L is not for Love

the perfect desk

This was a little something I shared on a site some time ago.

When I was fifteen, I wrote a poem that earned me a spot in a writer’s workshop. I didn’t submit it, a teacher did. I was the youngest person in the workshop. I did not know it at the time but a special arrangement had been made for me after some degree of protest. I didn’t even have to pay. There was a girl, she was seventeen and apparently gifted from the way her poetry read. She paid. The rest of them were pretty much adults, in college or working writers. It was an honor and even at that age I realized it.

When the instructor walked in and announced that he was the Emeritus Distinguished Professor of Literature and Creative Writing, and also the Writer-in-Residence at the college we were being housed in (blah, blah, blah), I immediately realized that I really didn’t belong there. He didn’t say anything that I didn’t already know. Even at that age, I knew the importance of research. It’s just the way he said it. He was no longer on paper, but standing in front of me in the flesh—bigger, and more wrinkled, than life itself. Everything about that experience was new to me. For one, he didn’t give grades. For an over achiever of my age at a “college”, that seemed blasphemous. There was no pass or fail. You either wanted to improve as a writer, or this was some way for you to stroke yourself. He made it clear that if you were expecting him to do any stroking, then your ass was parked in the wrong seat. Yes, he said it just like that.

I was shocked, but for some strange reason also suddenly in love. He was my first “L”. Or, I should say that he gave me my first L.

I know what you are thinking. L is for Lust, because that’s the Summer I discovered mine. NO. L is for Love, because that’s the summer I fell in love with some man three times my age and lost my virginity. Or better yet, I lost my virginity to a woman three times my age. No. Okay, L is for the Summer I fell in love with poetry. Wrong. L is for Loser, because that’s the summer I discovered that I was already very adept at stroking myself. Wrong again. It was L for Lazy, because that’s the summer when all that other stuff happened and I discovered how to not be a lazy writer.

Uhm…I didn’t lose my virginity though. But, it did catch your attention.

I may never be a “good” writer. I hate using relative words, but for the sake of brevity I’ll use the term good. Nevertheless, I’m a hell of a good reader. That’s the first thing I learned. If you say that you love poetry or fiction, who are you reading? I mean really reading, not just entertaining yourself. Do you ask yourself, why you read them? Is it worth repeating out loud? Do you examine what makes their writing unique, special, and “good”? Do you reach beyond your comfort zone? We all have what we like to read, just like we have what we like to write. Don’t limit yourself. There are writers that write beyond our grasp or ability, in the present and specifically in the past. Read them, examine them. Let them intimidate you and examine why. Let the fine writings of quality writers that have proven themselves provoke you into sharpening your skills. I advise to even let the crappy stuff that may cross your path provoke you as well. Sometimes asking yourself why something sucks can cause you to reexamine what you are doing. Reading is what will help writer’s block. Reading is what will keep you from writing about the same thing over and over again. The list goes on. The most important thing is that all really good writers are avid readers. Lazy writers are not.

Lazy writers read something and get lost in the world of “I think”. I think this and I think that, I would have done this and I would have done that. Mind you, I said lost. I’m all for personalization. You remember what you personalize. It wouldn’t hurt though, I mean if you are serious about writing, to read a work of professional criticism. Learn what successful writers have to say about writing. I’m not suggesting starting with Ezra Pound’s “ABC of Reading”, but Anita Shreve, Toni Morrison, Stephen King and even that line of books “For Dummies” write about writing. Find who you like and read what they have to say about writing. It may piss you off, it may enlighten you, but it will inspire you. You will improve, not because you want to mimic them but because you realize you are not a writing God, yet.

