The Land of NeverWas

Where all the "Might Have Beens" live

Archive for the category “sex”


I am desiring to take myself on a journey. But it is not one in which I would like to travel over dirt and rock and go from one town to the next, or country to country. And while it’s not a territory unknown to man, it is a territory unknown to me and one I very much want to discover for myself. And it is not one I would undertake by car, train, boat or even by walking.


The means of exploration would be by the touch of my hand and the kiss of my lips. For, you see, the territory I want to discover is your body. I want to learn the geography of you down to the most intimate detail until I could find any spot I like in the darkest of nights. I want to know where the secret places of your pleasure hide so that I can visit them often to both of our delights. I want to soak in the pools of your eyes and stare at your beauty as if it were the night sky. I want to bask in the warmth of your arms and lay my head on your chest and listen to the ebb and flow of your breathing, soaking up the sunshine of your love. I want to taste you and savor the sweetness and the saltiness of the various parts of you as if I were sampling all the finest flavors of the world. I want to drink of your lips and grow intoxicated by your scent.

Yes, there. There would I like to travel.


it’s the stillness that gets to me.

the stillness after she leaves. even though the scent of her perfume mixed with sex still lingers in the air, she has taken the distraction with her. i am left with the thoughts i managed to avoid, thoughts i ran and hid from as i buried myself inside of her. the worthlessness i felt temporarily masked by the word beautiful she had whispered repeatedly as she ripped open my shirt and kissed my chest. for a short time, i really believed her. but once the hunger for me she possessed had gone along with her and i lay there in the darkness, satiated yet hollow, all i could think of was the emptiness i felt inside. for she had touched my body and made the heat of my blood rise, but the fire burned no deeper. the coldness still lingered in my heart. the newly reacquainted numbness of meaninglessness had returned to sleep next to me in my bed. it lay there like the faithful companion it had always been waiting to wag its tail and keep me company. day in and day out.

but, really, there is something to be said for not feeling a damn thing. something good. love is a beautiful destruction, for whether it be good or whether it be bad, it changes the person it touches. it destroys who you were, sometimes for the better, sometimes not, and the person you were before then will never be again. you have become a transmuted being, shaking your head and wondering what the fuck just happened.

no, fuck that. give me the numbness any day. let the heat of my body beneath the silky kisses of a woman never again reach into my soul. the embers there will no longer burn. there is no more fuel for the fire. and that is good, for though they say it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, they are full of shit.

for when you love there can be no stillness. there can only be restlessness. but when you are numb you find you can lay in the darkness and enjoy the stillness.

and finally sleep.

perfect sin

lips meet and tongues dance. fingers trace. teeth bite. eyes close in rapturous abandon. shaking hands tear at clothing then find what lies beneath. breath catches at the first tingling feelings and then comes in gasps as sensation rushes all over. the scents intoxicate and lead to further abandon. sweat forms as two become one. bodies tangle and weave, rise and fall. all the while touching, ever touching. it seems as if no place can be left untouched. no skin left not kissed. and then in a final rush there is nothing left but a trembling mass of flesh and whispers.

it wasn’t love, but it was a perfect sin.


n: The condition of being confused or disoriented.

Even after I said clearly what was happening, you just stood there, saying nothing.
I’m not sure what hurt the worst: having to admit it was over or believing that I meant so little.


10 o’clock
i bet they’re fucking right now
his hands are all over her
she’s got herself wrapped around him
(stop it)
wonder what’s on tv
maybe she’s watching tv too
(stop doing this to yourself)
lying there half asleep
thinking about me
no, i doubt i cross her mind
she walked away far too easily
(stop it)
in a few days i’ll be a vaporous thought
adrift on the winds of yesterday
(stop doing this to yourself)
ah, i need a drink to numb the pain
no, alcohol is like ingesting liquid depression
but fuck it, who cares
i sure the fuck don’t
(stop it)
just like her
oh god, she’s going to marry him
(stop doing this to yourself)
i need a tourniquet to stop
the flow of thoughts
racing through my head
not to mention the gut wrenching
pain, that has to
(stop it)
(stop doing this to yourself)
i need to find a way to stop
please let me find a way to become

