Writer

Sepia picture of an old-fashioned typewriter with its ribbon unspooled for Writer by Malin JamesThings have been interesting lately – lots of things in lots of ways. The changes are fundamental and long overdue. Not easy stuff, but good all the same.

It’s a strange thing, feeling your internal landscape shift like stop-motion film. If history were anything to go by, I’d say that this should be a creatively exciting time. In the past, periods of violent transition have always led to a surge in my creative energy. But for the first time in my life, change and transition are affecting my ability to write.

Writing has always been my way in. It’s how I process everything, from emotional nuance to the world around me. It is, quite literally, how I make sense of things. Unfortunately, “things”, both internal and external, have shifted enough that writing taking a hit.  I feel dull and mentally paralyzed in a way that is vaguely terrifying. And, in the end, that’s probably good.

This has happened before – I hit a place of maximum pressure and catharsis becomes inevitable. The energy released by the catharsis usually channels right back into my work, which as been a pretty great silver-lining, especially as rabid creative focus has, more than once, given me the mental and emotional space I needed to deal with whatever I was dealing with.

This time was different though. This time, rather than helping me through a difficult period, writing was part of what ushered in the difficult period (and I can tell you right now that this was one hell of a motherfucking difficult period).

It’s funny – I didn’t see that connection until I wrote it out just now (oh, writing, you clever, wily beast). The story that rocked me (through a combination of timing and my masochistically gleeful tendency to myself for material) was called “Alice in the Attic” and it drew heavily on a trauma (and the resulting experiences) that have shaped nearly all aspects of my life.

Writing “Alice” was difficult, but it poured out of me in a sort of fevered rush. Sitting down at my desk to work on it was, in and of itself, so cathartic that it emptied me out and left me hollow by the end.

That said, I don’t want to misrepresent the situation. This particular pressure had been building for years and the writing of that story was just one of many things that ended up twisting the valves. And yet…I haven’t been able to settle into a larger project since November when it was published.

I am gun-shy like I’ve never been and I’ll be honest – it’s pretty galling. Shorter pieces still come fairly easily (the shorter the better), but I’ve got several longer projects that I just can’s sink into. In fact, I seem to freeze at the prospect of writing anything longer than 1000 words. I think I might be afraid. I wish I knew what of…

I suppose that it, right there. I’m afraid of something, and writing is connected to whatever it is. Maybe I’m afraid of triggering myself again; maybe I’m afraid to trust myself again; maybe I’m afraid of something else. I don’t know. And, in the end, I’m not sure I need to know.

I suspect all I really need to do is acknowledge that I’m scared and write anyway. Because fuck it. I’m a writer. That’s what I do. I’m good at it (sorry – not a humble moment) and I love it and no amount of difficulty is going to keep me from doing what I fucking love.

On Seeing Yourself

A wet plate portrait of Malin James on glass beneath water. Wet Plate Collodian by Nicolas Laborie for On Seeing Yourself by Malin James

Portrait, Malin James. Wet Plate Collodian by Nicolas Laborie

I’ve been bumping up against my own self-image recently, which is a curiously exciting and unsettling thing. It’s been happening in several ways, some easier to define than others, but the overall effect is the realization that I don’t know myself as well as I thought I did, and that that is absolutely fine.

Being photographed by someone gifted is its own kind of gift – one that I couldn’t accept when I was a young, distracted thing. A gifted photographer can distil you with an odd sort of purity. If you’re lucky and the stars align, what you end up with are visual representations of various facets of yourself – shards of personality that often operate beneath your conscious understanding.

Black and white head shot of Malin James taken by Nicolas Laborie. For On Seeing Yourself by Malin James

Photograph by Nicolas Laborie

The self-image I’ve nurtured over the years is that of a controlled, measured woman. I don’t let down my guard unless I choose to and it’s rare that I do. Like most people, I wear a social mask and it’s that mask that I recognize in pictures. I rarely see the person who watches the world from beneath it represented on film. That’s probably why the images Nicolas Laborie took this past week-end pulled me up short.

The wet plate above is recognizable insofar as I recognize the interiority it caught – that particular mixture of nameless emotions is essentially my resting state. I’ve just never seen it on my face, not even when I look in a mirror. I’m not entirely sure how the wet plate caught it – maybe it’s just having to stay perfectly still for the exposure – but it’s the first time I’ve seen an accurate visual representation of my internal life.

