Scream for ice-cream

‘That’s fine, but I won’t be too interested in tasting….the icecream’ he’d messaged her, and she remembered how she had nervously giggled. At her phone, because he wasn’t even there when he’d sent it. And now, with her hands trembling around the tub of Ben and Jerries, she recalled that one simple message. The conversation had flowed easily after that, as if he hadn’t just written a line that would’ve done well in a raunchy telenovella she’d watch.

She was so caught up in the memory of that message that she missed his footsteps as he entered the kitchen. It wasn’t until his hand on her hip spun her away from the counter, facing him, to be followed by fingertips sliding from her collarbone to the back of her head, weaving herself in her hair.

A thumb caressed her jawline ever so slightly before dipping under her chin and lifting her face to his. The spoon she’d been holding clattered to the floor, loudly, but she didn’t register it over his whispered ‘Don’t you remember what I said about the icecream?’ against the skin right next to the corner of her mouth, right before his lips found hers.

She instantly pressed herself up against him but met his hand on her hip, holding her in place. ‘So eager’ he breathed against her mouth, while the tip of his tongue slowly traced the outline of her bottom lip. She slid her hands up to his chest, gasping slightly when the softness of his tongue was traded for his teeth, pulling her lip between his.

You know – I’ve been writing erotica ever since I picked up a pen and graduated from badly written poetry and elementary school ghoststories to actual writing. It’s always been interesting to me, not just for the topic but also for the mixed feelings it brings. I love writing erotica, regardless of the question of whether I can actually write it (well). But as it stands (even in the day and age we live in), doing so isn’t really socially acceptable. In more ways than one.

I mean – speaking of ‘the sexxx’ out loud is already frowned upon. Let alone speaking openly of ‘actually having the sexxx’. And then ‘writing about the having of the sexxx, with all the added implications of said fantasies apparently living in the head of said writer?’  WRONGWRONGWRONG!

So writing erotica? It feels a bit rebellious. Naughty. Wrong and mostly dangerous – while at the same time satisfying a part of my creative persona that is oh so demanding at times. I live for these kinds of contrasts. Apparently.

Throughout the years my libido seems to always coincide strongly with my need (or lack of it) to write in this specific genre. And since most of my writing in the ‘erotica’ category has been done privately (so as not to disturb poor pure folk), or on websites suited to that…topic…my ‘not writing’ can go unnoticed for quite a while, even by myself.

So call me flabbergasted when I realized only yesterday that the last time I’d written anything even remotely sultry (be it in messages towards a hopeful partner, or in the form of a stand-alone writing) was somewhere around September. Not that strange, for the ones who’ve been reading along on this blog for as long as that – because that’s also around the time when (I have not referenced any other post as much as this one, that’s hilarious) my libido died. Although, come to think of it…it’s really a chicken-egg kinda deal. Now I find myself wondering whether I stopped writing and that helped kill my urges, or if the lack of neediness made me stop writing. Puzzle!

Call me even more flabbergasted when I found myself being the scooper of said Ben and Jerries ice-cream yesterday, only to be hit by the vividness of this scene in front of ‘my writers eye’. Almost as if it was a memory. Which it wasn’t. Sadly. Nor actually happening. Even sadder.

But it brought me right back to those feelings of how much I love kissing. ADORE kissing. I can hinge an entire infatuation on a good kiss. And it brought back my need to write WITH A BANG as well. Because writing about kissing (and all the things that follow) can be almost as awesome as, ya know, doing it. Better even, at times, because at least when I’m writing it – everything is exactly as I want (need/demand/wish) it to be.

I’m pretty sure the time for referencing ye olde dead-libido-writing is over. Switch: on.
At least – judging from the ten pages I penned yesterday after that tidbit teaser up there. Definitely.

Oh god. Did I really just admit that I write erotica on a public blog? That’s a whole world away from doing it secretly in the mystical world of anonymous online posting. That’s it. I’m insane. But also: yay. Try not to hold it against me, or summin’!
Breaking taboos is also an admirable thing, right? Right? Fuck. I’m probably just insane.