Tag Archives: what genre even is this

Nameless, faceless strangers

Fairly dark photo of the legs of three people standing on a wooden floor.

Content note: This post talks about different kinds of anonymous sex. The last paragraph is mildly explicit, but doesn’t specify genitals or genders.

A darkroom where touch is the only language. A masked ball where no one sees each other’s faces. An internet chat room where everyone goes by a pseudonym. A cruising area where no one asks for a name. A glory hole where almost an entire wall keeps us anonymous. Carnivals. Adult movie theaters. Public bathrooms.

Spaces to be nameless, faceless strangers to each other.

Spaces meant to free us from expectations and assumptions; spaces created to protect us from exposure and persecution. Spaces carved into an unwelcoming landscape to allow us to meet at all; spaces reserved for those who already have all the privilege in the world and now want even more freedom from responsibility.


What would I do if no one knew it was me, and I didn’t know it was them? Would that really free me to be more of myself, to express my desires more clearly, to indulge without shame? Or would it make me — and everyone who’d touch me there — default to even more assumptions, an even narrower set of behaviors because there was no room for fine-tuned negotiation and personal connection to replace them? Would it make me feel safer to get lost in an anonymous crowd, to not have a name, to narrow myself down to the purpose of sex? Or would it make me feel more at risk because there was no room for me to be an individual who needs more than a few gestures to express her complex sexual desires? Would I feel a sense of unspoken camaraderie with my fellow nameless strangers who share this fleeting union? Or would I feel even more alone because no one knew my name and there was no next time to meet again?


The nameless, faceless stranger suggests freedom from everything that makes things between us humans complex and, often enough, complicated. The nameless, faceless stranger promises no need to listen to anyone’s backstory, no need to dig into one’s own. No commitment beyond that moment, no future, no past. No messy, sticky feelings, just messy, sticky fucking. No doubt, I see the appeal.

Nevertheless, I’m fairly sure the nameless, faceless fuck is not for me, at least not beyond the occasional solitary, selfish fantasy. When I fuck people, I want to talk to them first, want to seduce them to open their minds to me by flashing them bits of mine. I want there to be an emotional Room of Requirement for my issues (and their issues) because that’s what makes me feel safe these days. I want there to be a (potential) next time. All of that makes me rather incompatible with anonymous sex of any sort.


I still dream, though. Of touch that just happens to be right without elaborate explanations. Of speaking with hands and eyes and the distance we keep or close. Of darkness and breath and clothes shoved aside. Of damp leaves under my boots, dry brick walls in my back, wet fingers between my legs. Of murmurs of others nearby, of moody bars, of dirty bathrooms.

Of dancing with nameless, faceless strangers.

This is a post for the Kinktober prompt “anonymity.”

Image source: Pixabay

When I dream of tentacles

Photo of an octopus with one of its arms draped across its head. The suction cups are turned towards the viewer.

When I dream of tentacles,
it’s not the potential for restraint that captures me,
nor is the force of penetration entering my mind.

Instead, I dream the firm fluidity of their embrace,
wet slither across my skin, the suction
of eight armfuls of kisses.

I dream their many-fingered strokes, strong
on my flesh; their suckers sliding, dragging over skin.
the overwhelm of elasticity.

I dream the lazy swirl of winding arms,
a dance, slow-motion, limbs entwined;
their suction cups my flesh in gently pulsing lines.

I dream a slow, close hold; full-body
touch. Sharp, piquant pain as blood surges, bursts
beneath my skin, blooms into mottled purple.

I dream the tightening and the release;
limbs falling soft, breath easy under water,
flesh sinking to the ground. A sigh.

I dream the loss, the loosening, the slipping off;
a final kiss, a wave. Until next time, my strange
and wondrous lover.

This is a post for the Kinktober prompt “tentacles.”

For the zoology-minded amongst my readers: Yes, I know that octopus arms aren’t the same as tentacles. This is poetry, though, so I don’t care.

Image source: Pixabay, color edited by me.

Bucket list

Sepia-tinted photo of a miniature metal bucket

I imagine my hands and knees on the floor.
There is a bucket. A dripping rag.

I’m in a kitchen. A bathroom, perhaps.
Somewhere cool, hard. Domestic.

I imagine your voice. Quiet, serious. At ease.
Do this. Like that. I whisper affirmation.
(Exact direction is a rather captivating freedom.)

I imagine your gaze, sharp, heavy
with attention. Pressing me into shape.

