EP

emotional pornography.
because nothing is better than a good cry, or a good fuck.

submit a post. all submissions will remain anonymous unless you post a link to your tumblr in your submission. thanks!
Jul 02
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paradise lost….

Dear Lady,

It’s perhaps not fair for me to greet you  in the morning with my heaviness of heart.  But I’m going to do it anyways. Press delete. Close. Log off. Whatever. 

Sometimes you need to speak.

It’s a beautiful morning here. It’s April, but there’s actually frost on the cars in the warming morning sunlight. The mayflies are out, which is a bit of a pain, but you get used to them, and they are a harbinger of spring. Things are green, the light is getting it’s rosy orange hues back. It is Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World.”  

I miss her.  

My partner went to work yesterday around 8.15 as usual. I took the kids to school. Fast forward to end of the day, one son has a friend over, the other works on an English project, I’m reading about theatre and gazing lovingly every now and then on images I’ve found on the web of Chloe des Lysses. Her body is so like my lover’s body — oh, forgive me  — ex-lover’s body —  and in my eye at least, they seem to share a kind of common “come get me” hunger.  <sigh>

I miss her.  

It’s close to dinnertime. I phoned my partner — who I knew wasn’t feeling at her best — she gets MASSIVE periods these days with the advent of menopause, accompanied by terrible cramping and frightening blood loss. I phoned her at 6 to see how she was doing, and she said she had one thing left to do. I phoned again at 8.30 and she said she was coming home. I phoned again at 10, and she told me to ring off because she was viewing time sensitive data — and her session would log out. She got home at 10.45, and the guys came down, and we all had supper with her. After all that, she and I go back up to her study so that she could practice a talk she had to give this morning. She went through it three times. I kept falling asleep — but I did manage to work the stopwatch for her. We went to bed at 1245. 

She’d move Gibralter stone by stone for work. That’s what her parents and her God beat into her since the moment she could think. But she’s never looked at me and touched the front of my slacks and said, “maybe it’s crazy, but I really want you.”

 My lover—oops, my ex-lover— used to send me txt messages that said “GYAOH.”  

Get your ass over here. 

My partner is a pretty good mom, though she has a little trouble with demanding achievement from her kids while at the same time resisting their individuation. She’s making the world a better place, she really is. Maybe I just need to take one for the team. She’s really a pretty amazing person — I have to tell you, I wish I was more like her and a whole lot less artistically inclined and complicated.

But as I look out the window of our home, I know I really resent making those phone calls. Before the phone calls, and before the kids, I used to be in the parking lot of the hospital, waiting for her to finish charting. And on the holidays before that it was “Where will we hike today?” or “How many mountains can we climb?”  and never a sleepy-eyed reaching for the infinite ache between my legs. My lover is a bathroom, my lover is the shower. The warm water running all over my skin makes it feel a little less desperate and sad.  And now, mostly without meaning to, I’ve slowly fallen over a cliff made of one small cumming at a time, one repression, one turning away, one dream. And when I wake up every morning with an erection, it isn’t her I think about.

My coffee pot has seen me masturbate, and weep.   

