by Rebekah Russell
(09/09/09)
I need to write. The urge is driving me insane, setting my teeth on edge, stirring an ache in my heart, and lower...much lower. I need the words to flow out. The feel of a pen scratching furiously along paper makes my breath uneven. I need release. God damn it I need it badly.
It's been several months now since anything has happened. I'm at my wit's end. What do I blame this on, this...dryness inside of me? Imagination -- I've never had a lover that satisfied me more deeply, and now that lover is gone. I've tried everything I can think of, men, women, myself. I'm done with all of that. It's nothing but frustration.
What I need is a pen.
A fountain pen is my personal preference. Smooth and heavy, with a strong feel. Gels and ballpoints can get the job done, but there is something so cheap, so...impersonal about them. There's nothing like a thick fountain pen for ultimate..satisfaction? Oh, I'm feeling a bit lightheaded. It's been far too long.
Of course what is a pen without paper? And what is comparable to the scratch of a fountain tip along the lines of it? To the pen's long strokes? Like teeth across flesh. I begin to write, and the clothes slide off my skin. One line, and hands roam over my body, rubbing and exploring. Another line, and now there are mouths. Licking and sucking my neck, my thighs, my nipples. I keep writing and the tongues travel lower. Torturing me. It could be a novel, an epic of fantasy. One that keeps this sharp ecstasy going on. Pushing me along over waves of explosive lust until it becomes almost too much to bear. Or perhaps it will be a poem. A short explosion, leaving me trembling, wanting more. Always wanting more...