Black and white portrait of Malin James taken by Nicolas Laborie. For On Seeing Yourself by Malin James

Photograph by Nicolas Laborie

The other three were taken after the wet plate and they do something a bit different. When I was younger, I longed for self-possession. When someone photographed me, I very consciously cloaked myself in imitation poise. The problem was that I always knew it was fake and I didn’t like seeing that gap between reality and aspiration caught on film.

As I got older and grew increasingly uncomfortable with what I saw in images of myself, being photographed stopped being a pleasure. It was too much of a personal minefield. Participating in Sinful Sunday has helped me enjoy photography again, but only to the extent that I control the image, and I rarely let down my guard.

But these are different. These are just of me being me in the moment because I no longer know how to be something I’m not. That’s why they mean so much to me.

Black and white portrait of Malin James taken by Nicolas Laborie. For On Seeing Yourself by Malin James

Photograph by Nicolas Laborie

The person in these pictures is the woman I wanted to be when I was a confused mess of a girl. I wanted to be calm and hungry and strong, so much so that I tried to pretend to be something I wasn’t and failed every time.

It’s magic to me that I became someone I could respect. I never trusted myself – I never gave myself a reason to – but the person I see in these pictures is someone I respect and trust. That’s why these photos are a bit of a revelation. In many ways, it’s the first time I can say that seeing myself on film is comforting rather than proof of the gap between my reality and everything I want to be.

To see more of Nicolas Laborie’s work, please visit his site, and follow him on Twitter. He’s brilliant. 

NB: I nearly didn’t write this post. Ironically, there’s still something uncomfortable about talking about myself, especially in what could be perceived as an arrogant light (and let’s face it, talking about pretty pictures of yourself skates that boundary uncomfortably close). Ultimately, the fact that the experience was so unexpected and revelatory in its way was the reason I decided to go out on a limb and write it. It was an amazing experience and I hope other people are able to experience something similarly positive in front of a lens.

Elust #82: Polyamory, Expectations, Fishnets & More

Elust 82 Header
Photo courtesy of Teachers Have Sex

Welcome to Elust #82

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #83 Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Take Me

How Do I Love Thee:On Comparing Relationships

Asking all the questions…

 

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

Erotic Fiction: Fishnet Queen

I Manage My Expectations

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Wanna Have Sex With Me? – Here’s how
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Maybe I’m not a pervert after all
Bad Excuses
Engaging with Sexuality: A Personal Perspecti
I wish there were more porn
Cock Size: Does it matter?
Blue is not a “boy color.”

Erotic Non-Fiction

Watching My Wife With Another Man Story
Afternoon Cunnilingus & Birthday Sofa Sex
Why You Should Shave Your Partner
Oct 2014 Session – Mistress Claire
Two Days Later
Roping a cougarling
Divining Rods
Dorabella’s pink-velvet spanner

Erotic Fiction

Puppy Love
Quick & Dirty
She Says My Voice Changes for Her
THE BLINDFOLD – fear of the unknown
U is for undress…
Stay Baby…Stay.
kink of the week–glasses

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Slutfest Reflection
Love and Fairness
Winnowing
V is for……..
My heart turns blacker: the new rules

 

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Blast from the Fetish Video Past
The whole person approach to Submission
Down on my knees
Dominant Doppelgangers, Dominant Opposites
Four eyes
BDSM and Depression: Therapy or Self-Harm?

Poetry

Eden, Revisited: A Lusty Limerick

Writing About Writing

Stepping Stones
Centering Disabled Characters in My Erotica

 

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Erotic Fiction: Mind the Gap

May is Masturbation Month, which is a big deal in the sex blogging, erotica writing, sex positive community. I’d been thinking about writing a post for it when Tabitha Rayne, who is talented enough for five people, organized a blog hop to mark it. There are some first-rate writers participating in the Self-Love is in the Air blog hop, so click the badge below to read more. And please, enjoy yourself….

There’s something about traveling…. There’s a tension to it, as if you’re moving along the length of a taut thread. While you’re balanced on the thread, you’re in a space all your own. You aren’t home, but you also aren’t where you’re going either. For the length of your journey, you’re physically removed from your context, which also means that you’re temporarily freed from the identity you wear every day – good girl, rebel, parent, partner… For the length of that journey, you are simply you.

This is prime daydream time for me. That’s why, unsurprisingly, travel of often features in my fantasies. So, I’m going to share one with you…in story form, of course 😉

 Mind the Gap

Sepia print of a vintage travel bag for Mind the Gap by Malin JamesI know you’re watching me when I get on the tube. It’s crowded but not too crowded so I’m able to find a seat. Coincidentally, it’s right across from you. You’re attractive and you have the good grace to pretend that you aren’t still watching me, but you’re pretty terrible at it. Just because you watch a reflection, doesn’t mean you aren’t watching the person. But it’s fine. I let you think I don’t know.

