Shadow Writer

Stories and poems about love, lust and loss.


Uncompromisingly nsfw.
Copyright 2012-2014

The teacher and the student (nsfw).

  • He wanted her more than anything. He thought about her all day long, and at night, his dampened sheets bore the stains of his imaginings. She was older, and had been with men far more experienced than he, yet he was not intimidated. Her eyes were beacons; her smile, a welcoming, and her skin, the velvet of a rose petal, imploring one to touch.

  • She wanted him more than anything. She fought a daily battle with her subconscious, which refused to contain him. He was barely a man, younger than his age and softer than he should be, yet those were the qualities that drove her mad, and would eventually make her his whore.

  • He was afraid he would be inadequate. He did not know his way around a woman, at least not with assurance. He touched her tentatively, and looked into her eyes for approval before touching her elsewhere, before ever daring to touch her there.

  • His allure was his innocence. She tied the silky sash of a bathrobe around his eyes, lay prostrate in front of him, and asked him to straddle her. She guided his hands over her breasts and her torso, her tummy and her thighs and the downy patch between them, but no further. She watched his cock swell but would not touch him, nor allow him to touch himself. 

  • He was crazy with desire, but reticent to take the initiative. He asked if he might run his tongue over the places where his hands had been. Her skin tasted salty sweet, and gooseflesh rose over the path his tongue had taken, as it went from hot to cold.

  • She was finding it difficult to maintain control. She wanted him to see how adept he had been in arousing her, and finally removed his blindfold. She parted her legs, dipped a finger into the milky mucus drenching her cunt, and invited him in for a taste. 

  • He had never properly gone down on a woman. He nervously flicked his tongue here, then there, and waited for her reaction. He heard nothing, but then she held the back of his head with both her hands, and showed him how.

  • She had never had a man go down on her properly. She guided him through her soft, wet terrain, until he brought her to the brink of what would be the best orgasm of her life.

  • He thought he would go mad if he didn’t enter her immediately.

  • She thought she would go mad if he didn’t enter her immediately.

    They came in unison, the teacher and the student, their roles undefined.

Stupid boy..
can’t you see that these 
words are yours?

We share
a sickbed.

You,
reduced to
a fever dream,
eyes bright
blue planets
piercing
an indigo sky

and I,
skin burning cold,
lick your name
from parched lips

and swallow you
whole,
both the affliction
and the antidote.

"I must have flowers, always, and always."

— Claude Monet.

(Source: morigrrl, via silhouettesofspilledink)

Porcelain.

There was a moment early on Easter morning, while his body was folded over me and mine over the bathroom sink, that I might have been able to say that I was over you.

Then, as I watched his reflection in the mirror, the subtle movement of an adam’s apple, the sharp line of a jaw, a collarbone shifting under skin as he moved inside of me, the familiarity of my hands clenching cold porcelain forced me to squeeze my eyes shut, for fear that if I dared look again, the reflection would not be his, but yours.

orlansky:

Seen on the subway.

orlansky:

Seen on the subway.

O my God, I am hartily sorry for having offended Thee.

She’ll get on her knees on Saturday night to suck the dicks of boys whose names she won’t remember, then go to mass on Sunday morning to pray to a god she never knew. Only those who know her well enough will see the dirt embedded under the fingernails of her clasped hands.

I’m wearing a flower crown because it’s Easter and I don’t care what anybody thinks.

A tall tale.

He has told the story many times, of the homeless man who lived on a bench in the Chambers Street station.

As the story goes, he would see the man every morning on his way to work and give him a dollar or two, until one day it occurred to him that his money was probably going towards the cost of a cheap pint of liquor.

As he tells it, he began fixing the man a sandwich before leaving the house and stuffing it into a brown lunch bag along with the customary few dollars, until suddenly one day, the man disappeared from the home he made on the bench, never to be seen again.

I have never doubted the validity of any of this, just as I never doubted anything my father ever told me, until the day it was revealed to me that he was a liar and a cheat.

I can’t help but wonder now, as I hear him repeat the story for the hundredth time, if the homeless man ever existed, just as I wonder if the man I once knew to be my father ever did, or if both are merely a ruse concocted to make me despise him a little less, even as he can’t help but despise himself.

