My peni$ smells like pu$$y.
Good pu$$y.
Sweet pu$$y.
And no, not because I
fkd a woman
with good, sweet pu$$y.
My peni$ smells like pu$$y
because
I take female hormones
and I’m a woman.
Tag: writing
Sometimes I just wanna be fkd.
Just wanna be laid back naked
with my tits bouncing around,
her on top
and her tits hanging out
freely and swinging,
hands clutched together,
knuckles locked to knuckles,
her clxt swollen, hard, and huge,
pounding my perineum
til she cums…
til she cums
and I lose my breath,
lost in my mind,
lost in my soul,
lost in the ocean of the universal soul,
evicerated in desire,
renewed and reborn through
love, lust, and trust.
The moon with her glow,
I hid from her light
but she called me anyways
from out of my home
and into the night.
Her crushed tinsel dress
shining on high.
My lips found her thighs
and my eyes, bashful
but entranced,
afraid to look up to her
iconic face and powerful grace.
Her crepulescent lips
burning,
waiting, they spoke without words,
as they professed
they wanted, they needed my kiss.
She called me home for our
midnight embrace,
entwined and attune,
two women f@&$ing each other.
Two eons salvaged,
two eras made,
one whole age announced,
only one age now
from hence this time writ.
It’s a scary thing to admit,
maybe a scary thing to feel,
although physically, it feels
really good to get there.
Often these days, very late at night,
after I’ve done like eight
or nine lines of coke,
I’m able to finally lay there and
feel calm,
feel cool,
feel loved,
forget about you,
forget who you are,
forget that you exist,
forget that you no longer love me,
and then I’m able to
dumbly, mindlessly, numbly,
fall asleep and sleep good,
sleep in peace.
People don’t typically think of
cocaine working this way
and maybe that’s why this is
scary…
that this is what it’s evolved to.
This is what love is to me now.
I miss the two cats who
loved me deeply.
I tried my best to do the same
for them and I believe I loved them
deeply as well.
They’re gone now.
They’re both dead.
And I live alone.
I talk to them still from time
to time.
Empty voices in a wooden house.
I feel them here with me.
Or want to feel them here.
Or need to feel them here.
Maybe you’ve had a pet or
a lover or a loved one before
who’s no longer there;
either deceased or moved on?
Maybe you can relate to this
kind of vacant feeling?
And maybe, just as I,
you still hope and believe
in something…
because you have been loved
bigly.
I won’t go there again.
I won’t.
It will be avoided.
I hate it.
I don’t like having to avoid
a place,
but I will.
The road you live on won’t
exist in my world.
I won’t go by your house
hoping and dreaming and
angry
late at night.
Looking at your window,
knowing the mass of coiled
gold hair mess behind it.
I can’t.
I’ll choose emptiness and
also fullness with strangers,
with the moonlight above
country fields near our town
cuz it is late and I’m lonely
and I drove out there to
breathe the scent of oak trees
instead.
I want your scent, body heat,
curves, accidental brush
of soft skin and your
muffled snores.
Sometimes I’ll blow coke,
lots of it,
and it will comfort me,
a hall of poets and angels
gathered.
But some other nights I won’t.
Sometimes I’ll just lay still
in my bed with the watercolor
painting of midnight on the
walls,
feel my passionate heartbeat,
strong and rigorous but also soft,
and I’ll just be still,
knowing stillness in night
while awake
is sacred.
Us ushering ourselves to the
hall of death.
I want to be tough, but more
importantly,
I want to be honest.
So I will.
That is how I’m going to live.
I can feel a thousand lifetimes
passing through our fingers.
She is a person who would
let a thousand lifetimes
pass through her fingers;
an epoch of love and lovers,
passed over.
She’s done it before,
many times.
I’ve seen it.
And I watch it now.
That’s why I was here again,
to see if things could go
differently.
But they won’t go differently.
She’ll be in this situation again;
it may not be on Earth,
it may be as a woman or as
a man,
it may be as a mom
or as an animal,
but she’ll do this over and
over.
That’s why I leaned in to
love her.
When it finally all came down
I was in bed
feeling shitty on a
Saturday morning
after I’d said shitty things to you
the night before
and Fleetwood Mac’s
“As Long As You Follow”
came on the radio.
I couldn’t hold back anymore.
I realized you would not
follow me.
And you were never going to.
I’d spent the relationship trying
to get you to follow me into love
and the many vibrant colors of love
and when you didn’t so regularly
it angered me, it felt unjust.
And so it all hit me that morning;
we are over,
we will never be again,
we were never meant to
really be…
and I broke out bawling,
sobbing, uncontrollably,
the way a child cries,
deeply and forlorn, abandoned,
alone in the empty house,
the empty morning,
with just the sunlight and
the stillness
in the bed we used to make love
to each other, gasp to gasp.
The familiar loneliness of a transwoman
with a cisgender woman.
Except this time,
not only loneliness
but nothingness too.
In the time
that you loved me
I had done the worst things,
but you continually
asked me,
you called me to love you.
I was a failure many times,
messy, immature,
I wrecked relationships,
broke my heart,
broke many other hearts,
I lied,
mad bad decisions,
treated myself and others poorly.
And yet, over and over,
you crawled on top of me,
butted your furry little head
on my chin
and said,
“I am here, right here,
I am here to love you”.
You
taught me
how
to
love.
You — were a cat.
And you,
are a mother f@#%ing wizard.
You — persist.
More of my fantasy soccer travel writing for your evening, end of week reading…
By W.T. tuqMairtin, an excerpt from the novel “Povs In Kyrum”
As Kældurn and I were winding down with our stretching a trainer came up and introduced herself to me as Lo’o’toag. She knelt down by Kældurn as he bent my feet back and held my knees. “Is it ok if I touch you? I’d like to check out your muscle and tendon tension.”
“Sure.” I replied. She had a very calm presence about her. Her head was large and broad, her forehead especially. Her hair was dreaded, but short. A headband pushed the short dreads up, but it wasn’t the yellow and black headband. It was white with outlines of blue flowers and yellow stars in their center. She smelled like fresh cedar.
Lo’o’toag pressed behind my right knee with two fingers. She motioned to Kældurn to continue stretching me. “You’ve had this knee replaced, haven’t you?”
“Wow,” I…
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