I look at the book in your hand, a thriller I read last year and liked. You haven’t turned the page in five minutes. The window and the woman reflected in it (ie; me) keeps pulling your attention away. Which is good, because I’m suddenly very turned on.

It happens like that. One minute, I’m impassively watching you “not watch” me, the next I’m wet and humming. Luckily, I carry a very big bag. I put this very big bag on my lap and meet your eyes in the window. I smile. You almost smile. You’re embarrassed at being caught out. But then I slip my hand into my running pants and I have your full attention again.

I love the way your embarrassment narrows down and becomes a sharp, focused point. You’re focused on my shoulder – not on my face, though your eyes keep flicking back. You’re watching the rhythmic way my shoulder moves, just a little, as I stroke myself behind the bag.

The other passengers don’t know what’s going on. It’s not that I’m being all sneaky and subtle because I’m really not. It’s more that you can always rely on people being too interested in themselves to notice anything at all. Except you. You noticed me the minute I got on, just like you’re noticing my cheeks flush now.

I’ve gotten very good at this – coming quick and quiet in a public place, a moving, rocking public place between two static points. I use the rocking of the train to lull my body into drowsy softness while my mind stays sharp and quick.

My eyes are on yours. And then I come, a melting, delicious, buttery warmth. It fills me from my fingers to my toes. It feels so good that I nearly moan and tilt my head back. But I don’t You’re still watching me and I’m watching you, and the rocking and the rhythm and the woman reading her book and the guy three seats over glued to his phone, fill up my lungs and my skin and I come again.

And then it’s my stop. I pull my fingers out of my pants, loving how wet they are, like they’ve been dipped in clear honey. Suddenly, I want to touch your face. I want to mark you with it. But I don’t. The voice says mind the gap and I get off without looking back. There will be time for more when you get home.

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Erotic Fiction: Big Handed Sam

Black and white partial portrait of Alexander Skarsgard's hand for Big Handed Sam by Malin James

Portrait of Alexander Skarsgard (and his sexy fucking hands)

I wrote this story a couple of years ago and submitted it to an anthology. I was especially happy when it was accepted because someone had challenged me to make fisting romantic, and I feel like I got pretty close. Unfortunately, that anthology was scrapped and the story came back to me.

I sent it out again, (like you do), and wasn’t totally surprised when it wasn’t right for the call. But hey, you have to try. Still, at this point it’s been knocking around for awhile and, more than anything, I want it out there to be read so I’m posting it here.

And now, without further ado, I give you “Big Handed Sam”, a story of fisting and romance. I hope you enjoy it!

 

Big Handed Sam

“I want you to fist me.”

“What?”

I propped myself up on my elbows and looked at Sam. My sweet, handsome Sam looked horrified. I love that man. We’d been dating long distance for close to six months…. Long distance is hard. There’s never enough time no matter how long the visit. I was heading back to Boston the next day, and I wanted to do something special before I left. Apparently, Sam’s definition of special did not include fisting.

“You’ve seen my hands right?” he said, holding one up. It was long fingered and wide knuckled. So damn sexy. Sam did not agree. “I have monster paws. They’re huge.”

I snuggled into his arms.

“You do not have monster paws. And of course they’re huge—you’re a big guy.”

Sam is 6’3 and a solid 200 pounds. He’s hot and muscled and, unlike me, (a cog in a corporate machine), Sam works with his hands. He’s a sculptor and he’s good. He works with preservationists on statues and altars and other beautiful things. His hands make works of art, and I wanted them wrist deep inside me. Sam was not convinced.

“Blair,” he said, grasping at straws, “there is no way my hand is going to fit. Women’s bodies aren’t meant to do that. It’s physically impossible.”

I smiled. “You’re right. It’s impossible. Just tell that to every woman who’s ever given birth.”

He looked at me helplessly, and shrugged. I loved him so much that I could have gobbled him up, but I had a point to make.

“I’m not asking for the impossible,” I said, slowly bringing his fingers to my mouth. “I’m asking you to trust that I know my own mind.”

He looked at me warily as I proceeded to nibble his fingertips like a cat. I love the way Sam tastes—like soap and stone, no matter what. Always soap and stone.

“Babe,” I said, between licks, “trust me. I know what I’m asking for.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Oh you do, huh?”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “I’ve done this before….”

Sam’s smile faded. His whole expression faded into the grain of his skin and the doubt in his eyes.