In April of 2007, I think, I got a phone call at work from my lover. Could we meet for a quick coffee? Sure. We met in a parking lot, and circled each other like hawks. No one could take the initiative to say “good-bye.” Our bodies were like magnets. The pull was unearthly, born of deep space, dark planets. ”Can we go somewhere?” one of us asked. “Yes,” was the answer. I went back to work, talked my boss into letting me leave. We end up in another parking lot, chatting, touching, being wistful and wanting with every cell in our bodies. Where can we go?  “It’s my birthday,” finally comes out into the air, like a bright orange oriole. Arms entangle, warmth draws near to warmth, desire meets the spark of holding someone close to you. We end up at my home. My partner is in Toronto, so the place is empty. I find a bottle of wine — it’s 10.00  am. We sit on the couch. We sip, we laugh. It is like becoming a waterfall. We touch. We touch some more, tentatively, nervously, like high school kids who want to feel each other up but don’t know how to start, or whom or how to ask for permission. We  kiss, touch each other in forbidden places. Unable to handle the sin, and the delight of it,  I play the piano for her, a song I’ve written for her. She has tears in her eyes. In ageless seconds we are making love in the living room, between the couch and the fireplace. She is tight and lithe and urgent. We cum. We make love again, a little more gently and sensuously. It is like singing together, walking hand in hand across a wet, green field, riding a toboggan together in fresh, deep snow. We tire, grateful, healing and sated. We go upstairs. I pour a bath. We get in. We get into the bathtub that I thought would become  a sex haven when my partner and I first toured our house with a real estate agent. There’s a little place to sit in the corner, built in, just totally designed and made for oral sex.  My partner reads in the tub. Demands I come in and chat. I accede like a cur. It is joyless, damaging.  

Since that first day, since that real-estate moment, this jacuzzi bath has been nothing more than a caustic taunt and an embarrassment. No sex here, it says. We’re busy, or English, or something. We’re just “not,” I guess. 

The moments I physically remember from that birthday day are not the fucking, though I know and remember it happened. The moments I still FEEL are the ones where, sitting behind her in the warm water, my penis crushed against her tailbone, I stroke her skin and admire the way her long-ish hair decorates and accentuates her neck. I still remember the mild perfumed scent of her skin. I remember lifting a facecloth and pouring warm water and bath foam down her back. I remember quite self-consciously looking at myself and her in the mirror and thinking “this is what I’ve wanted since forever,” and knowing that we were going to make love again, and possibly again and again. It was like starring in the movie version of your own life — knowing at some level, I guess, that Hollywood always makes the movie better than the original story.  

I remember towelling her off, but the picture jostles, I lose a few frames, and then I remember turning her forcefully and pushing her against the wall, groping her with my hungry hands, crashing my cock against any part of her I could find. I felt free and invited. I zoned everything out — and all of my desire rose and crashed against my vision of her ass. Her willing surrender began in the way her fingertips touched the wall. You could feel her heat radiating backwards towards me, engulfing me, pulling me towards her. Be lust, she invited with skin and breath and bone, thrilling in her own desire. That’s ok. I’d never met that before. She arched her back and I entered from behind, caring only about finding the warm wet rose of her centre, and spraying it with my soul.

OMFG.  

AFter cumming I crashed forward onto her back. She turned, her eyes looking down to the floor, a half-smile on her face, her hands reaching for my hips, pulling me against her pelvis. I am home. “Aren’t we eager,” someone says, and I feel myself hardening again. We make love on the floor, and again — or more, or whatever it is —  further down the narrow place between the ensuite bathroom and the bed. My partner’s and my bed. The place where my wife and I sleep back to back. Where she cries and I comfort her, where she insists that I learn to talk to her more about my inmost feelings, where we make love once a cycle, if we’re lucky enough that the moon works in concert with ovulation day. I pull the blankets and covers down onto the floor, make a little rumpled cloth nest. We make love and fuck, over and over. Until finally, we sleep, nestled like spoons, attached by my dwindled dick, like some erstwhile umbilical cord. I am at peace. I am connected — connected, with, with EVERYTHING. I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to let go. This is who I am, and he’s never been outside yet, never learned how to speak or walk or play — so please God, no, don’t put him back in the box, please — NO! 

When we awaken, we both know she has to leave, that I have to go get my kids from school. It is wordless and so painful. It is a dark sword hanging over us both. I want her to stay. I want her to stay and take up residence in this whole life and house and dream that I have spent my whole life creating and wanting, and which I somehow filled with the wrong person.  I help her with her bra, a necklace. We’re holding each other front to front. This time I am not hardening, but I have no wish to let go, and I feel like we are bonding together like chemicals, or like flames and heat. I know inside my heart is praying that we are become inseparable. And my mind knows that is not possible, or even likely.   She looks at me, continues slowly to dress. I have to let go. As she bends to lift up her jeans she says, “You know, if I’d had one day like this with my husband, I’d still be married to him.”  