Me. As much as I love me and am so completely loved by those who love me, I learned to not subject my readers to me every time I put my pencil to the paper (or fingers to the keyboard). Lazy writers love to talk about themselves and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that if you are interesting. Even then, there are only so many ways you can retell the same story, the same opinion, and the same view on life. Every dream you have does not a good writing make. Every experience you have does not qualify as interesting to anyone else but you. That is what journals are for. When you get older you buy the ones without locks because at some point you realized that no one cares. That hurts. It hurts to have someone look at your heart’s blood or brain’s drain written out and forced into language, formatted and in an excellent rhyming pattern, only to hear them say “so what”.

I remember looking at that professor and saying, “But it hurt me to share this.” He looked at me and said, with one eye brow raised, “Really? How much time and energy do you have invested in what you wrote on that piece of paper?” The truth is that I wrote about a sure thing. I took a pain (and at fifteen I did believe that my pain was the end all be all) that could be universally related to, put in a little personal significance and ranted with the gift of tongue and excellent rhyme. I felt that I could turn a phrase, after all that’s how I got there. And well, all good poems rhyme. Lazy writers depend on that kind of stuff to make the poem. Then I called it “A Black Girl Sings”. If all else failed, I could look all indignant and say, “You don’t really read black authors do you.” It would not be intended as a question but more of a social statement devised to shut someone down.

And of course, he said, “Actually I do. Who do you have in mind?”

You see, lazy writers underestimate the reader too.

The obvious pain present was good, it was relatable. The words and rhymes were good, but it was not a poem. It was a rant. It was a situation. None of those things were as important as why my pain, your pain, that situation was special. Why was it worthy of subjecting everyone in the room to it? How much had I really put into it? How long did I think about its significance. How much thought had I given to word choice? If it was simple, why was it simple? If it was complex, why was it complex? Was each word specific in its meaning and intonation? One comment had said that it was easy to get lost in the complexity and the beauty of the language, but to what point. I didn’t get one stroke. My English teacher in school would have been in tears telling me how great that poem was. It did only take me about forty minutes to write thanks to my handy dandy electronic thesaurus. But, that’s how it works when you are one of the gifted few. Right? I was lazy. I wanted glory, but I didn’t want to work for it. The only people it impressed were the ones who didn’t really want to think. They are called lazy readers.

If you are satisfied with the accolades that come from lazy readers, then you need to stop reading right now. Please, stop.

Some one story wonders or one poem wonders don’t realize that is what they are. They keep giving us that same story or poem over and over again. It was interesting the first time. I repeat, the first time. This is me in love, this is me in pain, and this is me in recovery. They write story after story, poem after poem, musing after musing. They become a cliché. And, for the lazy reader, clichés are familiar and comforting. That’s okay if that is the level at which you wish to write. Believe me, it is an easy trap to be caught in. I catch myself all the time. Laziness has a way of sneaking up on you.

The absolute best quality a writer should have is empathy. The ability to write from yourself is good, but combine it with the ability to step outside of yourself and dive into an experience fully beyond just you. To pull out the universality of it and yet the personal interpretation, to risk your “self” (not for sympathy or just out of pain or even for attention-and I’m not saying that there is anything wrong with these things) for the sake of something that needs to be said or seen or felt, that’s the art of it. Unless you are shooting for the art of it, you are not really loving the art form. You are self-indulging. Lazy writers self-indulge.

There are going to be things associated with certain writers, their voice or style. You want your own voice and your own style. That’s the ultimate goal. It is good to pull from within yourself and stretch, let it be raw and even a little painful. Or, let it be deep in its appreciation of joy, happiness and even the mundane. Keep in mind, I said stretch because there is no emotion or experience that you will have that has not ever been had by someone somewhere else and written down. Don’t forget that. If you are going to subject us to it, at least be honest about it and give it some advanced, profound thought. Remember, only lazy readers don’t want to think. Lazy writers just jot down their first thought and leave it at that.

Writing is art. Very few are given that natural gift, that unexplainable and unteachable thing that makes the reader catch his breath and know that he is in the presence of greatness. You may or may not be one of the few and the proud. Odds are you are not. Thank your God that writing is also something that can be learned and well-tuned. It requires training. To what degree depends on the person. Yes, writing well depends on how hard you are willing to work. How lazy are you not going to be?