“Yeah, well. I haven’t. No woman in her right mind would want that from me.”

I want that from you.”

“Blair,” he said, drawing his fingers away from my mouth. “Look. I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” I said. “I promise. I promise you won’t hurt me. Please. Would you do this for me?”

Sam shook his head, as if he were thinking something through. I loved his protective instinct, but if our relationship was going to get to the next level, he had to understand that I knew my own mind. And suddenly, he did.

“You aren’t like anyone I’ve ever met,” he murmured. Then he gave me a long, sweet kiss. I knew what that kiss meant, and it made my cunt ache.

“Okay, darlin’,” he said. “But you need to tell me what to do.”

I grinned. “You got it! Step One: Get the lube!”

Sam rolled off the bed looking earnest and serious, like a boy scout collecting supplies. He dug a small, half finished bottle out of a bedside table drawer.

“Is that going to be enough?” he asked, doubtfully.

“Nope. Not by half,” I said. “Don’t worry. I came prepared.”

I jumped up off the bed and bounced to my suitcase. Buried under a pile of unworn clothes were a king sized bottle of my favorite lube, latex gloves and my bullet vibe.

“Would you mind grabbing some towels,” I asked, dropping the supplies on the bed. Sam eyed the stuff, looking nervous.

“Yeah. Sure.”

I hopped back up on the bed and listened to him rummage while I idly fingered myself. I was plenty wet, but a weekend of marathon sex had left me a little tender. I was going to need a warm-up before the main event.

“Hand towels or big towels,” he called, voice muffled. His head was probably in the cabinet. God, I love Sam.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said, closing my eyes.

My clit was at that magically sensitive place between not enough and too much—I was barely touching it, and I could feel my pulse in my cunt. I love it when that happens. I sank back into the pillows and sighed.

“Hey, darlin’? Do you want the super soft ones or….”

Sam’s voice trailed off. I opened my eyes and gave him a lazy grin. I had two fingers in my pussy, and you could hear how wet I was.

“Doesn’t matter, babe. Honest.”

“Sure,” he said, without taking his eyes off my hand. He cleared his throat.

“So. What comes next?”

“What comes next,” I replied, taking my fingers out of my soaking sex, “is that you come up here with me.”

Sam dropped the towels next to the other supplies and settled in looking horny and vaguely terrified.

“Touch me,” I said, shifting my hips.

“Like this?”

His fingertips grazed my folds.

“Perfect,” I murmured. “Just like that. Get me all warmed up….”

I sighed as he found my clit. Then he took one of my nipples into his mouth and sucked, soft and slow, just the way I like it. I moaned and instinctively arched my back, but he didn’t take it too far. With a final suck he released my tit and gently nuzzled my cheek.

“Where are those gloves?”

“Down there,” I said, waving at the foot of the bed. “Bring the lube too.”

The brass bed creaked as he knelt beside me. I looked up at his face. He was frowning at the glove, as if he were cutting it a deal—you get on my hand and make this work and I won’t hate you for the rest of my life, the crinkle in his forehead seemed to say. My heart nearly broke. I was full of anticipation, but I had to stay focused. I was the one who had gotten him into this. I had to see him through.

“That’s great, babe,” I said, once he’d gotten the gloves on. “Now, grab the lube and coat your fingers. We’ll go nice and slow.”

“Do you want the vibe first,” he asked. “I’m gonna be covered in lube….”

“No,” I said, reaching up to stroke his face. How was I supposed to keep leaving this man? A weekend a month wasn’t enough. “No, it’s okay. I’ll take care of that myself.”

Sam nodded and flipped the cap on the lube. Then he coated his fingers and warmed up a generous amount in his hand. I held his gaze the whole time. My heart ached for him. It ached so much I could barely breathe. He must’ve seen it in my face because he stopped what he was doing and leaned in close.

“Hey, darlin’” he said, brushing the hair back from my face with the un-gooey back of his hand. “You sure you want this?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I want this so much. I just….” Tears prickled the corners of my eyes. “I don’t want to leave tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” he said, nuzzling the side of my neck. “I know. I don’t want you to go.”

His mouth covered mine in a way I’d recognized the first time we kissed. We’ll figure it out, his lips told me. We’ll figure something out…. He smiled against my mouth.

“Okay,” he said. “What’s the next step?”

“The next step,” I said, clearing my throat,” is to slick a bunch of that nice, warm lube onto my cunt.”

“That I can do.”

Very gently, Sam reached down between my legs. My hips thrust reflexively, meeting his hand as he massaged it into my pussy.