Yes, my love. I know.

Dear sweet everloving merciless hostile bastard cum-hating God, I know.  

I wrote to her recently, saying a few things — thank you and I miss you mostly — but also saying that in those moments eternal and, apparently, lost, she gave birth to me as a whole human being. Prior to that I was divided, torn by guilt and shame, restless, body-or-spirit-and-never-both, and forever alien to myself. With the touch of her heart, her lips, her body, with the scent of her neck and hair, and with the chalice of foam on her shoulder, she showed me I could be whole.  

It’s 2010. She’s wisely gone and I’m still in that room. I’m all alone and still believing naively that God, the Universe or the Great Pumpkin is going to remember the eternity of those moments, and honour them, and create the pathways we need to find our way back to one another.

"I grow old, I grow old, shall I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled?"

If I think otherwise, I not only lose her forever, but I also lose my faith in all things, the slender thread with which I connect to any kind of world I have any care to live in. I am a five year old child, lost in a huge, angry department store, knowing for certain that I will not find my way, that I will never be found, that the dark and anger are all too broad and vicious to escape.

I miss her.

I so miss her.  

And, every now and then, it’s too big to carry alone. I have to tell someone. Because she’s no longer here to tell.  

I’m sorry.

me

(reader submission. and really a perfect example of EP. thank you.)

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(sorry, can&#8217;t find who made this photo. will keep searching for credit though. also, you may think it&#8217;s just porn, to me, it&#8217;s emotional.)
Also! Wow! New followers! Thank you very much!
Go ahead and start submitting things! But I warn you, I take emotional pornography seriously. Make my cheeks wet, make my pussy wet. That&#8217;s how it goes. Don&#8217;t be discouraged though if I don&#8217;t publish your submission. This doesn&#8217;t mean what you submitted wasn&#8217;t good, it just means I didn&#8217;t think it fit the content of this blog. But I read every submission, so even if you just want to vent to someone, I&#8217;m here.
Keep mixing a good cry with a good fuck.
&lt;3

(sorry, can’t find who made this photo. will keep searching for credit though. also, you may think it’s just porn, to me, it’s emotional.)

Also! Wow! New followers! Thank you very much!

Go ahead and start submitting things! But I warn you, I take emotional pornography seriously. Make my cheeks wet, make my pussy wet. That’s how it goes. Don’t be discouraged though if I don’t publish your submission. This doesn’t mean what you submitted wasn’t good, it just means I didn’t think it fit the content of this blog. But I read every submission, so even if you just want to vent to someone, I’m here.

Keep mixing a good cry with a good fuck.

<3

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Probably in their marriage she had been too dreamy and inconsistent. For love to last, you had to have illusions or have no illusions at all. But you had to stick to one or the other. It was the switching back and forth that endangered things.

“Again?” Rudy sighed, ironic but hurt. Once love had seemed like magic. Now it seemed like tricks. You had to learn the sleight-of-hand, the snarling dog, the Hail Marys and hoops of it! Through all the muck of themselves, the times they had unobligated each other, the anger, the permitted absences, the loneliness grown dangerous, she had always returned to him. He’d had faith in that—abracadabra! But eventually the deadliness set in again. Could you live in the dead excellence of a thing—that stupid mortar of a body, the stubborn husk love had crawled from? Yes, he thought.

— Lorrie Moore, Like Life, 1990. (via worksofgenius, youngmanhattanite) (via beenthinking)
Jun 30
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(reader submission)

(reader submission)

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Breathing

  Do you know those moments when you’re making love and you can’t quite breathe?

    Do you know what I mean? I mean, of course, those times when you’re not sure whether to gasp for oxygen or press your lips to the lips of the one making love to you.