Well, as far as my poem was concerned, sometimes rejection is the best thing that can happen to a submission. I worked on the same poem for the entire time. Some people put out four or five. I put out one. It evolved and I transformed it into something that I was quite proud of. It was simple and unpretentious. Needless to say, I changed the title. I earned an honorable mention for that poem from my forum peers, which meant a lot. That poem won me a sizeable scholarship in college. I also used that same poem as part of my manuscript when I applied for graduate school. I learned not to be a lazy writer and it turned out to be a great thing that has spilled over into every other area of my life. I’m no “Pulitzer Prize” winner, so take it with a grain of salt. Admittedly, I’m much too lazy for that.

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The Point at Which You Entered

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I try to find the point
At which you entered.
But, there is no line
Of demarcation
For where my body begins
And where yours ends,
No great divide
To direct the flow
Of water that runs so deep.
Nature is unprepared for the power
That swells up within
And shatters the rock.
For what seems to be
A subtle sway,
A soothing current,
Forms mountains and valleys,
Leaving nothing free of its
Undertow.

You looked into my eyes,
Knowing my real name
And then
Whispered it across the dampness
Of my skin
With fingers and lips.
And when I could no longer stand
On my own two legs,
They wrapped around you,
Drawing you even closer
Because where skin meets skin
Is not enough for true lovers.

There is no separation
Of your spirit from my soul,
No language
For the creation of an image
Of where
You entered me.
No mirror could justly reflect
The heat of the ingress,
Nor can the feel of your slow descent,
That perfected stroke of progress
As you stretched me open,
Be captured.
My body was not invaded,
It was recreated.

And now,
We are not simply adjacent,
You and I have merged,
Liquefied by our own heat,
Entwined and moving as one
Heartbeat
–Expanding and releasing
Into each other
Until
The point at which you entered
No longer exists.
We lie together
As one,
A new life
In this new world
Of our own creation.

***

©AvrgBlkGrl, 2014. And This Too Is Love. No part of this material may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, or used in any other fashion without the express prior written permission of the owner. This manuscript is specifically written for

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A Woman’s Love

imageA belated Mother’s Day gift.

(Hey I was busy yesterday. )

A Woman’s Love     By AvrgBlkGrl
I want to tell you,
Tell you about a woman’s love,
Because the world does not know enough.
There are few words sufficient in nature
With meanings that can cover the depth
Of what she gives
When she chooses
To open her arms,
To soothe you from within
And lets you enter her heart.

It is what old, lonely men wish to whisper
In the ears of their sons,
So that they will know
And maybe save themselves
From making mistakes,
From losing it in earnest.
But, life is too short and realization
Too late.
It hits them like a wave,
Sacrifices all sense and sanity,
Leaving them to mumble on corners,
Scratching at the air,
Lost in their own shame
Of a life they could have lived.

If you knew,
There would be no room for self.
Knowledge would invade you
And you too would become like the Gods,
Thinking you can rule things;
Never the less,
Realizing unless she worships you,
You simply do not exist
–A mere drop in the ocean.

What I want to tell you
Will change all that you thought you knew.
You would need new eyes with which to see,
Having lost the others to a light that blinds.
Your body would no longer be yours.
It would make you crave for the heaven that is her skin,
The mercy that is her touch,
The free that is beyond freedom
And your comprehension
That is found deep inside her.
There lies an ethereal thing
You cannot put your finger on
(Although you will try),
With no shape
And its own timbres,
That vibrates through you
With every push
And makes you feel like crying with every pull.

The desire to crawl up
Inside of her,
To stretch and expand,
To feel yourself
Each time as if new,
To shake without control
As you spill over,
Is an addiction that rises up
Each time she looks your way.
It makes you want to leave something,
Something she can swallow, consume, absorb.
So that even when you are not there,
You are still a part of her.
And if another should taste her,
What they taste would be you
— And your ecstasy.
You will hope
That she could never belong to another,
That her love is yours.