“You’re a natural, babe,” I sighed.

Sam winked, clearly enjoying himself as he stroked from the apex of my sex down my tender length of my engorged labia. I whimpered.

“That feels so good…. I want your fingers inside me.”

Sam nodded and, very slowly, slipped his middle and index fingers into me. The muscles shuddered and clutched, hungry for more.

“How’s that darlin’?”

“Good,” I breathed. “Good. Just thrust a bit right there…I’ll tell you when I’m ready for a third.”

Half dizzy, I reached down and fingered my clit. It was a good thing I’d said no to the vibe. I was so sensitized at that point that it would have made me come before he’d gotten a third finger into me. With the lightest, gentlest touch I could manage, I circled my clit. A wave of pleasure washed over me as Sam’s fingertips brushed up against my g-spot. I moaned as my legs went limp and dropped open. We had to get the show on the road.

“Okay, babe,” I whispered, panting. “I’m getting awfully close and we’re not even halfway there. How would you feel about slipping two more fingers in after a little more lube?”

“At the same time?”

Sam looked at me, concern creasing his brow.

“One at a time. One after the other. It’ll be fine. More than fine. I promise.”

Sam nodded. Then he used his unoccupied hand to coat his ring and pinky fingers before slowly inserting them into me, one after the other. I moaned. Sam froze.

“Blair? Are you okay?”

I nodded. Every nerve in my body had switched on. I’d never felt so open. Never in my life. I wanted him in me. Now.

“I’m good, babe. I promise. Ready for more?”

Sam nodded as a look of deep concentration settled over his face. I’d seen that look before, when he was carving something delicate, when one wrong move could ruin a whole piece. Love for him threatened to drown me.

“Okay,” I breathed. “Here’s what we do. Take your whole hand out, just for a second. Lube it up really well. Use more than you think you’ll need. Then, slowly, put those four fingers back into me. I’ll take care of the rest while you slide in your thumb.”

Sam shook his head. “I can’t imagine how this is going to work….”

“It does,” I murmured. “Trust me.”

“I trust you, Blair,” he said.

Then he pulled his hand back and, suddenly, I was horribly empty. The contrast was so dramatic that it made me want to cry. Not wanting to worry him, I blinked the back the tears.

“Hurry, Sam. Please.”

“I am, darlin’. I am.”
He coated his entire hand with what had to be half a bottle of lube, and I wondered briefly if I should have told him to use the big towels after all. Oh well, I thought, as a glob of silicon hit the sheets. Too late now….

Before I knew it, his fingers were inside me again. Index. Middle. Ring. Pinky. I sighed in relief, anticipating the rest, but he hesitated with his thumb.

“Are you’re sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

I may have sounded a little abrupt there…okay, I kind of snarled. But really. I was sure.

“Okay, okay…. Here we go.”

My fingers went back to my clit as Sam gently maneuvered his thumb into me. I was soaked from the lube and my own juices, but even I was shocked by how hot I was. My body was radiating heat and my clit, when I touched it, felt like a little coal. I rubbed it, panting, as I bore down on Sam’s hand.

“You’re so gorgeous, Blair.”

“Please, Sam. Don’t stop.”

He had the hang of things now, which is good because my brain had checked out. I felt him slow and I mewled, sinking into the fill of his hand.

“We’re at the widest part now. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

I nodded distractedly, knowing there was no way in hell I was going to tell this man to stop. I felt like a live wire—I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried….

“Breathe, Blair. Lift your hips.”

I did what Sam said, opening my hips and arching my back as he slowly, slowly slide his hand in, past his knuckles, then the bridge. The heat kicked up a notch. I was pouring sweat and my chest was tight, but the rest of me was loose, loose and open, inviting him in. Suddenly, the pressure in my passage relaxed and my cunt closed over his wrist. My fingers left my clit and rested on my belly, as tears spilled down my cheeks. I had never felt so close to anyone before, never in my life.

“Hey, darlin’? Are you all right?

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Am I hurting you,” he asked, starting to panic. I smiled and blinked back tears.

“No, baby. You’re no hurting me. It just…it feels really good. It feels….” I shook my head. Full. Brimming. They weren’t good enough. But I didn’t need to say more. Sam looked at me and nodded. He understood.

“Will it hurt you if I move?”

“No. I’d love it. Nice and slow…rub my clit with your other hand.”

He nodded and brought his fingers to my nub. Then, very gently he began to move his hand. Almost immediately, the orgasm I’d been shoring up began to crest. I laid back and closed my eyes. I knew Sam would get me there.

