Torn Shapes of Desire
Internet Erotica
Mary Anne Mohanraj
www.bookviewcafe.com
Book View Café Edition
February 4, 2014
ISBN: 978-1-61138-351-5
Copyright © 2013 Mary Anne Mohanraj
Dedication
To Kevin, Lisette and Alex,
for love, support and criticism,
and to all my readers,
whose enthusiasm gave me the courage to continue.
Author’s Note
This book was originally published in 1997 by Intangible Assets, in part as a protest against the restrictive laws being considered at the time, such as the Communications Decency Act. The original book incorporated photographs by Tracy Lee, who along with myself, was one of the first online diarists — what people call bloggers today. Much of the original introductory material to the book is less relevant to this reissue, but can be found in an Appendix at the end of the book. Tracy Lee’s photographs and introduction can be found in the original print edition.
—Mary Anne Mohanraj
Was It Good For You?
His hands press smooth against her waist as he guides her into the frantic club. The blast of heat and music hits them both. Now they are past the bouncers and the ticket counter, skimming past the teens in their translucent skirts and carefully bored expressions, down the stairs to the over–21 hangout, where he promises her interesting conversation and air–conditioning. Once there, pulled into a booth by his over–friendly friends, he curves her body to his and loosely links his hands around her waist. His thumbs etch small, slow circles on her belly through the thin black tank. She wonders if he remembers that she is seeing someone else. She wonders if he cares.
My first fumblings took place in my parents’ finished basement, age fifteen. A neighbor boy and I sat cross–legged, facing each other beneath the staircase. When he asked if he could kiss me, I was so flattered that I said yes at once, that I actually had dreamed of his older brother. This kiss was not quite what I’d expected — damp and squishy, rather than exhilarating. His rough hands groped eagerly through my shirt, gently mauling my breasts. After a bit more groping, he pulled my hand to his crotch and asked me to rub. I pulled away, but offered to remove my shirt instead. He agreed this would be a fair exchange. When shirt and bra were removed, he bent to suck my nipples and I wondered, “Is this all?” An unpleasant week after, I manufactured an imaginary boyfriend to rescue me. That was the end to my sexual exploration for the next two years.
His hands move to her back, at first a gentle rub that no jealous lover could have protested, had one been there to see it. Fingers slide along the curve of scapula and spine, rise to caress her neck and rub tense shoulders, and butterfly–dance along stretches of bare skin. Palms press heavy against knots of tension, slow circlings. Fingers rise again to slide through her heavy weight of hair and rest against her scalp. In one swift movement he clenches his hands in her hair, pulling her taut against him breath warm against her neck... then, with a laugh, releases her. She laughs too, shivers racing through her, muscles clenched. The conversation swirls around them.
In college, I met a man. We had absolutely nothing in common, but those sparks so conspicuously absent two years before were flaring high. Fucking in private and semi–public, on soft beds and concrete floors, to the dismay of roommates and the abandonment of dignity. I was even a little in love, as was he. For a while. When the sparks died for him, they still raged in me, and I pursued him for far too long. When he finally acquiesced, it was swift and joyless, in a place and time not of my choosing and in a manner that brought pleasure to neither of us. It did have the salutary effect of killing any last thoughts of salvaging the relationship.
Impatient with this slow seduction, he stands, pulling her up with him. They move upstairs again, to the dance floor which at this hour has become a solid mass, a slowly writhing, sweaty black void. They insinuate themselves into the creature, pressed close by necessity. Her groin is tight within her, a twisted heat radiating to her skin, to each cell that lays against his slickness. She makes no resistance when he grinds against her, palms tight against her hips. Eyes closed, she moves as he wills her. One of his thighs slides between hers, and she lifts one leg to wrap around his hip. Thus locked, one of his hands is free to slip up her body, beneath the tank to cup and caress her breasts. They have long since crossed the forbidden line, and now she wonders if there is any point to resisting further. He bends to run teeth along her neck and she shudders, biting back a moan.
Years later, I lived with a man I loved. The sex had always been good, occasionally great, and the conversation was better. There were times when he could bring me to the point of coming with a kiss, or a whispered promise. So how could I protest those few times when his interest outstripped my own, when I would rather have curled up with a good book and a mug of cocoa? He was unfailingly gentle, always patient, so what harm could there be in simulating more pleasure than I actually felt? The emotion was there, after all. I wanted to please him... pleasing him pleased me. I convinced myself that that was enough.