What I’m going to tell you
Will make you discover that there is no weakness
Like the weak she bares within you,
Atrophying the strongest muscle you have,
Strengthening the weakest with just a nod of her head.
Her smile simply makes you can
When you think you can’t,
And you will wait for it,
Work for it,
Dream of it.
There will be a look on her face
Just for you
When you reach far enough,
Drowning in the pleasure she offers
As you tap the tip of hers.
Memories of it will carry you
Through the valleys
In pursuit of those peaks.

She can leave you open and raw
To the harshness of the sun that is supposed to sustain you
And to the bitterness of the cold that should preserve.
Her love changes things.
There will be no relief without her,
No life,
No breath worth taking.
And did I speak of warmth,
Now let me speak of heat,
She will melt you
And re-form you.
You will thank her.
You will finally understand
That to be a man,
To stand and make that claim
Was never your decision.
You will never know what it is to be one
Without a woman’s love.

She is your rite of passage.
Yet, when she gives
She gives freely.
Her love is all she truly has
That is hers.
It’s not enough to think you want it
Or that lying beside her nakedness
Means you have it.
The question is
Are you ready?

I want to tell you,
To tell you about
A woman’s love.
But I’m afraid
You’re not willing to save yourself.
And, your time is ticking away.

*************
©AvrgBlkGrl, 2014. No part of this material may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, or used in any other fashion without the express prior written permission of the owner. This manuscript is specifically written for Lush Stories.

 

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Here’s a taste of TRUST by AvrgBlkGrl©

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From  “Trust” Ch. 02

Note: This excerpt is explicit and not intended for anyone under 18 years of age.

There were no restraints circling her ankle, no locks on her door. Without Kieren’s interest or protection, Iona was left open. She was at the mercy of his men. They could do whatever they chose. Men without rules lack a heart. They have no form of natural affection within them. Just like animals that eat their own children, they have no conscience.  She had seen men come close, but had stood still due to decrees designed for their kind. Decrees brought order. With no consequences there were no boundaries, no decrees.

Iona sat waiting, rocking back and forth with her hands clasped.

Maybe they would take her one by one. She was special. They would stand in line, sweating and desperate. They would lick their dry lips, eyes wild from the pressure of impatience. His men’s stature was larger than most. Like Kieren they would be well endowed.

Maybe they would take her by threes, taking advantage of every aperture. At first, her skin would be a source of wonderment. They would work in unison. Together they would kiss and lick to experience her taste. Each would want to squeeze her firm breasts. One would suck one as another sucks the other. Jealous, the third one would pull from any available area. This would feel good and remove her fear. Then they would fuck her, one beneath her, one behind her and one in her mouth. She would welcome the abuse, having perversions never shared.  They would congratulate each other on the extent of their attained depth. This would be a sign of manhood, a reward. They would pump in and out of her feeling the press of each other. Their rhythm would take hold of her and she would move with them. She would come with them; her body would stream with a combination of thick liquids. To watch the crawl of cream against the darkness of her skin would be another great wonderment. Its taste would be on her tongue. Its lubrication would soothe her loosened opening and swollen pussy. She would be shocked by her own pleasure.  Kieren’s roughness and hunt for gratification would then pale in comparison.

No, the men in charge would take her first. They would have a strong need to finally taste this delicacy that once was denied. They would show tenderness. Having frequent experiences inland, a woman’s touch would not be rare. This woman would request no fee, yet be most valued.

Maybe one would want to feel stronger, bigger, better, and last longer, with a desire to finally best Kieren. This one would want to bring her pleasure to have proof. This one would take his time, angering those that wait. No one would dare hurry him.

