outside telephone calls placed by inmates to their loved ones and attorneys. Trading on her own recent small business experience as a phone sex operator, Biff saw no reason why The Warden had chosen to be so conservative. Using a calculator, Biff quickly determined that at $13.00 per minute, 42 inmate telephone minutes alone would nearly cover the cost of one of her new “Musculo-Electrical Debilitators.”    

“Hell, The Warden thinks small. I think big!” Biff chortled. “I’m doubling the per-minute price!” 

Still contemplating her many reforms, Biff swallowed the last of her coffee. A glance at the clock on the wall near the exit indicated that it was nearly time for her to go on duty. There was still some unfinished work that needed to be done before The Warden returned. For one thing, Biff had to put the finishing touches on a lecture she was preparing.” 

The “Biff McGurk Prison Lecture Series” was the last reform that Biff had implemented. The “Lecture Series” was a concept that owed its origins to the extensive training in criminology that Biff had received at Amarillo State Junior College. That training had taught Biff that prison life could sometimes be stultifying and boring for the cons. Keeping prisoners’ minds active and focused on mentally enriching and educational endeavors served to advance the criminal justice system’s avowed rehabilitative goals. Hence, the “Biff McGurk Prison Lecture Series.”    

As implemented, Biff’s “Lecture Series” was to be a weekly affair with attendance made mandatory for all of WTC’s inmates. Biff delivered each address personally. She would come up with an appropriate topic – always something stimulating and educational — and then be responsible for the content. It was a lot extra work for Biff, but she figured it was worth it. It would certainly impress The Warden and it would also help the cons to reassimilate into polite society.    

Biff’s first lecture was a controversial ethnographic jeremiad entitled “The Latino Threat to American Culture.” It featured 90 minutes of Biff’s own insightful commentary supplemented by selected excerpts Biff had videotaped from episodes of CNN’s “Lou Dobbs Tonight” show.”  

Sadly, her lecture had not been very well received. The prison’s Hispanic element was particularly disapproving – hissing and booing whenever Biff darkened the auditorium’s lights to run the taped excerpts from Lou Dobbs. Despite this inauspicious opening, the Lecture did have some positive aspects.  For one thing, it gave Biff the opportunity to satisfactorily test the efficacy of her new X-27 on one particularly vocal Mexican prisoner. 

Biff had higher hopes for her second offering — a slide show with commentary that she had elected to call “The Many Benefits of Travel.” Although still in outline form, Biff had decided to build her second lecture around photographs she had taken during her recent visit to Amarillo’s famous “Outhouse Museum” (an edifice chronicling Texas defecation architecture from its early adobe days during the time of the Spanish Conquistadors on down through to the present). Biff’s mother, who was the Museum’s curator, had supplied Biff with plenty of color brochures providing in depth descriptions of some of the more fascinating exhibits. Biff hoped to distribute these to the cons as supplements to her lecture. She wanted to have her finished presentation available and ready for airing upon The Warden’s return. 

“Yes, it sure has been a busy two weeks, “ Biff thought to herself as she pushed her paunch away from her table in the cafeteria. “But I guess it’s time I get my ass to work!” 

The first item of the day on Biff’s agenda was a short visit to the prison’s infirmary. 

“I better check the status of that goddamned Mexican I zapped at the Lecture,” Biff muttered, with evident irritation. “How the hell was I supposed to know the asshole was on a Pacemaker?”

Well, there’s my way to do it, which includes writing dirty stories, talking dirty on the phone and featuring hot writers such as Jerotic,  Pervert Savant, Sabrina Morgan, The Provocateur, Submissive Savant and Porno Person.   

Then there’s the kind of Smut Slinging which is downright nasty and makes me glad after all that I’m not famous — that I’m just here in my own little corner of the Internet, doing my own quiet, little thing my own dirty little way:

Writers on other Writers

“I have tried lately to read Shakespeare, and found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated me." − Charles Darwin

"Jonathan Swift was a monster gibbering shrieks, and gnashing imprecations against mankind, …" − William Thackeray

"Longfellow is to poetry what the barrel organ is to music" − William Thackeray

"Shelley should not be read, but inhaled through a gas pipe" − Lionel Trilling

"This awful Whitman. This post-mortem poet . . . with the private soul leaking out of him all the time." − Lionel Trilling

"[Ulysses is] the work of a queasy undergraduate scratching his pimples." − Virginia Wolff

"[Henry James was] one of the nicest old ladies I ever met." − William Faulkner

"Reading Proust is like bathing in someone else’s dirty water." − Alexander Woollcott

"[Dylan Thomas was] an outstandingly unpleasant man, one who cheated and stole from his friends and peed on their carpets." − Kingsley Amis