They leave the club, his arm firm around her shoulder. Driving home, his hand roams across her body, but exhaustion rises in her now, and she merely simulates response. In her apartment, he strips confidently, knowing that she will not back out now. He is sure in his ability to please her, and assiduous in his attentions to her needs. His mouth travels the paths his fingers had patterned in the club before, and when he slides within her, she is wet. He holds off on his own climax, waiting for hers, and under his gentle, unwavering assault, she surrenders, and moans for him.
Jinsong
Date: Fri, 15 May 1994
From: [email protected] (Matthew Danzener)
To: [email protected] (Jinsong)
Subject: Re: your last poem...
You probably don’t remember me; I wrote you a while ago asking you about a Yeats poem you quoted...
I just wanted to say how much I... umm... enjoyed your last poem. I was pretty stunned, actually. While I’ve been following your work for a while, and you’ve certainly had your high points and low points, I was really impressed with your honesty here.
I’m enclosing a copy below, just so you know which one I mean. I wrote you one in response — if you like, I’ll send it to you...
—Matthew
Confession
(You ask what I want.
I cannot tell you: Catholic upbringing, New England prudery,
a habit of silence combine to smother the words.
So write it, you say.)
I want everything, you see.
Men and women
indoors and out
top and bottom and sideways
to come screaming in a deserted forest
so that the only creatures startled are the deer.
More than a little bit of an exhibitionist.
Eyes watching
caressing
stripping away the layers
the flimsy chiffon covering of propriety
leaving me gloriously naked to a stranger’s fevered gaze.
I tease them shamelessly walking down the street
in cut–off jeans and minimal tank, hair swinging.
I make them wonder as they read my words
stare at the screen
touch themselves
(wonder if this is me; wonder if it is only a poem).
Riding the power trip
to its heights
(and I will taste the depths)
tied down so all I can do is strain against the black silk
blindfolded, so I don’t know whether you will lick a nipple next
<
br /> spank me until I’m sore and screaming
begging for more.
I am not quite as brave as I would wish, but if I could
I would risk getting caught on the quads at night.
I would have two men at once, maybe three.
I would be fucked until I pass out.
I would have sex with someone without knowing whom it is.
I would do all the shameful things a good Catholic girl
should never, ever think of.
And I would tell you about it.
o0o
Date: Fri, 15 May 1994
From: [email protected] (Jinsong)
To: [email protected] (Matthew Danzener)
Subject: Re: your last poem...
Thanks for writing, I’m glad you enjoyed it.
And sure, send me the one you wrote... I’m curious now. It’s been a very long time since anyone’s written me a poem.
—Jinsong
o0o
What... You don’t have lovers writing you poems daily? That’s hard to believe... If I were in Chicago, you’d get roses and poems on your doorstep every day.
Here’s the poem.
(Since you asked...)
Please
Please don’t be offended
if I also say something hard
hard to say
what’s on my mind
what’s on every
one’s mind
Please
meet me
in the dark
in a room
at midnight
or on the Sears Tower
observation deck
at noon
and we will
and I will
and you will
and then...
I can’t say it
because you might be offended
but it would have been
spectacular.
(What I wanted to say,
but don’t have the nerve,
was that I would
like
to
fuck you
to absolution...
But I am too shy to say this
to anyone I don’t know,
and also
to anyone I do know,
so I’m not saying it to you,
and it remains thought
but unsaid, and I hope
you remain
unoffended...)
—Matthew Danzener
o0o
I’m a little stunned. That’s certainly the best wanna fuck I’ve ever gotten. I might cry. I can’t really speak — and that’s impressive, stealing away a poet’s words.
Thank you.
—Jinsong
o0o
Hey, I really didn’t mean to make you cry.
I just wanted to give you something in return, after that seductive image of your bare thighs, and hair swinging loose against the small of your back.
I could almost taste the sweat collecting on the base of your neck, under all that gorgeous hair.
Sorry, you probably don’t even have long hair.
Ok, I admit it!
I’m insanely curious about whether you have long black hair. Or blue eyes. Or dry gold skin. Or wicked nails, to rake a lover’s back...
Are you a romantic?
I want to take you to the 95th Floor in Chicago for brunch, then walk along Wacker Drive and watch the sparkle on the river.
I want to take you to the beach at night and walk across the jagged rocks, somewhere we can see the city skyline, and kiss you till you’re dizzy and only my arms keep you from falling.