Iona would welcome him, thankful for his gentleness knowing this was a gift. But from this point forward Iona would not be herself. She would float above. She would watch, but later she would turn away. That which is not her would remain, knowing that she is only a vessel.

The one wishing to give pleasure would kiss her inviting lips, loving their soft lushness as he runs his hands down the sides of her body.  She would be like fruit to him. He would suck on her neck as he works downward. He would circle her nipple with the tip of his tongue as if testing its sweetness.  His lips would first kiss its tip before taking it fully. He would feed, pulling from it. Flicking it with his tongue and nibbling with his teeth would make her back arch, feeding him more. His other hand would knead the other breast as it waits for his fine treatment. He would find her special places and kiss them all appreciatively. He would fondle and explore every inch of her skin to rid the influence of myths.

The one that is Iona would watch from above in anger. Because of his ministrations, the one that is not Iona would be a traitor. The betrayal would be with her body. This betrayal readies her to accept him. With a pussy fully saturated, her legs would spread wider.

He would lie on top of her like lovers do, but only to read her expressions. He would ask her to place her arms around his neck. Wanting the others to hear her moans, he would enter slowly. She would feel every inch of him and know where he falls short. Still she would welcome him. His fucking would be deliberate. Often pausing, he would suck, bite and mark her breasts thinking it extends his longevity. It has the opposite effect.

He would ask, “Am I stronger?”

Her hands would feel the curve of his shoulders and slide to his upper arms as she lies.

“Yes, you are stronger.”

He would pull himself out of her, glistening with proof of her eagerness. Sitting between her legs on his knees, holding himself, stroking his length with proof of his eagerness forming droplets at its tip, he would wonder.

He would ask her to touch it and she would feel the heat of its firmness.

Finally he would ask, “Am I bigger than him?”

She would lie again, nodding her head, and say, “You are much bigger than he is.”

One push to the hilt would enter her this time, while he intently watches her face. With satisfaction he would begin to move and fuck her faster. He would work harder than before, grunting as his control weakens. He would become thankful for this feeling that she gives. He would begin to forget himself, wrap himself with nothing but her. Then to avoid the appearance of such, he would force himself to stop.

Sweating profusely and breathing heavily, he would ask, “Am I better than he is?”

She would nod her head, bite her lip and moan deeply, to avoid expressing this lie.

The thought of being stronger, bigger and better than the man he idolizes would increase his pride, give him a new sense of manliness. This would increase her sweetness. Pursuit of her pleasure would become stronger as he reaches for his own. She would be a taste far better than any tasted before. He would be hypnotized by her willingness to accept the man he has become—longing for him more than she did the other. He would be sure of this fact by the look on her face and the reaction of her body. His fucking would become frantic and hard to control. He would remember that he should out-last Kieren–this proves to be his greatest obstacle.

Grunting would come from low in his chest, in union with his progress. He would begin to say “Yes.” repeatedly until the name of his favorite god replaces it. Concern for what was heard would no longer be of importance. His release would cause his body to spasm. His pleasure would borderline pain. Nothing could have prepared him for what he feels.

She would have turned her face to the side, so her eyes avoid the sting of his sweat and the bizarre look on his face. The feel of him filling her would bring shame.

Iona is no longer herself; it would not be her shame.

She would then rise up on her elbows in curiosity because he had slid down her body and put his face between her thighs. He would look up and smile, a boy finding unintended sweets. This would be his perversion, the one he will not tell the others about.

He would suck his own fluids from her as if pulling from the neck of a flagon.  Sounds of his tongue lapping at her pussy would remind her of a starved animal licking an abandoned dish. He would be thorough, moaning with his own satisfaction. She would find herself moaning too, not out of pretense.  Her eyes would close from the feel of it. For the second time, the vessel would betray Iona. This time the betrayal would be greater. He would continue to suck and lick till she shudders.  She would grab at his hair, hair not blond or as lush as Kieren’s, unable to endure the feeling he gives. It would be more than she can handle.