"[George Orwell] would not blow his nose without moralizing on the conditions in the handkerchief industry." − Cyril Connolly

"[Hemingway had] a literary style of wearing false hair on the chest" − Max Eastman

"[Gertrude Stein] was a past master in making nothing happen very slowly" − Clifton Fadiman

"[Auden was] an engaging, bookish, American talent, too verbose to be memorable and too intellectual to be moving" − Philip Larken

"That’s not writing, that’s typing" − Truman Capote on Jack Kerouac

"It is only fair to Allen Ginsberg to remark on the utter lack of decorum of any kind in this dreadful little volume" − John Hollander on Howl

"[Alexander Solzhenitsyn] is a bad novelist and a fool" − Gore Vidal

"[Writers are ] schmucks with Underwoods" − Jack Warner

"[Rod McKuen’s] poetry is not even trash" − Karl Shapiro

"A sausage machine, a perfect sausage machine." − Agatha Christie on Agatha Christie

And thanks to PQS for hooking me up.  Although you’ve been known to criticize my prose and poetry time or two, you always do it just between you and me … and with much adoration and affection.  Which is probably smart of you.  (*wink*)

xo, Angela

Bottom on Top:  Richard and the Caning

Okay, I gotta tell ya, I've been saving this picture forever, because I think it is just awesomely sexy, speaking to possibilities.  Possibilities?  How can that be, Angela?  After all, there are no naked girls or boys; nor is there anything remotely sexual happening.  And I say to you:  EXACTLY!    The sexual landscape is bare, except for a cane on a nondescript couch.  That's where it starts, where everything begins.  

Can you imagine entering a woman's apartment with her after a first date to see that lying there, so innocently, yet so titillating?  Or being in a submissive relationship and finding that as you walk in the door one night?  What if you were being puppy trained and you crawled into your Mistress's living room to see this?

Now you get it, don't you?  I'm sure you do. 

Well it used to be that Richard, our resident Submissive Savant, would have agreed with any of the three submissive perspectives I just described.  And I'm sure he still would, really, when you get right down to it.  But, my oh my, is he in a mood for experimentation these days, noting in a recent entry that he has separate profiles up at Collar Me … one submissive and one dominant. 

In just such a mood he wrote a most erotic piece…

I dreamt of you last night. More honestly I stroked my cock while I thought of you.

There you were with you wrists bound above your head. My canes cut into your buttocks. First the wooden cane, then the acrylic and lastly the metal one. Your flinched, your breath became ragged but you wouldn’t cry, you wouldn’t beg me to stop.

With the metal cane only I moved down to the back of your thighs. Your twitches told me that each stroke hurt. Still there were no tears. Again you wouldn’t beg. I felt like I was eating you. At least eating your pain. Finally I stopped. Sitting on a tall stool I sat near you and let my hands roam across your body. I licked some of your welts hoping to taste what I’d done to your flesh.

I yanked you around. My cane cut into the front of your thighs. You spasmed, you whimpered. Selfishly you never asked for mercy. Tiring I sat before you and planned my triumph.

I thrust my tongue down your throat. I burned with love for your strength as much as I wanted to conquer it.

Your face assumed so many beautiful expressions of anguish when my cane cut into your nipples. But no tears flowed.

Finally I released you. But had you kneel one more time before me. My fingers rifled your hair. I treasured the shudders that still racked your body and your seeming indestructibility.

Finally I raised you up as friend and equal and hugged you tightly to me.

I think I love the last line best of all.  Which is probably what I love about Richard best of all.  His beautiful humanity.

xo, Angela

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ auld lang syne.

Despite my sassy and sometimes cocky demeanor, I do have my mushy side (leave the Bitch Slave Boys to their dreams) and Robert Burn’s song actually always causes the tears to well.  Even typing them here, the music and words ran through my head, then took a detour right straight to my heart.

I’m actually going to a party this evening, which should make your jaw drop, because New Year’s Eve with all its forced frivolity is something I normally and obstinately avoid.  Don’t worry–I won’t drink and drive.  And won’t even get drunk.  Maybe a slight buzz if the mood is right, but I do mean just right.

A fair to middling year as years go.  But I blogged and you showed up.  Some of you called and we explored your fantasies, some of you wrote emails to say hello or comment privately on a particular post, some of you commented here, some of you were silent…but I felt your presence.  

We started the year out with a (much celebrated) public lynching for chrizt’s sake.  It broke my heart.  And you understood. 

I got sidetracked with way too many projects and — for a while — didn’t blog as often as I should have (no new savants in 2007!  But I promise more in 2008) and you still showed up and I love you for it.