    I mean those instants where reason has abandoned you and your body has taken over: your brain may scream for air, but the rest of your body is screaming for more contact.

    There is a hand, a set of long fingers, pushing the tangled hair out of your face for better access.  Warm lips are making their way up your neck and to your earlobe.    

    Yummy.

    Breathing is not an easy task at this point, especially if there is a body pressed down on top of yours. Not that you are truly suffocating. There are just more important things to think about than breathing. Like how damn good it feels to be that close to another human being. That closeness is worth a bit of oxygen deprivation, right? Heck yes!

    Eventually you take a deep breath, because those sighs being emitted from your lips require air for propulsion. You may not be a screamer, but you probably aren’t entirely silent, either.

    His tongue makes another foray into your mouth and you are once again reminded of why you don’t mind that he chews gum almost constantly. Mmm, minty fresh.

    Your teeth bump against each other for one awkward second, and then you settle into a rhythm of exploration. You are both breathing through your noses, and this ought to be an annoying sound but it actually amps up the sensations that your body is experiencing.

    Music plays in the background, and, though neither one of you is paying much attention, the beat is driving your hips. Well, there are a lot of things driving your hips, but the beat is pretty crucial. Friction—or, rather, the want of it—might be another influential component.

    If you had long fingernails, the poor boy’s back would be a mass of scratch marks. As it is, there are red marks forming on his ribs. He might also have some discoloration on his butt, since you were using that particular piece of flesh to pull him closer. Ah well, he doesn’t seem to mind. He got pretty personal with your breasts a few minutes ago, so call it repaying the favour.

    You’re still getting used to the manoeuvring that is required to fit a man’s hips between your thighs. There are probably easier ways to do this, but it’s all still new and there’ll be time to figure it out later.

(reader submission)

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gusts

i wasn’t crying because what we had was beautiful.

i was crying because you just took from me something i’ll never have back. for fun.

(reader submission)

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Thoughts in the night

I would wear a blue dress with green peep toe shoes and you could see my red nail polish and you will say “you’re wearing too much colour,” but the tone of your voice woud indicate that it didn’t really matter.

You’d follow me through that alley, you know the one that runs beside my house? we’d walk past the pub and I would remark how it looked better when it was blue and when it smelt like cigarette smoke and stale beer and the ceilings were grey and patchy from the damp. We’d walk past the train station where I used to go to take the 10 minute journey to see you. You would follow me to the park, you know the one where it has the little bit of heaven in the urban city, but the dogs aren’t allowed in that bit, they can’t go in there, remember?

We would climb through the leaves and undoubtedly a branch would hit one of us in the eye and we would draw attention to ourselves. I like it in there, it was always damp on the ground but that’s England for you, I wonder if you’d miss the rain if you had left too. We would drink Tescos value vodka and not chase it with anything, like they do here in America. I don’t like vodka breath but we would both have it so it was fine. You’d snap me on your polaroid. We would kiss, sometimes. Or emotionally torture each other with secrets an tales of others. When we left our hiding place I’d be covered in mud and twigs would be in my hair and it would look like we had sex, but we wouldn’t have.

We would smell of Cigarettes and Alcohol and I don’t like smelling like that, I don’t know if you do, I don’t think it really matters. I would shower, you could come too, if you want to.

(reader submission)

Feb 22
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Feb 21
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Silly Rabbit

You should have learned… fool with such things and get burned. Time and time again, we’re caught in this vicious cycle-engage, implode and forget. It’s reminiscent of an assembly line. Those movies, those books, those stories..how they fuck with us so. They whisper into our untainted souls sweet nothings that we hang on to as if for dear life. Life, what do you have in store for us? Us, hopeless romantics, that are either too naive, too blind or too dumb to see what’s in front of our sniffling faces. It’s merely this- unless you see people for who they are and not your idea of them, you’ll end up in the same situation just with different faces.

submitted by bstenonefive

Feb 18
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