I do it well
I show and tell
you of my ways
in hopes you'll stay
and listen still
and closer still
to what I say.
an explanation (an attempt)
Jan 18 at 11:36am
I am playing a little game. It is unfolding before us. I am shading in the details, creating nooks and crannies and filling them with light. Remember that this is just an image. Consciously crafted, reflective but not representative.(another post coming shortly)
A sliver of my soul vanishes into the sucking mouths of my headphones; as a temporary respite from the existential dread inherent in this faded spinning-top of an apartment, the impatient application of oil-black nail polish to twitchy digits might be a questionable enterprise. No answers are forthcoming, only a rose bowl of queries is offered up as a response to a frowning face watching the screen. The drippy dark ritual continues with a soundtrack stitched from whispery auto-analysis and the impudent lunges of hypnotic leggings whose design boasts a predatory visual gravity. My fly-brain is dragged into the thigh graphics as if it were prettily spun by an opportunistic arachnid with a penchant for German expressionism. The descent is halted by those distracting blurs of waggling hands, applying a second wayward coating of funereal vinyl. The bad habit penalty tub swims into view with raw thumb-knuckle presented for the caress of a polaroid photo that will never come. The desolation tour of the claustrophobic interior commences with the torn wall and proceeds like a drained carousel with bobbing horses replaced by sagging dressers, an unlit pyre of discarded clothing, puppy dog tape, near obsolete AV tech and a drawer stuffed rigid with a surfeit of sex toys. Then, the obligation to stare at the punishment floor demands fulfilment. The murmurs and mutterings turn to excoriating confession; my eyes are imprisoned by the penitentiary potential of stained boards acting like sorrow sponges. There's no alternative to almost choking on a second-hand angst pill; I must exist within this realm where I can feel you thinking while the disembodied utterances of vulgar spectres bubble up from between the brutal floorboards like bitter froth. The final flamboyant flashes of coherence are doppler images flashing against the mean surface of a rendition cell; a diminutive black-heart tattoo and grit-thrown rain drops that threaten to crack the window pane both inside and out. This clip is thrilling in its disorienting intensity, my gums are throbbing and my teeth are itching but the hit is well worth it.
ASMR/whispered sock show and tell/introspection session
There's nothing intrinsically wrong with comfortable interludes of rational introspection, or mental masturbation if you like. We survived the concerted spiritual and psychological attack of the Christmas season and its apparent importance is dwindling in the rear view mirror of our restive intellects. Now, it's a teeth-grinding, gum-itching, acceleration towards the farrago of witless exhibitionism - countered by maudlin self-assessment and oncoming ephemeral enthusiasms - that characterises New Year's. Honestly, I was enthralled by your whispery reflections on your new stockings. Here in the UK we have an undue obsession with the things, so your explanation of the patterning, meaning and medical benefits of your Christmas socks was more than engrossing. I found particular fascination with the seductive juxtaposition between the smooth surface of the left stocking and the seductively, abrasive texture of your soft leg hairs. For a moment I feared that you might induce an untoward static charge to express itself but I needn't have worried about you igniting your divine eyebrows after all. It was somewhat of a concern to see you looking quite so pale in the face though. The disruption to your life-patterns, the neediness of the teeming crowds and the general change in the prevailing psychic wavelength of the world seems to have lowered your energy levels drastically. Your voice was like a cooling balm to my overheated mind though; a minty gel rubbed into the surface of my brain by insouciant lemurs. I hope that you make it through the upcoming celebration without flagging too much and that you recover from having your vitality mugged off of you by people who should know a good deal better. A happy New Year to you and yours, Miss Cholic with plenty more of your scintillating ASMR shenanigans to follow, I trust?
Something new. This feels very vulnerable to share and I am shaking a little bit as I publish this post, please enjoy.
Those saucily, lascivious logistics demonstrated by the short clip are hilarious. The longer-form clip opens wide with ambient highway roar, woozy diagonals and a provocative poking tongue rearing over feral, horny teeth. Erin's conspiratorial smile, adolescent, excitable demeanour and active offscreen hand betrays the partial resolution of an unbridled urge illustrated archly by that closer aspect of burning, bulging phallus; attended to with a flimsy screen of exhausted leather jacket interposed between it and the prying outer realm of jaded revelry. Then, the freshly parked car permits the next stage of carnal collaboration to be conjured into furtive fleshiness; disembodied, slurping ,whinnies from her and plunging sighs stirred up with guttural gasps from him. That floating melody of applied fellatio - filtered through my headphones - settles somewhere behind my bruised eyes and I am a collaborator also. Then, we hard-cut to some kind of semi-abandoned municipal carpark for the culmination of the loin-surge delayed by familial duties and cosy repression. Situational sex while retaining layers of comfortable clothing is a skill that ,once acquired, should never be underestimated. A sweeter pair of rutting 'knitwearers' could scarce be imagined and that pert rump rubbed between insulated top-layers - while the postponed squirt is slickly encouraged - is a vision of fine festive frolicking. The cars bonnet - that platform for reindeer-style hind worship - bears mute witness to the chilly grind-fest as my vision is mugged by the prominent 'I love FRIES' big button precariously pinned to her shuddering baseball cap. The aptness of that is delicious; it works a grin from by mouth as her tongue is glazed by a warm spoonful of ersatz brandy butter. That last giggle is gorgeous but the terminal shot of of Erin hauling her leggings back into a semblance of respectability was the moment my cold soul was reheated and served up as fresh. This is my definition of a Christmas wish made manifest. Thank you both for restoring my faith in Yuletide cheer.
I've perused the big clip numerous times now and my brain feels increasingly insubstantial; it's as if its compound mass is being transmogrified, to be replaced - in form and function - by an elaborate basket conjured from spun sugar. Now, each and every childish thought that I entertain merely induces my teeth to throb and my gums to itch. I'll put my - late-onset - diabetic deliriums down to you and your partner's wicked way with non-sacharrine naughtiness of the moreish kind.
This set was shot on a blanket that my dear friend knit for me. I don't know how many hours she spent working on it but it's one of my dearest possessions. Wrapping myself up in it is like wrapping myself up in a physical manifestation of her love as expressed through her time, which I know is very valuable to her.I love it for this set because it added not only a wavy texture that calls to mind many things visually for me (it is at times undulating walls of flame, at times muscle and blood, and creates the indentations on the skin in the final frames). The act of knitting itself brings additional weight. Knitting is creating something from nothing, creating knots that weave together into something functional and/or beautiful (both, in this case).
Love exists in many forms beyond the purely sexual and I find myself learning new ways every day. I am lucky to receive many kinds of love from many people in my life and it is all I can hope that I can share that with others in whatever ways I can.
I must confess that I have a fetishistic appreciation of fleeting compression scars caused by clinging elastic waistbands, garter belts, bra-clasps and the like. These intrusive and aggressive objects are notable for the marks that remain when they have been removed; marks that disappear eventually like lighter fluid evaporating from the surface of a stainless steel ruler. Thank you so much for sharing the delicious spectacle of your goose-pimpled skin striated and criss-crossed by the mere weight and contact of your recumbent, naked lower torso on the knitted blanket. The combination of your patterned, pale rump, notched back and exuberant personal fur is a rare treat for me; it makes me wonder how long the first selection of transient furrows took to disappear before the next set became fully established. Physical sensation is ephemeral yet these images have captured that temporary state so that I can indulge myself in its preservation as often as is necessary.