I imagine my skirt, riding up
as I crawl and stretch, rag in hand.
Damp folds unfurl between my thighs.

I imagine the blood in my cheeks,
my hair tidied away, nowhere to hide.
Red doesn’t always mean stop.

Shame curls my head, lust
arches my back towards the floor,
heat seeping out of me.

And then.

There are many directions this could take.

A yank, a kick, some measured violence.
A series of commands, expecting exactitude.
A baring of skin, of sweat, of yearning.
Silent attention.
An invasion; the thing that isn’t done.

A desperate struggle, mostly within.
Admission, confession. Surrender.


(I’m not supposed to want this, but I do.)

This is a post for the Kinktober prompt “domestic, at home.”

Image source: Flickr / Christian Schnettelker, CC BY 2.0, color editing by me

Public acts of pleasure

Surveillance video image depicting two men making out in the bed of a truck (screencap from the music video

Public sex has always been forbidden sex. Sex that has no room elsewhere. Sex that is pushed into secrecy, casualness, a lack of commitment. Sex that is forced into denial. (Nevertheless, we persist.)

No time for life stories, for explanations, for context. Here and now is all that matters.

Gay cruising. Men kissing men, men sucking cocks, men sharing intimate touch with each other, despite all the hateful laws. Parks and parking lots and public bathrooms. Glory holes. Messages scrawled on walls in code, writing ourselves into existence, leaving traces.

Spoken in nods and glances, wordless hands pushing you where he wants you. If you’re not interested, don’t make eye contact. Walk on. The next dark tree may shift into the man you want.

Last night’s intensity still hangs in the air, dense between the shrubs, when you accidentally wander into the area the next day. It’s only then that you see the torn wrappers on the soft floor, used condoms half-covered with leaves, damp tissues melting into the ground. This is sacred space. Don’t tell.

Sex in cars because there is no home open to both of you. Sex in cars because that is the first space that is yours and you can take it wherever you want. Sex in cars because there is unsupervised time between leaving one place and arriving at the other. Drive-in cinemas, gravel roads, taking the scenic route.

Steamed-up windows, tangled limbs, heated kisses, hands under skirts, teenage dreams.

Back alley fucks, behind the gay bar, queer bar, dyke bar. Urgency besides stinking trash cans, daytime shapes dissolving in the dark. One ear always listening for trouble.

Trying to stay silent, so nothing bad will happen. Public sex is never really safe. Not for us.

Knowing something is happening in the bathroom stall next to yours. Stifled moans, gasps breaking out, hard breaths; the sloppy wet noises of kisses and cunts. Your hand between your legs, moving to the sounds of strangers.

Grinding on the dance floor, fingering in a dark corner. Making out at the bar, fucking in the bathroom. Sweat and glitter and the stench of alcohol. Smeared make-up, messed-up hair, ill-adjusted clothes, happy grins as you stumble out, back into the writhing crowd.

The unspoken agreement that this is a legitimate use of the bathroom in a dyke bar, queer bar, gay bar. The community makes room for our sex, since no one else is. When it’s you standing in line, waiting to pee, you may still groan that it’s all taking too long, but you know why. You know this is how we do this. You keep waiting.

Public sex means discomfort. Rough walls leave scratches on our backs, our hands; gear shifts and toilet roll holders bruise our shins and thighs; clothing rips and stains and digs into our flesh as we shove our way in; our bodies painfully bend into these small, re-purposed spaces, creating friction, granting access, making room for us to come together, making room for us to come. Together.

Making out while others are watching. Making out because others are watching.

Low lights, soft surfaces, every sofa, mat, and podium an invitation to get down to it. Bodies moving together, hands grabbing thighs in leather pants, fingers trailing over underwear that deliberately stays on for this. We’re really good at having sex with our clothes on. It’s a reminder that we didn’t always have this space. That we made this happen, for so many of us. We’re really good at eroticizing the inevitable.

Reveling in the freedom to finally take off all your clothes because there is no danger here. Cries of pleasure serving as encouragements for each other, lustful sounds gathering like a wave, crashing through the whole room, much louder than you can ever be at home where the neighbors still disapprove. A collective celebration of how goddamn fucking beautiful we all are when we don’t have to hide our desires anymore but finally get what we want. A soft, wet cunt that opens for us, a tight, greedy ass that draws us in, a firm hand that goes exactly where we like it best; their favorite cock, her lovely, large clit, his squishy chest; her broad thighs painted with our bruises, their four hands all over our freckled skin, his deep purrs of erotic delight.