I want to take you.
At least you don’t sound offended... Yet(?)
—Matthew
o0o
I’m not offended. Flattered, really — I’ve had a hard couple of weeks — just broke up with my boyfriend, after an angstful relationship over the last year, and it’s nice to get some attention.
And yes, I’m a romantic. An utter, hopeless romantic. But I hate mush and sticky sentiment. Can you walk that line?
I’m demanding in my lovers. I want sweetness and sexiness, strength and vulnerability. I want a woman who can make me come just by spanking me, and a man who trembles when I kiss the small of his back. And the reverse, of course. I want utter honesty... but I admit that I play games sometimes. And compliments embarrass me. And I’m sometimes more brave than wise.
So a description — I’m small, slightly plump. Straight black hair, pale skin that oddly doesn’t seem to burn. Green eyes... my mother is gorgeous, but that’s unfortunately the only feature I seem to have gotten from her. I’m really my father’s daughter. He’s a professor in Near Eastern Studies here at U Chicago. Where are you, anyway? And what do you look like?
Who are you?
—Jinsong
o0o
I’m sorry about your boyfriend... at least, I’m sorry you’re sad…but honestly, you sound beautiful! And your openness and honesty makes you so very appealing. It’s hard to believe you’re so far away. If you were here... or I was there...
As for me... skinny, strong, not too tall, scraggly brown hair with a winter–only beard, blue eyes, semi–introverted, but with a charming smile.
I’m in Pennsylvania... but I spent a summer in Chicago once. And would like to go back again. Maybe this summer?
Promise not to be offended if I tell you what I really want?
—Matthew
o0o
No promises. Be brave.
—Jinsong
o0o
I’d like to pick you up
pick you up
at your place
in my rental car
you’ve been sad
So I hug you tight
steal a quick kiss
and here’s a rose
we’ll go out
to dinner
we’ll go to your favorite spot
and have a glass of wine
we’ll get wine–happy together
laughing and talking
the waiter has to come back
we forgot to look at the menus
then under the table
I rub the back
of your hand with mine
and then off
onto your thigh
with my nervous hand
I hope you don’t mind.
I am becoming intoxicated
with your presence.
So many thoughts I have
you and I
this way and that,
here and there
but I can’t tell you
these thoughts
they aren’t decent.
You smile at me
at my awkward boyish attempts
After dinner
I want to take you
to a movie
we can walk from here
it’s close
hand in hand
I lust for your touch
in everyway
We’ll sit in the back row
(because this is my fantasy)
no one joins us
and in the darkness
my arm around your shoulder
I kiss you
and take your hand
slowly
onto my leg
and you rub my thigh
gently up and down
higher next time
and then higher still
and my intoxication
of you
reaches new heights
I am so drunk
on you
that nothing else matters
and your hand brushes against
my crotch
and the world disappears
and only you and I exist
for the moment
and I kiss you on the forehead
and moan softly in your ear
to show you
how much
how so very much
and you smile at me again
in the movie sound, soft–lit
theatre darkness
and you rub more firmly now
you are pleased
my spare hand has found your breast
under your jacket
and I caress gently first
until I feel the nipple
rising up peakedly
and I focus more on it
as you work your magic on me.
No one is near us
in this back row
so you move deftly
in a defiance of all that
is proper
and you unzip my pants
and reach in
and it is all I can do now
to control myself
to not scream out
at the pleasure
that’s mine
that you are giving
with your hand as
my cock spasms in your grasp
with a throbbing aching need,
in a way I can only remember
it doing when I was
in my teens and
every girl was
wickedly unavailable.
I move my breast hand down
down across your uncharted mids
to your netherworld
to your sacredness
to your promised land
of milk and honey
to your zippered crotch
and you spread
just a bit
for my hand to penetrate
to your jeans covered warmth
your covered secrets
and I rub you
gently first
until you press against my hand
and squeeze my cock pulsingly
as if to signal your approval
(since this is my fantasy)
you look around
furtively
and there is no one else
seated nearby
it’s a darkish movie
so you slide quietly
down to the floor
on your knees facing
and over in front of me
you are small
you barely fit
but a certain duty
calls
and you honor it
as you take my throbbing hardness
in your mouth
your warm wet mouth
your delicate lipped
eager, inquisitive mouth
and you tease me
with your slowness
as I want impatiently
to give you everything
to give up my reality
in exchange for this moment
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