stripped bare

Archive for the ‘Perversion’ Category

瞎。

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昨天,有位名人說:

如果妳沒做錯事,就無需向人解釋。
如果妳沒做錯事,有人要妳向她解釋,記住:
人跟蝦是不能溝通的。

太適合昨天的心情了。

我吃妳

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Written by smudgi3

December 2, 2013, Monday at 14:36

Posted in Perversion

Re: Your recent comment

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If you haven’t been intimately privy to my recent struggles, you have no right to leave those comments on my blog. If you really cared, you’d know better than to ask those questions. Don’t presume you know what you know simply because of the things I post. You may or may not know that Life is a vicious cycle that goes back and forth. Today I rule the world, but at night, I have to nurse my wounds.

I removed your comment and my reply from my blog, Long-time Silent Reader, because you could have been genuinely concerned and didn’t realize how insensitive you were, saying those things.

If you knew of the things I’ve been doing outside of my blogs, you will see that I have been actively trying to “give up and move on”. However, I admit I am holding myself back from greater things, but that’s only because I’m still trying to reclaim my Self that I seem to have lost. But, as you’ve observed, “he already has someone else now”, so what is the problem again?

One day, perhaps, you will see me posting happy blog entries about my newfound happiness, or sharing photos of every meal I have with my new man, of every thing he has bought for me, of every time he holds my hand in bed, and maybe, even of every time he fucks me, but till then, whenever I get emotional, or whenever I’m feeling the need to rant, I shall post whatever I want to share on my blogs, because that’s how I must deal with it.

Thank you for caring enough to comment, though. Thank you.

Written by smudgi3

September 1, 2013, Sunday at 19:28

Closure.

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A whisper, a flutter, and silence falls once more, between the worlds.

Brief Lives, The Sandman, Neil Gaiman

Written by smudgi3

March 10, 2013, Sunday at 23:22

Posted in Dear Diary, Perversion

Hello, Stranger, Goodbye.

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Hello, stranger, hello.

My eyes met yours today when the bus I was in stopped at the bus stop where you stood, hands in the front pockets of your jeans, headphones over your ears.

For the few seconds that the bus was stationary, time stood still as well. Here I sat and there you stood, safely separated by a window and anonymity, and the fact that we will never ever meet again. So boldly we stared, not pressured by space or names, and in that moment, that short fleeting moment, we were lovers.

Perhaps you were listening to the same music I was, the same beats and lyrics pounded in our ears in the seconds we shared.

Perhaps we would discover that we have a lot in common and conversation would flow in a long, continuous stream of words, dreams, and promises.

Perhaps I would find myself in your bed and our bodies would fit perfectly, just like my hand would in yours. Our foreplay of words would lead to sex, and the aftermath of our sex would transcribe into words, one no less important than the other.

Perhaps we would start completing each other’s sentences and with just a glance, you would know exactly what I was thinking. We would then decide that there would be no one else for us, that we each have found our missing halves.

Then perhaps Fate would become jealous of this love we shared, so Destiny would cut the invisible string that had tied us together.

So one day you would find that I knew you a little too well and start to pull away from me. And, mistaking your insecurities for the diminishing of your affections, I would begin to demand more of you.

So we would go on like this, this emotional tug-of-war, seduced by the warmth of our joined bodies and lying to ourselves that we were enough for each other. We would feed on the memory of that electrifying gaze we shared and drown our thirsty demons with glasses half-emptied with hopes and promises.

So then we would have nothing but resentment and anger left between us, and we would realise that love alone could no longer keep us together, when your words were no longer written for me, when I have murdered a part of you that had nestled deep within me with my own hands.

So we would walk away from each other’s lives, occasionally wondering what it might have been, occasionally wondering if it had all been a dream, occasionally reminiscing, occasionally regretting.

I hadn’t shifted in my seat, nor did you move from your position, but so much have passed between us. With each blink an episode of many “perhaps” and with each breath several “would haves”.

The bus started to move away. I had already fallen in love with you, but I knew I wouldn’t look back. You knew it too and that’s why I was gone from your mind as soon as our eyes broke contact. I was sad for a while, but what were a mere few seconds when it comes to the grand scheme of things made up of egos, pride, and selfishness?

So farewell, stranger, goodbye.

Written by smudgi3

September 27, 2012, Thursday at 01:18

Posted in Dear Diary, Perversion

Mine.

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Tongue.

A finger, sometimes two.

Buckling.

Your stubble sank deep into me.

“You like it like this?”

A moan. Pleading.

You didn’t stop. No.

“Mine,” you said, drinking from it.

Yours.

Every drop of it.

Teasing.

Feather-like. Fingertips.

Throbbing.

Your eyes burned deep into mine.

“Use your mouth.”

A groan. Guttural.

I stopped. Waiting.

“Yours,” you said, feeding me with it.

Mine.

Every fucking drop of it.

Written by smudgi3

May 15, 2012, Tuesday at 06:06

Posted in Him, Perversion

Within a dream.

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He kissed me, and my heart burst into tiny little birds fluttering under my rib cage, because he hadn’t kissed me like that in a long time. His lips were not so eager to leave mine, pressing themselves against me as if to soothe the ache of our loneliness, and time flew back to when those lips first met. I cried and half-opened my eyes, and it wasn’t him anymore but a faint glow of a person. Fingers were rubbing my lips and I hear a familiar voice, a gentle, high-pitched voice of a woman, as she looked down on me. She climbed onto the bed behind me and started to hum a lullaby, then put her cool arm over me, pulling me into an embrace. It was my grandma’s ghost. She’s come back to wake me up from a dream and to tell me that it was all right, I’m a big girl now, and I shouldn’t cry. It was the same words she would say every time I cried when I fell ill as a little girl. I knew it was her ghost and I remember feeling so happy that she had finally come to me in my dreams after her death. I quietly told myself that as soon as I wake up, I would tell my mother that my grandma has heard all my prayers. I couldn’t see her clearly, but her form was real. I could feel the softness of her body behind me. I could feel her warm breath as she hummed against my ear. Then I did wake up and I was in a big white room. I have been in this room before. There were bright lights above me but I couldn’t make out the faces before me. They were saying something and my eyelids were getting so heavy. The white room turned black.

I’m being reminded that in these three years I have lost everything. Everything.

Written by smudgi3

December 24, 2011, Saturday at 05:39

Desire

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“Desire is of medium height. It is unlikely that any portrait will ever do Desire justice, since to see her (or him) is to love him (or her), —passionately, painfully, to the exclusion of all else.

Desire smells almost subliminally of summer peaches, and casts two shadows: one black and sharp-edged, the other translucent and forever wavering, like heat haze.

Desire smiles in brief flashes, like sunlight glinting from a knife-edge. And there is much else that is knife-like about Desire.

Never a possession, always a possessor, with skin as pale as smoke, and eyes tawny and sharp as yellow wine: Desire is everything you have ever wanted. Whoever you are. Whatever you are.

Everything.”

— Season of Mists, The Sandman, Neil Gaiman

Written by smudgi3

May 22, 2011, Sunday at 23:51

Posted in Perversion