What little discomfort I’d felt at the start had long since passed. Now all I felt was the greedy, clutching need to get him as deep as I could. I raised my hips up off the bed, giving my body free rein as the orgasm filled my lungs and my toes and traveled up my legs in fiery licking swells.

“Blair, you’re so fucking hot.”

But I barely heard him. My fingers plucked at the ruined sheets as my eyes rolled into my head. I must have looked possessed, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything but Sam’s hand deep inside me. The sensation was nearly too much. Wanting to make it last, I shoved his fingers off my clit, but my body was ready. I came.

Guttural wails filled my ears, but I didn’t realize they were coming from me. I was too wracked by sexy, sexy greed. I never wanted that orgasm to end. I was gone, lost in my body and totally out of my head.

Slowly, slowly Sam brought me back down. When I opened my eyes, I noticed that he was a lubey, cum-streaked mess.

“Damn,” I said, looking at the dripping tip of his recently spent cock. “When did that happen?”

“Well,” Sam said, with a really sheepish grin. He was still wrist deep inside me. “I hope you don’t mind. You were just so gorgeous and so deep in it…when you pushed my hand off your clit I figured why not. Watching you made me come in record time.”

“I love you,” I said. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Blair.”

“Would you kiss me? Can you reach?”

“Yeah. I can reach.”

That pretty much sealed the deal. That’s why I moved to Georgia—to be with Sam. Sam and his gorgeous hands.

Sinful Sunday: Girly Thing

I don’t have the most whimsical taste in clothing. Most of what I own is black, gray or cream and I favor clean lines over frill. That said, I do have a fantastic collection of socks with cats on them and a pink tee-shirt covered in owls that I’ve worn so much it’s falling apart.

And I also have these – a pair of sweet little knickers that are covered in hearts. Because underneath my titanium shell, I’m a pretty girly thing.

Shot of woman's bare torso with glimpse of red heart panties for Sinful Sunday: Girly Thing by Malin James

For more Sinful Sunday, click the pretty lips…

Sinful Sunday

Erotic Fiction: A Letter

Black and white shot of a handwritten letter for A Letter by Malin James

Dear You,

I want to go somewhere together. I want you to make me come – in a bathroom or a bookshop or in the middle of a film. I want you to make me come. Press against me hip, to hip. Touch me in a crowded room. Fuck me somewhere civilized, where people shouldn’t fuck.

I want to pull you into an alley and suck your cock. I want scuffs on my knees when I stand. Fuck me in a window where the neighbors will see, or high on a balcony in the warm evening air. I want someone to see us by chance.

I want to watch you with other people and I want you to watch me. Surrounded by other people I’ll still pick out your scent. I want mouths on our mouths and skin on our skin, tangled with other people and other people’s limbs.

I want you to fuck me, hard and fast, in the kitchen while we cook. Fuck me from behind just as company is due. Cup my breasts while I bend forward. Lift up my hem. Come inside me, fill me, make me wet. Then kneel and lick me clean.

I want to share a secret. I want to taste us when we kiss. I want to cross the room and feel your eyes, narrowed and hungry and sly. I know you with that look on your face. You’re waiting to gobble me up. Clever Fox. Big Bad Wolf. I promise I’ll gobble you too.

Me xxx

Erotic Fiction: Drinks with Friends

Black and white photograph of a woman kissing two men for Drinks with Old Friends by Malin James

Photograph by Anders Petersen

They said nothing in the cab, but the awareness Mia had felt at the bar expanded to fill the space. By the time they arrived at her place, she was drowsy and wet, just from holding their hands.

For a moment, they stood in the entry hall, three old friends on the black and white tiles. Then Mia turned and walked up the staircase, unzipping her dress as she did.

She was waiting for them in the bedroom. She kept her back to the door, watching their reflections in an antique oval mirror above her bed. Her dress was a dark, silky pool on the floor at her feet.

Michael and was first across the room. She’d known he would be, just as she’d known he wouldn’t rush. Edward stayed in the doorway. She’d known he would too, just as she’d known that he would watch…but only at first.

Michael moved slowly, pulled along by their history. Most men would have said something breathless and trite. Most men would have talked. Michael didn’t. Michael kissed her, like she’d known he would, and she arched into his kiss, relieved and glad.

Mia felt Edward watching them, felt his fingers flex, felt the weight of his gaze on her skin and on Michael’s big hands. She felt his shadow stretch across the room and cover them like a warm, dark pool. For the second time that night, Michael and Mia turned towards Edward, who stood like a man on a precipice.

