californication dreamin'

All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray. And yet in the atomic winter that is my current emotional state, a slim ray of sun has fallen. I find myself immersed in a little Californication dreaming.

It’s been a tough as bricks couple of weeks. Mostly what I want to do is curl up in bed with a pillow over my eyes. I’m suffering through one of those times when every thing feels like a monumental fucking chore. Washing my dishes. Mailing envelopes. Folding sweaters. Don’t even get me started on the state of my floor. It’s just a great, swirly sandy mess, an arid desert, my life is, and right now what I’d like most is to press the snooze bar over and over again until I find I’ve suddenly woken up in a better world.

And yet, there’s this bright spot on the foreseeable horizon, a little glinting glimmer that winks seductively and extends a promise of fragrant flesh, thick lips and a swell cock. What it promises too—and this is the most seductive part of the package, and trust me, the whole package ranks fairly highly on the Casanovameter—is a filthy-naughty mind fully fecund as my own.

What it promises, in short, is a clash of the sexual titans, and though I’m not ready to step into the ring right now, this moment, this minute when my solitary bed beckons like a maternal embrace, I shall be. (A train of thought that leads me inexorably into wondering what my American Gladiator name would be. Termagant, maybe. Or Slush.) What it promises, to be yet more brief, is some effing great fucking.

This is a man I’ve met but whom I’ve never so much as kissed. This is a man of great intelligence and profound perversion (or perhaps profound intelligence and great perversion; it can be so difficult to tell). This is a man whose prurient C.V. would leave most men gasping in jealousy and many women swooning with undiscovered want. This is quite the man, in short. Though to be fair, he is a bit pretentious, if I may be honest, and I think I might.

This is the only man, the only real flesh-and-blood man, to whose imagined image I masturbate with any frequency. He knows this fact, of course, and he feels the commensurate pride intrinsic to it. I have imagined this man doing the voodoo that he does with doo-dads and what-nots to my whoo-hah and I have reciprocated in kind, in my mind, for in real life, we’ve done nothing more than hug and kiss congenially.

But, ah, the delightful electric tension. Livestock has been herded by less current.

And now, plopped square in the midst of this winter of my intense discontent comes the swelling possibility of pressing his flesh. I have imagined it. So has he. It’s grand, really. I play these movies where only I can see them—the great silver-white space of my head—and I see us finally kissing. In an act of passionate cliché, I have ripped his shirt asunder. I have gotten down on my knees, and I have prayed; I have fellated his imagined squat cock with a Mother Superior’s fervor. I have laid belly down and ass up and awaited the squelch of lube and the anxious press of his digits. I have imagined squalling in orgasm and uttering unintelligible gutterspeak.

I have imagined fucking him for days, weeks, years; really, the imagining has happened for years.

Now the possibility to carry the carnal imagining into the realm of flesh sprawls before me, and it does look luscious. It’s not this month, or next, but soon enough to smell it, yet far enough off in the distance that its brightness doesn’t scare me into hiding.

It’s enough to get me out of bed—or back into it.

Comments

[Mrs. Hall]

ROCK ON CHELSEA SUMMERS! ROCK ON INDEED!

[S.P.]

To quote the good Dr. Frankenfurter:

"Antici................."

[VJ]

Sounds delicious. Send along the citations when you can. Years indeed. fame does have it's advantages! Cheers & Good Luck! 'VJ'

[Bad Kitty]

Yay! Imagined squelching! The anticipation is so much more motivational than the remembering.

[Free]

Mais, devant l'enflambant, Buckley died.

[lintys]

So inspiring!

[ajooja]

That's so great. I'm happy for you.

[oatmeal girl]

now you've incited my curiosity about his C.V.

[uh huh]

C.V?

[elvis]

You know the question I'm getting asked now, don't you?

[chelsea g]

C.V.: curriculum vitae. It's what people in academia call their resumes. You can take the girl out of academia, but you can't take the academia out of the girl; sue me for using the term I'd grown accustomed to all those years I pursued my Ph.D.

kissykiss,
chelsea g.

ps. and, no, it is not the legendary Karl Elvis.

[elvis]

Shhh! Let 'em think it is! That's way more fun. B^)

[chelsea g]

KarlElvis, maybe I'm using reverse psychology on all of them, telling them that it isn't you in order for them to think that by denying that it's you, in fact I'm suggesting it is. You know, thinking from the "You Bested My Spaniard/Iocane Poison" school of logic.

k-to-the-k,
chelsea g.

[elvis]

Oh, I knew that.

Really.

[Miss Syl]

Dammit, how did you manage to bag a Weasley twin?

[BlueBoy]

Does Terry Teachout know you have these fantasies about him?

[chelsea g]

Blueboy,

All I'll say on that topic is that I am going with Terry to see "Drunk Enough to Say I Love You" in a couple of weeks.

Masticate on that titbit.

kissykiss,
chelsea g.

[BlueBoy]

Oh, I'm masticating.

[BlueBoy]

He might be the only guy in New York that can teach you a thing ot two about how to use a colon.

[curious]

isn't teachout married?