She would feel guilt for having responded. This would not be Iona’s guilt. There would be tears though, Iona’s tears. Iona would cry because it is Kieren who is missing in so many ways.

Before this man leaves, sitting beside her and slipping on his leather foot coverings, he would say, “I was in you for far too long, that is why my seed filled you so.”

She will not respond to that; there is no need. He would no longer need her reinforcement. He would now have what he feels to be himself. This man would rub his hand down the curve of her back and kiss her skin for the last time. He would lick it with appreciation. He would be thankful. He would know that everything that is her will be missed.

When he leaves, she would know that he was the last act of intended kindness. He was the exception.

Nothing of that sort had ever happened to Iona. She had been fucked, but never like that. She knew what was possible though…

Read all of Ch. 02 HERE.

©Regina Moore, AvrgBlkGrl©. 2008 to 2016. No part of this material may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, or used in any other fashion without the expressed prior written permission of the owner.

 

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2015 Reader’s Choice Award Winner!!

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Guess who it is?

Okay, give up? It’s me.

That’s right. I am The 2015 Literotica Readers Choice Award Winner for Best Interracial Love Story.  Trust Ch. 02 by avrgblkgrl© was nominated, which I did not even know, and won.  In addition to that, Trust Ch. 03 won the February Readers Choice spot in the same genre. That automatically nominates it for the 2016 Reader’s Choice Award. Of course, I will not have any idea who wins that until April of 2017. It is a long shot.

Wouldn’t it be so nice if  you could run your fingers down the spine of that novel in Barnes and Nobel. My novel. I’m shopping around for an agent. In the words of my best friend, “Girl, when are you going to stop giving your blood away for free?!”

I’m just a little giddy. And, I have no idea of how to go about things.

Now I know that something like this may not mean much to some people. I know that a few look down on this particular medium. My professional colleagues would be gasping for air in disbelief to know that I write there. But, I think that some of them are up at 3 a.m. reading those said trashy stories.

I don’t give a sh**.

Keep in mind though, Literotica.com is like a port for erotic literature. It is one of the most well-known sites. It has about 5 million visitors a month. Aside from all of that. I have a soft spot for the place and I’ve become friends with some amazing writers through it. There is a lot of smut there but when something is good, it’s good and it gets the accolades it deserves. I’ve always felt that. So I feel honored.

It isn’t an easy forum. You can easily get eaten alive there. I’ve often heard people on other sites say that they felt like everyone is so mean there. It isn’t a social site, at least the lit side of it. You tread water based on your writing. Not everyone is going to pat you on the back. So yes, I feel honored. A lot of really good writers have started out there.

I was looking for something good to read and wondered over there. I picked out some really great stories, but there were some really bad ones too. I took up the challenge. If it wasn’t for Literotica I would not have started writing erotic stories. I would not feel bold enough to push my erotic poems out there too.

So yeah, I’m feeling pretty good right now.

You can find me on Literotica.com HERE.

I’m going to post a snippet of TRUST Ch. 02 for you HERE.

Regina 💋

[If you get a chance read Soular’s “Seven Days”, a GoodReads recommendation–which is rare for a short, or Selina Kitty’s work—a NY Times bestselling author now.] .

 

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It’s Not Easy Being a Girl…Sometimes

it's not easy

it’s not easy being a girl/sometimes     by AvrgBlkGrl

[I absolutely worship Ntozake Shange (En-too-Za-kee SHAHNG-gay). I’ve never considered myself a feminist (don’t get me started) nor am I any type of activist, but I am a mighty outspoken black womanist and I sincerely believe in that. My thoughts and research on womanist theory in ethnic literature has been published in some really impressive academic journals. (Pats self on the back and moves the hell on.) So, I’m pretty loud about it. Ms. Shange’s words led me to that place of inner and outer recognition. I praise her every time I get a chance. I do a pretty good performance piece from for colored girls who have considered suicide too. I should have my own Tony Award for it. Oh, well. This is my tribute to her and a poem she has by a similar name. You know that I had to put my erotic, little slant to it. (You know you are not shocked!) I published it in this format and it made eyes roll on my favorite site. Seriously, I didn’t make up that format y’all. Uhm…she did. Enjoy and tell me what you think or what it makes you think of.]

