Because Oversharing- It’s What I Do

Sandy beach. The air is warm and damp.

I walk over to a descending tunnel. The entrance is square and made up of light tan colored bricks. The ways in which the bricks connect and lay atop one another are ridged, but the outside texture is smooth.

I enter. The cave is large, very well lit. The walls are made of large, uneven stone- as if man plowed through here one day using powerful tools with the intent to carve this very pathway. Areas of abstract flowers are present throughout these walls. It is also warm and damp here.

As I walk along, interconnecting images of bright neon purples and yellows swirl around before me.

I reach a large room. From the doorway, there are tiny windows to the left, right, and ahead of me. Through them, I see various clutter in other rooms. From where I am, there is no visible entry or door leading to these rooms. I rest in this doorway a while, scanning the room a few times.

Also to the left of me is a staircase made up of about 10 small stairs. It leads to a broad, circular archway, which leads to another room. I go over to the staircase, sit down on about the 2nd or 3rd step. Here I remain still, experience the purples and yellows once more.

Then I travel up the staircase and pause sideways by the door, facing a wall in front of me made up of the same material as was the entrance to this tunnel. Not yet peering through the door, I examine my expectations for what’s beyond it. All I see in my minds eye is a room with nothing in it, empty and radiating a brightly colored white light.

I turn and go through the door. I find a deep teal-blue ocean. Hundreds of flowing ripples. There is absolutely no land, only outstretched ocean. A large and beautiful sun straight ahead of me, although it is not blinding. The sky is a mix of purples, yellows, and pinks. The temperature is cool here, comfortable.

This room has no walls. It really isn’t a room at all.

I stand here, alone, in awe for a few moments. Then others begin to join me.  Friends, close friends, acquaintances, strangers, and all those in between- come to this water’s edge to stand alongside me. All come in a sort of trance-like state, all consumed by the beauty of what lie ahead of them.

They are not here because of me, had no intention of meeting me here. They just arrived. Perhaps because something outside yet within themselves drew them here, just as it did me.

Goddess Part 1: 2nd Draft

***Side note: I am working on an actual backstory. So for the love of fucking god, someone critique me so I have a better idea which direction to take. 

Amari packed her bags and left for New York, where she would be collaborating with Central Living Magazine on a fundraiser for homeless LGBTQ+ youth. London only had to wait 3 short weeks for her return, but even the short-term absence from her felt like an incredibly long time.

Before Amari left, they decided to play a game. The rules were simple- neither one of them would pleasure themselves while she was away. No masturbating, and obviously no seeking pleasure from other people. Amari vowed to make it worthwhile when she arrived home. London, fully aroused by the idea, agreed.

While London would never even consider breaking a promise made to Amari, the fact that she couldn’t obtain that sexual pleasure and release made her want it even more. It only took a handful of days after her departure for London to find their little game insufferable.

“Leave it to Amari to come up with the greatest tease of all time.” She thought to herself as she lay alongside the empty spot on her bed, giving her all not to obsess over it. She turned onto her side and inhaled deeply; a failed attempt to clear her head. Unknowingly, she breathed in remnants of Amari’s lemongrass shampoo that had, over the course of time, been stitched into the seams of her pillow. It went straight to her head and she forfeited. Thoughts, powerful and energetic, invaded her. Amari’s bare body covering hers, arm muscles tightening as she shifted herself back and forth, her hair falling in London’s face as she traced the edges of her collar bone with her loose lips.

Amari’s mouth, a paintbrush with bristles made from flesh, painted the most profound stories- not only of relentless want and desire, but of the freedom to express and act on it- all over London’s body. She was so in-tune, so precise, so careful to make sure she covered every inch of her canvas with hot, wet paint before moving on. Always so thorough. Always one color at a time. Always setting London completely on fire, burning straight through her skin, and setting vivid flame to the very depths of her spirit.

Dear God, how London had spent 3 weeks in perfect agony, longing to be covered from head to toe in Amari’s stories. Now, she lies next to her lover, wayward in her presence. The air is damp, her skin sticky. The space between her inner thighs is a sweltering mix of sweat and cum. The heat radiating from the side window has her feeling feverish, but she doesn’t want to close the blinds. Bright sun rays highlight Amari’s face; revealing every line, every newest wrinkle and fold, every unruly blemish. She wants to take every delicate imperfection, turn them inside out, and etch them into her brain so the memory of this moment will never leave her.

She’s hungry for Amari… starving. She wants nothing more than to rip her clothes off and feel the entirety of her body beneath her kiss, to taste the salt from her skin, to be completely consumed by her essence.

This view of Amari, spread out in bed with her true and authentic beauty illuminating in the sunlight, makes it nearly impossible for London to grasp onto patience as this little game continues. She knows Amari is the one with the intent to drag it out. She can see it in her eyes, waiting to see how long London can hold out until she makes the first move is bringing her immense satisfaction. She could probably experience an orgasm right now at the mere thought of it. Although there’s no doubt she is just as eager to reach out for London and turn fantasy into reality. This gives London the upper hand; she knows it would take the smallest gesture for their self-contained urges to erupt into every corner of that room.

London studies the ridged, interconnecting pathways of scar tissue on Amari’s cheek; visualizing the process in which each layer of skin formed slowly over time to heal the once present wound. She likes the scar. She rests her forehead against it, internalizing its warmth. Amari pulls herself closer. She begins running her fingers through London’s unshaven leg hair- a delicate, overgrown forest. Such a place is uninhabited- just as raw, just an unkempt, just as earthly as her partner- bringing Amari back into her very own natural state.