Crumpled up cover sheets, mats propped up to dry, a whiff of disinfectant. Trash cans full of paper towels, empty lube packets, used condoms, inside-out nitrile gloves. Soft smiles as you tidy up after the party guests have left. It’s always worth it at the end of the night.

Still, I keep wondering: How long before we are violently stopped, again? How far can we take this and still keep each other safe? How much queer pleasure can we get away with, this time? And why is queer public pleasure something we still can’t take for granted?

The #Kinktober prompt for this was “in public.”

Image source: YouTube (screencap by me)

And so I suck your cock

Detail of a curled up hand with an outstretched index finger (taken from Michelangelo's painting

Today, it begins when your hand cups my cheek, gently, firmly, an offering of steady warmth. I’m on my knees; you stand in front of me. I close my eyes as I lean into your palm, like a cat saying hello, a moment of tenderness and gratitude, a sigh, and that little push that says, Yes.

Another quiet breath or two, and your thumb shifts slightly and grazes my lips, rests lightly across them. Pauses. My lips part, just a bit, just enough for both of us to notice. I never quite know whether you dragged my lips apart or whether I let them fall open, but I know both of us were a part of this. It’s the same opening that happens to my thighs when they are simultaneously pushed apart and falling open because you want an entrance and I want to create one for you.

Something between us shifts along with this opening. This is a different kind of yes now, a dash more demanding on your part, a drop more yielding on mine.

I breathe out, warm, damp air onto your skin, and my tongue starts rising inside my mouth, thick, slow, like a languid snake drawn towards the evening sun.

Your thumb stays across my lips, you add an ounce of weight, the slightest hint of pinning me down, and my next breath comes with a clenching of my stomach, as if my body wants to jerk towards you. Just for an instant, though, because right now, the distance between us is still delicious, filled to the brim with maybe. My mind flashes to the line, “I see you shiver with antici…pation,” and the way this movie scene’s reaction shot perfectly captures this eager, full-body wanting, waiting, straining, and the shuddering release once the maybe has finally turned into a yes.

But we’re not there, not in that moment. We’re here, still within maybe. It’s a good place to be. For now.

I swallow the tide that has swelled in my mouth.

My tongue is still rising and curling inside my mouth, bumping against my front teeth, trying to find the way towards your skin, until I open my jaw just a little bit wider and the wet tip of my tongue connects with your thumb. It could almost be accidental.

How will you respond? I never know. I never know whether I’ll end up feeling embarrassed for licking your finger like that. I never know if you’ll end up feeling awkward, holding your hand up to my face like that, as if your finger is some kind of treat that you’re not sure I’ll want. Even though we have done this before, I’m never sure where this will go. I don’t think you are.

I just know that I’m suddenly thinking that you might be thinking— …because I know that I am thinking— …and wouldn’t it be great if we were indeed thinking the same thing? Wanting the same thing?

Today, your response to it, another small shift, tells me that my tongue is indeed welcome on your skin, that this is not embarrassing. So I become bolder and lick that skin again, a little more of it, revealing once and for all that this is not an accident.

It is a question, a challenge, an offer. Are we thinking the same thing? Do you trust me? Do you want this?

I look up into your eyes to let you see the possibility in my gaze, let you see my willingness, my desire, my own vulnerability. And because I don’t want to miss any nuance of your response, whatever it may be today.

We are in a liminal space now, the space between here and there, between this and that, between yes and no, not quite sure yet where we’ll go. This is a fragile, tricky place. This could still fall flat. This could still become embarrassing and awkward and a fundamental misunderstanding.

Sometimes at this point, I wish for the security of words (as illusory as it is), to make this all less ambiguous, more defined. However, I strongly believe that this is a time where words would extinguish the magic that could arise. And sustained ambiguity is pretty much what this particular magic is all about. This is the risk we take. To misread, mismatch, miss. Or to ignite this into a profound source of heat and mutual recognition.

So I don’t say anything at this point and hope you won’t, either. Not now. Not yet. Talk is for other times (and we do talk, then).

This time is for the way we reach an understanding of what is happening here without spelling it out.

Your thumb presses into my lips a bit harder in response to the touch of my tongue. Or your eyes unlock another level of their depth for me to see into. Or you growl a little, all the way back in your throat. Or your other hand grabs me tighter wherever it is holding me. Or your thighs become firmer against my shoulder. You don’t say anything, though. Your first reaction is never in words.