The sad life of Sperm A. Tozoa

It must be a hard life, being a sperm. Think about it. Until you pop out of that dark tunnel you’re not sure where you’re going to be. Oh sure. You know where you’re supposed to be. Wiggling your way up that cervix, trying to beat all of your other sperm competition to get at that egg prize. But how many don’t? Those unfortunate little soldiers pop out and see a bathroom sink rushing up at them right before they end in porcelain death. Screaming all the way down. “Siiinkkkk…you son of a biiittttchhh!!!” Or a floor. Or a sheet. A face. Boobs. A back. Ass cheeks. A rubber device of some sort. The possibilities are nearly endless. You might even start out thinking you made it to the right orifice only to realize you’d been tricked as you slide past the tonsils. “Hey, did anyone see George?” “Yeah I think he got stuck in her teeth!” Poor guys. Best not to even think about anal trickery. The horror would be too much to bear. But I bet in all the history of sperm, there have been a few smart ones that said “You know what? Fuck that egg! I’m staying a sperm. You ever see what happens after you become a baby? No thanks!” Sadly, those would be the ones you’d want to fertilize an egg and propagate the species. We’d all be much smarter then.

The Claustrophobic Feeling of Space

All I can give are words.

No touch.

No kiss.

And the words that I can give may only be read instead of heard. But if my words might entangle with yours, as if they were our surrogate bodies, and get to touch, feel, and take in the scent of you that I can only imagine, then I send them off gladly. I will try not to be envious of my words as they bask in the glory of your gaze. I will hope that they flow from your eyes to your heart and there inscribe themselves so that you may carry them with you wherever you go. Carry them like a book of love that you can open and read whenever you need to feel the warmth of knowing someone out there is thinking of you.

But, will your eyes ever meet my words or will they exist here forlornly while you pass them by unknowingly? Will you ever know how the sight of you launched a thousand ships in my heart only to have them crash against the reefs of time and distance, where I am left with the wreckage of  ‘If Only’? That time, that distance, that space, as vast as it is, closes around me until I can no longer breathe and only the softness of your lips can bring me back to life.

random bits of passion

Lips meet…eyes lock…skin on skin electricity…heart pounding… she tastes and smells so fucking good…it’s almost a dream-like quality that you are lying there naked with someone you have basically been obsessing about for a time..

you want to kiss her from head to toe and enjoy every goddamn second….get lost in her hair…entangle your bodies and hold her so close it’s like you are trying to merge into one being…. you try so hard to memorize every touch feel and sound…or freeze time….

but you can’t..and being only human there must be an end.

Love is the cruelest drug of all

For it is only love that can directly pierce your soul. It shoots through your veins giving you a rush of ecstasy unlike anything else man could manufacture. You feel as if you could do anything. Climb the highest mountain, cross the deepest oceans, conquer the whole fucking world. The sky’s the limit as long as that needle is tapping the vein. Then when it is taken from you, it leaves you shattered and shaking, trembling and sleepless, needing a fix so bad you feel as if there are red hot pokers applied directly to every nerve ending in your heart. You would do anything to get it back. Lower and debase yourself, if only, if only, the dealer, the object of your affection would spare you just the tiniest fraction of it. You know you could get by another day if, please, please, please, she would spare you a word, a touch, a kiss. But no, and time goes by. Gradually the addiction begins to subside and the pieces of your life fall back into place. But like any addict, you are never truly recovered, and there is always the next dealer out there somewhere, lurking. Waiting to whisper in your ear “You want to get high with me?” And all the past torment forgotten, you smile and say.


The Meaning of Life

At a very early age I was led to the toilet by my mother so that I could go from being a pet to being a child and thus hopefully becoming a human being one day. (My poor dear mother is still waiting for that latter to occur.) Over the many years of visiting the toilet, I have come to an amazing, some would say perhaps even an astounding conclusion. The meaning of life is shit. Everything we do revolves around it. We eat shit, we watch shit, we listen to shit, we talk shit, we buy shit. Some people even actually give a shit (or so I hear). And then when we can consume no more shit. We take a shit.

So there you have it. The Meaning of Life.

Glad to be of service.

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