it’s not easy being a girl/sometimes/cause you were born in a world that thinks you are second/when you can hear your own heart beat/when you have danced in the womb/when you have your own rhythm/you cry out at birth/your lungs fill with your own power/they say hush but they cannot quiet the beginning of a storm/you are the whirl wind they desire to control/they won’t let you call yourself by your own spirit’s name/they don’t realize that you are the lightning before the sound/when no one understands that you need to be first

sometimes/it’s not easy being a girl that grows into a woman/but still has a girl inside of her/there are things you keep to yourself/because sometimes it rains on the inside/you are taught too soon to be quiet/you cannot hear your own scream/you grow/obvious to the vain eye/these things cannot be helped/you have curves here and some more there/they entice unwanted eyes/they can’t seem to catch the wanted eye of those you crave/ones you want in the middle of the night/then there is a man with a boy still inside of him/you watch his lips as they move/you feel your own smile but you treasure his/you open your legs for air/your body needs to breathe/your body just needs/when you learn to bend your finger/the power that it gives/so grows nature

it’s not easy being a girl/sometimes tongues wag and accusations fly/when they say you are too fast/too loose/call you bitch to your face/warn you about stomachs that stick out as if you didn’t know/and these are your sisters that make you cry before a man ever touches your damp skin/before a man ever walks away from an open wound/before a man says he does not want you/these are the things that make you close your thighs and sit up straight in that chair/all you want is to lay in the coolness of the grass/feel the dew/understand your own nature/taste your own wetness/all you want is to be loved/sometimes/so you close your windows/so you pull the blinds/you lock your doors/you hide in your own house/you are ashamed of your own body/you fear what it can do/but you touch yourself/you wait/you dream/sometimes dreams come true

sometimes/its not easy being a girl/because you are deaf to rumors/you are deaf to outcries/you are deaf to warnings/you are need/hot and dripping with your own lust/you never forgot your own dance/you claim those curves/you grab your own breasts/you drop low/you move slow/you are the wind and you whip around corners/you cause things to bow /you blow/you lick your own lips with your own appetites/men hunger for you and women keep their mouths shut/sisters recognize sisters/when you bend your finger what you want draws close/when you are the feast and this is your table/you sit at its head/you decide when it is time to eat/a lover is blessed to touch the tips of your fingers/suck on your sweetest parts/drink from your glass/fill himself with nothing but you/you let him know you need no thing and this is a want/he hears it in the way you say his name/he loves you for it/he worships you from the inside/he revels in his own weaknesses because nothing has ever felt so good/you move and move and move/he must rise up to catch you/when you come you cry out/there is no fear of your own sounds/when you close your eyes it is just to sleep/you lay beside a man that is a man/sometimes beside a woman/you decide how you will start the day/you are nature/this is natural

it’s not easy being a girl…sometimes/there are choices you must make alone/there is the woman you must become/there is the life you must live/there is a girl you must kiss goodbye

Copyright © ©AvrgBlkGrl, ©Regina Moore. 2008 to 2016. No part of this material may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, or used in any other fashion without the expressed prior written permission of the owner.

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I’ve Something New For You…

Trust Banner

TRUST is my latest work and I’m so excited. It is a Historical Interracial Romance. I’m working with it to develop a book. I’m really proud of how it is starting out. I’m having a lot of fun researching Vikings and their everyday life. It is sexy, sexy. There is a little bit there for everyone–regardless of your preference. It is my latest work in progress and I’m dedicating myself to see it to completion and hopefully get it published.

We shall see…

Happy Writing

Read it here!!!

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