Along with it, yet another shift happens. It is tangible in the air between us, like a sudden change of weather, like a spell that has been cast, but I never know what ultimately caused it. It doesn’t feel like there was a conscious decision by either of us, just a realization of something that has already happened in both of us, simultaneously.

All there is to do is acknowledge that this shift has indeed happened.

So I slowly lick the whole length of your skin, upwards from the root, covering as much of its surface with my wet tongue as I can, and then I take your whole cock into my mouth.

I probably moan at this point. Because that first moment of enclosure is always significant. I never take for granted that any of this happens; it’s always remarkable to accept a part of you inside a part of me, to be touched on the inside of my body. A relief from being so separate so much of the time.

A small, distant part of me is aware that outside observers would likely still think that I’m sucking your thumb, but a bigger and more present part of me knows that this anatomical reality had ceased to be the relevant truth here. I know I’m sucking your cock. You know I’m sucking your cock. And I know that you know that I know, and you know that I know that you know. It sounds really complicated and philosophical and abstract when I think about it. But in this moment, it really is quite simple: your hard cock is in my soft, wet, hot mouth.

And so I suck your cock, let it slide in and out between my lips. I stroke its underside with a wide tongue, I swirl around its tip, exploring how we fit together today, paying attention to what you like now, and trying to know what you want next.

Maybe there’s a moment where a bit of the factual anatomy blurs into the truth of this cock-sucking when you grab my chin with the other fingers of the same hand, to pull me closer or to hold me in place as you fuck my mouth. But for me it all makes perfect sense, nothing is disturbed by these coexisting realities, all is smooth. And hot. It’s all simply a part of how bodies are awesome and how I like being with yours. And you see me, too, simple in my complex desire for you and at home in the permanently liminal lands of your embodied gender.

My own body exists only on the edge of my awareness. Maybe I’m straining to keep up a challenging position so the smoothness of my mouth on your cock isn’t disturbed. Maybe I’m all lips and tongue and teeth and open wetness; maybe there’s thick drool pouring forth from the depths of my throat when I let your cock slide in as far as it can go, touching me on the edge of gagging, just this side of too much, and then try for a bit more. Maybe I’m trembling, because fuck, this is intensely hot. Maybe there’s a faint awareness of a warm, wet mess between my legs, where specific body parts flow together into melting softness. Or maybe there’s a sharp sense of clit straining forward, yearning to be touched, not right now, but soon, soon. Please.

Most of my attention, however, is focused on sucking your cock, infinite repetitions of favorite rhythms by now, with only small variations here and there. All it really needs at this point are the simple basics. Suck, cock, wet, hot, fuck, yes. Maybe these are the words you say to me. Maybe they just run on a silent loop in the leftovers of my brain. Maybe distinct words have ceased to exist altogether and there are only moans and grunts and growls, hard breaths, and the slick sounds of my wetness sliding around your hard length. I can get lost in this, all sense of time falling away as everything that matters anymore is your cock, my mouth, and the dance between us. You push, I yield. You rest, I move. You set the speed, the rhythm, and I adapt my body to your signals, follow your lead.

And there are your sounds to listen to, small ones, but from deep within, that reverberate within me. There’s the way your whole body becomes ever more hard and still and then, eventually, erupts into this sequence of delicious shudders. Which always makes me feel honored and flushed and a little bit proud because I got to do this to you, for you, with you.

And maybe that is where it ends today. Or maybe it doesn’t. We’ll see.

The original #Kinktober prompt for today was “deep-throating,” but I wanted to share this instead.

Because there are many kinds of cocks in my queer reality. Some of them are fingers most of the time, some double as needles or whips, others are made from silicone and are never anything but a cock; some of them are rather small and pulse with blood between my partners’ legs, others are big and smooth and cool (at least at first) and grow from wherever they want; some are made from nothing but hot air, and those can be the ones I feel most deeply. And all of them are amazing and deserve a love letter like this.

I suppose I could say more, about they way gender works in shared queerness, about how we believe things into existence until they are a solid truth, about the specific vulnerabilities involved in this specific act for each of the participants, about the permanent liminality of it all. Not today, though. Not here. Because this is for feeling, not for analyzing. This is my queer gaze, untranslated.

(If you are the one person who has seen an earlier version of this text elsewhere, thank you for asking me to write about this. Please keep my identity to yourself, though. And perhaps let me know that you’ve found this blog?)

Image source: 1