Torn Shapes of Desire Read online

  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