The Locus of Chaos

I’m slowly rotating my hips and staring at him. It’s him and only him, always has been. Even before we met. I’m on fire; if you were to touch me right now, you would get burned. My desire is violent. My breasts are full and throbbing, I’m shaking and sweating. Creating friction is quick and easy, but not nearly as satisfying as when he’s inside of me. I never truly came so much, so hard, so quickly before that fated day. I bit his neck. I needed his blood in my mouth. Nobody has ever wanted that man more than me, his children more than me. I worship his cock because it saved me; I’m neurotic without it. I begged him to finish inside while I writhed around on top of him, possessed by Eros. Please god, please cum in me.  Sex without love is not sex, it’s meaningless masturbation; my infinite, undying love for him is the only reason I am able to have sex in the first place. Sex is just as innocent and romantic as it is fiery and passionate. Sex brings me to tears. It’s the reason I wa...

“Almost every woman I have ever met has a secret belief that she is just on the edge of madness . . . that she must be on guard constantly against ‘losing control’ — of her temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings, of her ambition, of her secret fantasies, of her mind”.     - Elana Dykewomon. I am almost certain that I’d be capable of torture or murder. That’s always been a given for me, never a mystery. What disturbs me, however, is how much glee arises when I allow myself to fantasize about it… that I would, in fact, enjoy violently murdering and torturing certain people. Not in a psychosexual way, per se, but purely from a place of fear, envy, and revenge. Revenge most of all. I can’t go in depth about my murderous fantasies; I don’t want to shock and offend too much, nor excite myself in a way that genuinely frightens me. To say nothing of morality, it makes perfect sense for us to kill each other; we’re animals after all. I don’t seek to self-correct my ...

I am both his lover and his devotee. Once during prayer, I freudian slipped and said his name when I was addressing God. Through his love, my spirit expands and my doubts eroded. To him, I am eternally devoted.

My pussy is both a portal to Heaven and a daemonic, carnivorous lotus. I constrict and devour his cock with it. I take great care of it, treat it with necessary reverence. Boric acid and probiotics in between menstruation. Cranberry and pineapple juice. Fingers along the inside while I pray, rubbing gently and then furiously until I release. A few nights ago, I felt the presence of an angel during this nightly meditation and I cried. 

Months later and I’m still burning from the UTI you gave me with your dirty mouth and those dirty teeth you useless ugly fuck. The truth is I’m not even that mad at you, more than anything I’m mad at myself for allowing it all to happen. Why did I let it happen? I hated myself and I still do. I betrayed myself and I still do. I was sitting there pretending to like it, fake moaning while your greying facial hair scratched my labia and you gnawed at my clit. Heather said you smell like rotting flesh and she was right, you do. I thought the same thing when you got close to me, forced your lips on me. Because you are rotting flesh. Rotten, putrid flesh. Rotten with a lecherous desire for younger women with their guard down. Rotten with romantic rejection. Rotten with bad intentions. Karma doesn’t treat men like you very well. But here I am months later, crying rocking back and forth lost in this bad memory, typing this out. When I see you, I’m embittered and afraid. When I see you, I’m the...

Kneeling before him, with strands of hair slicked to my face, I’m all eyes and tongue and saliva and lust. Looking up at him gently, holding his gaze. I’m sucking with religious fervor, buzzing with pleasure. This is what it means to worship. Every night before we met, I would say my prayers and reach beneath the sheets and imagine. Imagine kneeling before him. Imagine him throbbing in my mouth. I’d try to force my gaping mouth to close, muffle my uncontrollable moans. My fingers and the palm of my hand would get tired, but I barely noticed as the sensation grew and grew, so blissful it was almost painful, until I finally sighed and released, dampening my white cotton sheets. I solidified my prayers.  And now here I am. Here I am. Kneeling before him.

Kali Maa Ishtar Isis She's a dancing demoness Receiving wisdom thru the eye, divine forehead kiss Serving soft feminine feline seductress She's the purity that God desires yet she's oozing with sex Svadhishthana activated dripping wet lotus Kundalini rising hissss Yessss suffering feels delicious If you do it right.