“Edward?”

Mia held out her hand.

“Edward,” she said again.

She poured years of loving him into her voice until the weight of their history sank into her chest. The weight of it touched him, and the mask he wore, his smooth mask, slipped. Then he crossed the room and kissed her with a hard, deliberate edge.

Mia sank her fingers into Edward’s hair, aware of Michael’s chest against her back and his mouth on her neck. Then the angle changed and it was Michael’s mouth on hers as Edward slid behind her. Mia stretched and rubbed the curve of her ass against the uncivilized bulge in Edward’s civilized suit. She was blind and greedy and obscenely wet as he reached around and cupped her cunt.

She rubbed against his hand and kissed Michael’s neck as Michael reached around and slid Edward’s jacket off. Suddenly, Edward’s hand stilled and Mia watched, fascinated, as Michael lowered his mouth to their best friend’s.

Michael gave Edward time adjust as Mia dropped small, deliberate kisses into Edward’s palm. Little by little, Edward relaxed and as he did, he kissed Michael back, hesitantly at first, and then rougher, hungrier, until one of them moaned and Mia bit her lip. She wanted to gobble them both.

Michael murmured something against Edward’s mouth and one of them undid the clasp of her bra. She turned her body, angling towards Edward. He sucked her tits with his sweet, slow mouth while Michael knelt behind her and pulled her panties down. Fingers stroked her clit, her belly, her soaking thighs…. She was a breath away from coming.

“Stop,” she said

Mia’s cunt was so heavy she wanted to scream. She smirked instead.

“Strip. I want to see you both.”

Michael grinned and got to his feet. It was a predatory grin, like a lion scenting gazelle, and the look she gave him mirrored it. She’d felt their hands as they’d explored her body and her skin still throbbed. Now she stepped back to watch.

Michael gave Edward a curious look and slowly unbuckled his belt. Edward narrowed his eyes but didn’t look away. Michael dropped the belt and unbuttoned his cuffs, smiling at Edward the whole time.

“Better get moving. She wants to see you too.”

Edward blushed, but he smiled for the first time as he yanked off his tie. Shoes, shirts, pants, briefs. Finally, Michael and Edward stood with Mia, naked in the middle of the room.

“Oh,” she murmured, more of a breath than a sound. She stroked Michael’s chest and skimmed Edward’s with the flat of her hand.

Michael made a sound deep in his throat and backed her up into Edward. Then he dropped to his knees in front of them. Mia rose up on tiptoe and pressed her ass into Edwards’s hips, wriggling until his cock slid between her legs. God, she was so wet. Mia tipped her head back and rubbed her cunt against him like adolescent’s dream. Then she felt the tip of Michael’s tongue on her clit. He licked and sucked and her lungs grew full, almost too full to breathe. For a moment, she moved against both of them. Then Michael’s mouth left her and she felt Edward freeze.

Mia looked down, about to complain. But Michael was sucking Edward’s cock between her legs. She forgot what she was going to say. Michael smiled up at her.

“You taste amazing together.”

Mia closed her eyes as Edward’s arms tightened around her. They both began to rock and she rubbed her clit with her hand as she slid back and forth between them. Michael’s tongue flicked over her fingers and she knew, now, she was going to let herself come. It had been building for hours, a long, slow tide, and she bit her lip bloody when it finally pulled her under.

Mia’s hips jerked as she arched back against Edward’s chest. She knew they were watching her and it made her come deeper and harder as if it would never stop.

“Fuck me. Both of you. Now.”

Edward got on the bed. Mia could barely see straight as she straddled him, shoving her rump in the air like a cat in heat. Michael got up behind her and held her hips as he slid his cock next to Edward’s between her legs.

“M, are you sure you want this,” Michael asked.

Rather than answer, Mia reached for a bottle of lube and tossed it on the bed.

“Yeah. I’m fucking sure.”

Michael cupped her breasts and kissed her shoulders as if he were afraid that she would break. It was Edward who picked up the bottle.

“Better get a move on. She wants you too,” he said, handing it to Michael.

Then he lay back on the bed as Mia and Michael knelt over him again. Michael held her, rubbing her clit as she sank down on Edward’s cock. She rose and fell in tight, little jerks while he grabbed the lube and greased himself up.

Michael met Edward’s dark, dark eyes as he pressed Mia’s second, tighter hole. It gave and he entered, inch by slow inch. She shuddered and started to moan until she had them both  up to the hilt.