You sent me dirty pictures and I published two that I thought were super sexy here and here.  And everybody agreed with us whole-heartedly … proving that we do, indeed, know what is fucking hot! 

Our resident Pervert Savant kept us entertained with his very original and always hilarious installments of Lingerie on the Razor-Wire, The Poignant Story of a Young Pre-Operative Transsexual Forced into a Life of Twisted Sex and Degradation in the Sordid Confines of America’s Penal System!

We went to a wedding.  And I must say that you looked absolutely dapper, my darling. 

I shared with you the inter-office emails my sister, Bethany, forwarded to me — including God vs. Devil and What Men Do with Post-Its.

We went parochial and liked it so much we did it again. 

We got hot and bothered, down and dirty, all fired up, queer kinky and lesbian lovely.  It was downright decadent and we didn’t even have to wash out our mouths with soap afterwards.

Humiliation was the kink du jour, so I was in turn a Righteous Bitch, a Heartless Vamp, a Cuckolding Brat.  And then I laughed my ass off while you begged for mercy.  Admit it, you loved every minute of it.

I lamented and you held my hand.  I was tacky and you pretended to not notice.  I bragged about my this and that and you were happy for me. So I bragged some more and still you were happy for me.  I fucked off and you waited patiently.  I got on my soap box and you didn’t even roll your eyes.  I pontificated and you just smiled.  I bloviated and you acted like what I said mattered. I fucked around with everybody and anybody and you forgave me. Or maybe it’s just that you like to watch?

We read poetry.  We found some cuckold poetry.  And then there was the poem that made me cry the very first time read it.  And who can forget Shakespeare’s sonnets proving he was a pussy-whipped cuckold?

I kissed you.  It was very French.  Did you like it? 

I fell in love or lust  — or something in between —  over and over again …with Bitchy Jones  …with Supervert   …with Jerotic  …with Slip of a Girl  …with Sweat Shop Sissy  …with The Provocateur.

Did I say fair to middling?  On second thought, it was a simply lovely year.

xo, Angela 

Voyeur Lilies

by The Provocateur 

If I could articulate you, if I could draw you – then I would be an artist, drawing my desire. My want. And maybe, I could even draw a picture of my need. For you.

If not you, then something close to it – like one experience. One night and one morning.

And so, picture me as the artist – trying to remember everything, absolutely everything:

The parts of you that were naked to me, I traced with my fingers. Your tattoo and its colors in the early morning light beckoned my lips. Unabashedly, I was indulgence. Unknowingly, I was obligation. Only hours old, my ache and my taste for you was already overwhelming.

When I pulled away from my kiss of your skin, the shape of my lips melted away on your warm body. With this sensation, your eyes opened. You looked at me sweetly. You looked at me as that kind of stranger that I no longer want to be, to you.

+

The night was wintry. I could see my breath in blossoms.

This was the first night I knew you.

We met over a table of candles – you and I and your girl friend…

And even when you were looking at me, I was looking at you. As a voyeur and a boy – assessing just how beautiful you are. And I did it all without giggling.

You pulled the breath from my chest…

Your eyes. Your lips.

My anticipation was my heart, beating. Making my hands tremble in little quivers. You did this: you turned me into anticipation and something holy erotic. Even as we were just ordering drinks. Laughing nervously. Learning about our backgrounds.

Your scent swarmed around our table and I was no longer drunk from the drinks.

In it all I wanted to tell you that I am just a boy that wants a girl. In all my glances toward you – this is all I wanted to say. This is all I wanted you to know.

Only later and I would discover that words were unnecessary.

All I needed was my eyes. My eyes would tell you enough.

+

When we were warm and filled with drink, you guided me to your apartment. You wanted me to photograph you and your girlfriend. Here, I was anticipation – buzzing, looking calm.

The idea of learning what was under your clothes was a sensation that is like a memory of your scent: robust and voluptuous. Bigger than me.

Once back in your apartment and you made drinks and lit candles. You made me feel welcome and then you ran the bath water. Your girlfriend and I talked as you moved about the apartment, making sure that your clothes were not falling down.

As if I couldn’t be tempted with something that was forthcoming.

As if you know all too well about temptation and anticipation.

Then you stepped into the white bathroom. You left the door open. Your pants were unzipped – your belt was flailing outward. You were adorable in your shyness and bravery.

I already had my camera out and was snapping away. I knew, even then, that I wanted to memorize every little thing about you.

You were guarding yourself with playful hands as the water flowed behind you.

You said, no – wait…

And then you revealed yourself to me.

Naked and in the bathroom light you were. And the blood coursed through me at paralyzing speed, smashing my breath. Still, I kept depressing the shutter on the camera.