Daughter – Amsterdam (7,931 plays)

"Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it."- David Foster Wallace.

It’s one of those literary quotes that have become so cliche’ on social media, that with each time it’s referenced, it’s meaning seems to become more and more diluted.

Still, there hasn’t been one occasion where it’s come up on my tumblr feed that I have not had to resist reblogging it, because of it’s pinpoint accuracy in describing who I am.

There is not an article of clothing, a vacation souvenir, a random momento, a book, a cd, a card, even a text, that, having once meant something to me, does not mean something to me now. I have pressed a flower from every bouquet that was ever given to me by someone I cared about. I have jars full of seashells, each representing a day spent at my beloved shoreline. I have every school issued paperback of every classic I was ever required to read and every love fueled text sent by every boy who ever mattered. I still have the same pair of Guess jeans I wore in high school, (when holey knees were man made and not mass produced), and still wear every one of my sorority letters, if only to bed.

First of these things I’d grab in a fire? I’d probably burn to the ground while trying to decide, though in the end they are just things, and, despite any reluctance I might have to face the fact, things are ultimately disposable.

Humans however, are another story. There is not a man that I have ever loved, that I do not love today. Some who are no longer in my life, and some who have never been in it. These are the people who are the hardest to let go. There is either a shared past, or the prospect of a future, even one that is as tangible as ether, that keeps me from doing so. As hard as I try.

Once a man gets under my skin and enters my bloodstream, he is as much a part of me as the heart he has taken ownership of, and I don’t think there exists a scalpel sharp enough to extricate him.

Burying dead relatives.

If there is a hell, I’m pretty sure that’s where I’ll be going, at least that’s what my nonna would say while rolling in her grave over the blasphemy that will be taking place at my apartment, when I host Easter brunch on Sunday.

As a matter of fact, I’d bet two sfogliatelle and a splash of holy water that the word brunch was never even a part of her limited English vocabulary, though I can attest that, albeit badly butchered, numerous curse words were.

My half Sicilian, half Neapolitan, Roman Catholic heritage dictates that every religious holiday contain very specific rituals, the same rituals that have been observed and passed on from generation to generation, ad infinitum. The Lenten season is by far the most chock full, because there are forty fucking days worth of them. I have not eaten meat on a Friday during Lent since second grade, which, since I left catholic school, has a whole lot less to do with piety than it does my utter fear of being cursed with a lifetime of bad karma, dispensed via il mallocchio, and bestowed upon me by dead relatives.

It is tradition in my family that the week preceding Easter be a whirlwind of feet washing, pork store shopping, pastry making, station kneeling, and shell stuffing. Any deviation from these activities is not merely looked down upon, but used as fodder for the dreaded holiday dinner conversation, during which I personally would urge said deviant to drink as much home made chianti out of the good crystal as is humanly possible, without barfing up the braciole.

Since my parent’s divorce, which to date has ranked as the ultimate of the family atrocities amongst this holier than thou clan, I have soured on the traditional, and so will, this Easter, begin a new tradition. One that I call 'not going through the motions to appease single minded and inflexible relatives and doing what the fuck I please'.

This Easter, served on Chinet and out of sale priced Crate and Barrel stemware, there will be tapas and soufflé and blueberry scones, washed down with bellini’s and mimosa’s and bloody mary’s. There will be live acoustic music, my lover, my dogs and my dearest friends. No parents, no pasta, no judgement and no guilt.

Though, I might have to send a toast up to my nonna, just so that she doesn’t fuck me up.

"She wants to write. God, she wants to write so bad. But the ink bubbles in her throat and leaks from her pores and swirls down the drain in little black puddles. She tries. Oh god, she tries. But the pen twists and grins in her sweaty grip until all that remains are smudges and streaks and tears and fears, and she steps back and stares at this thing she just made. It has not a single word, but bears her heartbeat just the same."

(via orlansky)

Get out of my head, you.

Six word story.

Older men. Now there’s a concept.

The Smiths – The Boy With The Thorn In His Side (86 plays)

I could write a billion words about this band. 

(Source: twoyellows)

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