A sheen of sweat covered her skin and she trembled. She had never felt so full, so gorgeously full in her life. She started to move, rocking her hips as she clutched them both in her slick, muscular heat.

Guttural sounds poured out of her as Edward grabbed Mia’s waist and began to thrust. Behind her, Michael matched Edward until a terrible, aching pleasure overwhelmed her. She stiffened, clawing at Edward’s hands and Michael’s thighs as she came and kept coming, one orgasm bleeding into another.

She felt Michael move against Edward, separated by nothing but the thin membrane of her body. She felt Edward struggling for control as Michael rode them both. She tasted Michael in her mouth and she tasted Edward too. She felt four hands tighten and two mouths on her skin as they poured themselves into her like they’d always wanted to.

“So,” Edward said, afterwards. He was rumpled and flushed and covered in cum. So were Mia and Michael. “Is that what you meant by drinks with friends?”

“No…not exactly,” Mia replied.

But the curve in her voice said otherwise. Michael snorted.

“Whatever. So long as we don’t wait ten years to do it again.”

How Do I Love Thee: On Comparing Relationships

Sepia historical photograph of a woman dressed as cupid next to a lion for Post How Do You Love Me by Malin James

Woman with Lion, courtesy of the Getty Museum

Every so often, my daughter asks me if I love her best.**

This is a tricky moment as a parent, because my impulse is to say, Yes! Of course, I love you best. It’s the answer she’s looking for and by far the simplest to give. But as much as my love for her is one of the most overwhelming things I’ve ever felt, to say that I love her best does something that I’m not quite comfortable with – it accidentally reinforces a way of thinking about love that can lead to insecurity later on.

I realize that I might be overthinking this. Is there really any harm in telling her that I love her best?  There are so many things I don’t bother worrying about, like Santa’s existence or whether or not she believes in god. But reinforcing emotional comparisons feels oddly dangerous to me. It implies that love is a zero-sum game and, as Exhibt A wrote, it isn’t. Survival is, but not love.

Love, like so many things, is contextually unique. For example, a person’s love for their child can be catastrophically powerful, but what if you have two or more children? Who do you love best then? That question is almost impossible to answer (without screwing up one of more of your kids), which is why “I love you all differently” is such a great response. It reinforces the love while avoiding the comparison.

Why is avoiding comparison important for all relationships (not just those involving multiple kids)? Because when you start to comparing the different loves you feel, you risk diminishing all of them. Love isn’t measurable or quantifiable, but comparing relationships with the intention of weighing who is loved best imposes finite limits on an emotion that is naturally infinite.

The real question is what underlies the comparison. Not to get all cold and pragmatic about it, but what it really comes down to is resource distribution. We’re a fundamentally competitive species because our survival depends on it. We commodify resources because resources, whether emotional or physical, have a value rooted in survival. That’s about as fundamental as it gets.

So where does love fit into that? Love is a resource too, or rather, the safety love signifies is. As a species, we evolved through dark nights full of predators that wanted to eat us. Abandonment = death. We are literally hardwired to fear being cast aside, and one of the best guarantors of that not happening is love.

When my daughter asks me if I love her best, she’s expressing a really basic concern: If a lion grabbed Daddy and me, would you save me, even if it meant not saving Daddy? (For what it’s worth, the answer is yes. Her dad’s okay with that). The anxiety that underlies the question is instinctively human – so much so that it shows up in all kinds of relationships, not just those between a parent and child, but friendships, business partnerships and romantic relationships.

I suspect that I’m hyper aware of all this because I’ve been poly for so long. While love is definitely not a zero-sum game, survival is, and at a very basic level, we have tied security to love and pain to exclusion. That’s why, in poly relationships, it’s important to be patient with a partner’s fears and insecurities. That sort of status anxiety is hardwired into us and, for most people, it takes a bit of effort to work through.

The impulse to compare is an instinctive attempt to see if our position in the relationship is safe. Unfortunately, it’s also a great way to torture yourself into fearing that it’s not. In the end, it’s about security. The surest way to avoid the trap of comparison is to address the underlying concern. If a person is secure in your love for them, they are less likely to be worried about your love for others.

In the end, it’s not about who is loved best, but how you are loved. Are you  loved well? Is your person’s love a revelation? A homecoming? A whetstone? Is it a soft blanket on a rainy night or a delicate porcelain vase? The how says so much more than any comparison could. The how is about the two of you. The how is solid ground.

**NB: Chunks of Browning’s Sonnet 43 are the answer I give my daughter when she asks me how I love her…that and “I love you bigger than the galaxy and 9 million stars”, which is really pretty big. 

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