Here, my want was musical – like all the curves and lines on your body. The words you spoke, I will never remember. But forevermore, I will know how overwhelming my hunger is for you.

When you stepped into the tub, you dipped your head – your breasts perfect and your body naked before me. And when you resurfaced, your mascara was smeared like a peacock’s eyelash.

+

I said that I wouldn’t overstep your boundaries. Probably, I was lying.

When it was still dark my chivalry said that I would not push anything. This despite the fact that I had my finger on the shutter of erotic anticipation all night long. When it was still dark, I was laying next to you and you shot your hand into mine. You squeezed it like you meant it.

And when the sun began to rise, I was naked in your bed. I was stealing quick rifles of touch from your arm. You would not let me drive home in the cold, drunk. Forevermore, I will thank you for this

As you slept, I was again the voyeur: taking small, sleepy glances at you.

And I was marveling.

But we were not alone. And this seemed to only heighten this anticipation of all my want and nearly – need. Your girlfriend was asleep next to you when we were drifting to and from our own sleep.

I asked you what your favorite flower was and you said that it was Stargazer Lilies.

I asked you if you knew what lilies meant…

I said that lilies have meaning like everything else. I said they mean, “I dare you to love me”.

Your eyes grinned at me and made me feel as though I had said it out loud, “I dare you to…

And as I fell back to sleep I gave you a big white bouquet.

+

Standing before you, with my camera in-hand – and you, slick with water and completely exposed to me made me feel as though I was naked too.

From where I stood I felt perfect in my safety. And I think you felt it too.

When you dried yourself off, you walked into the bedroom and bent over in front of me.

Click. Your slick ass and arched back burned into my eyes.

Your girlfriend was trying-on panties and tops, barely covering her tiny body. I snapped and shot her with my rifle eye – but always I kept one eye free and waiting on you.

You laid on the bed and lathered baby oil all over your body. I saw your hand slip down and into your panties to oil your clean-shaven cunt.

Click. Click.

+

You asked me in the morning, if I wanted to go out to the couch. I obliged your request and got up from your bed, naked and swollen. Throbbing.

And your eyes were on me. On my cock.

You looked up at me, sweetly.

In your sheer top you sat next to me on the couch, a blanket wrapped around your bottom half. You pawed your toes into my thigh as we sat opposing one another. The winter day outside was gray and I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.

We queried one another. We talked about the past. About broken hearts and darkened heads. Intermittently we would stop with recognition in the other’s words.

I am not so different from you. And you are relatively the same as me.

You read from a book and we looked at photographs together: You came close. You put your head into my chest and leaned back. I inhaled like a pillow that was able to hold everything you had to give.

+

As you danced and moved in your array of outfits: panties and high-heels and see-through tops:

I did not want you. I wanted the anticipation. The uncertainty.

The tease.

I want you for later. For tomorrow’s days.

And as you moved around me in eloquent pirouettes of fiery, wet sex – I snapped away. I captured your lines and your sex. Your hands and fingers curled down and under your wetness; as the pads of your fingers played with your nipples and hooked into your mouth – over your teeth and on your tongue in the exact desperate way that I wanted to lure you in…

Click. Click.

On this night and for several seconds at a time – I was invisible and only a voyeur. I was welcomed in my perversions. And while I was fully clothed – overdressed – I was also naked. Accepted.

Your entire body flirted with me.

When I left the next morning you wrapped your arms around me exactly in the way that I wrapped mine around you. For a long second, we did not let go. And you looked me intently in the eyes and, as I rounded the corner, you said, “I want to see you again, too.”

+

The next day, long after I was gone, you said that, last night, I told you that I would marry you.

I’m not certain, but your words were joking. Humorous. Giggling.

I, astonished, rifled through my memory. I recalled the idea, in my head – as perfect. But I was certain, as I said: I didn’t think I said that out loud.

You laughed. Probably giggled, from across the city, in an exclamation that said you were only joking. Kidding. You weren’t serious.

I closed my eyes and remembered that I did not speak these words out loud to you. Still, you heard them.

…with my hands outstretched, a bouquet of lilies are within my reach…

*******

Not very long ago, I was lucky enough to meet — via email and the telephone (no, he is not a phone sex client) — The Provocateur.  Apparently he'd been trying to reach me long before I discovered him.  I thank my lucky stars that he left a comment at my erotica blog, Blistered Lips.  Because then I got curious and tracked him down.

He tells me that I am talented.  I read his blog, with pieces such as the above, and I am humbled.  Every word he writes is slippery, wicked-wet perfection.  He's graciously permitted me the privilege of featuring his work here at Zen.  

I'm a very luck girl.  

xo, Angela