Angela’s Sexual Oceans

I love the illogical fantasies of the beach, and I flash my tits and angle my pussy towards camera one. Imaginary beach-lovers drift cross the plumb of the waves surfing bright umbrellas. I tease my sex in my palm, and break open the rib and eyes. Imagine if any man could know my cunt as I do. They would jerk off forever, entranced feeling the after shocks and the pitch back and forward that crushes every muscle inside leaving your body more breathless at apogee.

Whet if they knew my belly, breasts, and nipples as I wore them, spun into gristle and the sinew that demands one, two dreams, and then more.

Aaron never takes my fake cunt any more. He knows it is female but I insist it is a cock and he stops, feeling the prick simulate a hole, and he doesn’t fear it but moves into it like I am fucking him. When my boys Henry and Aaron are there, and fully engaged as younger men, it is Aaron, who turns into some mad transsexual thing. I am not too kind to the inter-sex. I push Aaron back and tell him he cannot be a woman and if he did he would be ugly. He says I cannot be a man and would be a hideous man. I shout “I am ugly. I am ugly down there.” Never believing, of course, my curse, I play with him. Whispering, I circle my clit, opening the hood, making the point shine. “Look at my pores magnified in space. All details leave us cold you know. We need to post the grit and gray maps of every stark face that wanders the shadows of some other hope. Do I digress too easily into sex for you boys, listen, you know I want all the pages to be burned with the acid of my cunt. How sleek it is you know to feel my dirty girl envelopes where the semen leaks down the inside of my thigh. I eat your things too darlings and make them rigid to a springing like a popping up and down. I am mesmerized too by cocks and their persistence.

September 3, 1991 & Many Years Ago

Recalling a distant memory. My eyes were always looking down the tunnel where time started. I never looked forward , always backward to a more primitive place. I had dreams of being taken when I was fourteen by a beast. He had a human mouth but the parts of a giant. I had no idea about the dimensions of a cock. I was 16 when it all started. I had seen my father’s cock and some boys I knew. I wanted if you pardon the phrase a humdinger.

When I was sixteen I had a male friend who wanted to be a girl. I dressed him up and made him fuck me like a dog. I made him bark, and kiss me with lipstick over his cock; he kissed me back with his own shade of violence. I loved the way this gentle freak played with my hands. He played my hands. He made music when I breathed. Now, and when I dream, I have no mercy drilling through it all, worn down, not truly satisfied.

Sure I came if that’s the criterion. I am not sure if I know the exact path where I walked with that imaginary childhood boy now a handsome younger man, but I appreciated his attention, and the ease by which I drift from that to this, between that recent swollen mouth and the memory of how easy children pluck each other, unmaking terror into a scheme for death or not.

I am finally defeated you know, Henry. I cannot lift myself out of your kiss. I am finally satisfied Aaron, you have driven my ass into my weeping, and the tears after come with bliss for an anthem.

Stare, I yell. Love doesn’t hear it. I sing. He moves away. I take him in hand, and he growls, driving my back into the chair, couch, bed. It really doesn’t matter where?

When I am there deeply inside, it’s usually late in the evening, after working hard, twisting metal, making silver into shells, and I look around at the signs, I feel a greater threat, while sun shelters my skin, and I wearing my full, darker eyes, hold my lovers over edge. My words appear serene, easy, and invisible as I twine inside his skin, doubling him.

When I leap forward, I soar. Perpetual distance. Every event, more disturbed, as I meander between dysfunction and delirium: taste my hands I say. Suck my eyes.

Rest inside my mouth. They respond, wanting what is not, frustrated by the distance between terror and satisfaction. Meanwhile, I use them to leap forward, bridging that great leap forward, as the Chinese and Russians predicted in their endless ten-year plans.

My plans are less formidable. I want to soothe that ache brought into my mouth by first the tongue, then fingers. I want to show it off, expose it, watch them watch my belly tremble, legs laughing in wonderfully obscene yes.

Yes takes it all on, and when they look inside lip upon lip, crater upon dune, into the muddle, feeling the internal ribs, then the cervical cap, pushing against my flutter, tasting the sweet pee as if I could control it, I descend from their eyes, and do myself, watching my own mouth swallow my cunt while first Aaron and then Henry watch. I want the spectacle. I want to be used as wings bear trees from the field to the pond.

One seed and I am full. One seminal drink and I have faked that blush too long. I kept it as a medal, and when swept up in my own passion as I drink myself, lick my lips, split my cunny into ocean and then marsh, I dance inside in my own salt, bashful, almost ill.

It was the risk myself that I, Angela wanted, and like my other spirit, Tina Louise, also known as Christina, an entity, special to myself, I pause while I watch the heat unbalance on the pavement.

That is the heat of sex wasted. Christina is my God of sex. Is she real or fabricated? Does it matter? What is real and what is false today. Every word has another side bar. No one knows what it is forever.

Christina came down on my eyes with her mind. I smelled her cunt pressing against my inner ear. I felt the rage and tough gristle of her clit and she walked out of the cave that had collapsed safe.

All dreams are simple when you play them out not as stories but impressions. Fake them. After all, are we not more false than real. Isn’t that true Christina? You dear God are the biggest quack, and your clit doesn’t even warble as a soprano on the other side of alto. What the fuck do I mean Henry?

All I want is to get laid and here I am at the fucken beach making friendly ghosts shiver with my dirty, sad attempts at humor?