So much talk lately about the kiss, the intimacy of the kiss, that feeling of euphoria that comes with that kiss that is right and real, that kiss that swallows you up, starting from the curl in your toes to the fine hairs on the back of your neck, that kiss that leaves you panting for air, that makes each part of your body quiver as you melt against him, that makes you suck his bottom lip into your mouth with the overwhelming urge to bite it. Sometimes hard. That. That kind of kiss.
I had THAT kind of kiss for the first time with my first true love, not until sophomore year of high school. And that was the end for me. For to find a good kisser is to find yourself lost, at the mercy of another, at their seductive whims and charms like a magician with his hat and rabbit. I have also found it’s not all that common. My first French kiss was in 7th grade. I was young. I was naïve. And I had never even pecked a boy, let alone French kiss. Quite frankly, I had no idea what the French kiss was, though I had heard about it, like an Arthurian legend, like some secret sorority hears about hazing, like some mystical experience that only then will allow you to enter “womanhood.” For without the French kiss, it was argued, you had never been truly kissed. We stood dancing under a 7th-grade decorated gym of hideous reds and greens only middle-schoolers can concoct, around Christmas time, to a slow song like the timid children we were, out of Catholic uniform and separated by the imaginary Holy Ghost. A spunky 8th grader thought it fun to put some mistletoe above our heads and order us to do the unthinkable: French kiss in front of a gym of overly-horny tweeners, set free of the rules of everyday school desks and teachers and rows and homework and raising hands and rulers. What could we do? So…we kissed. I thrust my tongue into his mouth and he did likewise, and we stood there, tongue-locked and embarrassed, eyes wide, transfixed on one another in horror. The sadist who held the mistletoe laughed, skipped off, and carried on as if he didn’t just initiate us into some ungodly communion. And I? I ran to the bathroom, washed off my numb tongue, which I was convinced would never feel the same, and never looked that boy in the face again until many years later at a party where we could finally laugh at the absurdity of it. It was several years before I delved into “French-dom” again. And what a difference it makes when you feel, when you feel him in every blood vessel of your body, when it is unrehearsed and spontaneous but alive with electricity, when being in tune with each other is as natural as breathing, when you can’t control a thing your mouth and lips are doing, when your body reacts without a care or thought but to be there in that one moment, blood coursing, pulse beating extravagantly fast, limbs and mind gone to the nothingness but emotion. The only way to describe it is the meeting of two souls in one instance. Why settle for any other kind of kiss? That is the only kiss that matters.
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So…because a few have asked about this poem I shared the other day, I decided to answer as much as I’m comfortable with. Why not? The poem (shared again below in full) was something I wrote a while back but I found it interesting that I still ponder and worry and struggle with the same things. So what was it about? Who was it about? What does it mean? Those were the questions I was asked. And I’ll do my best to answer, within reason. I had a long-lasting relationship that was headed only one place: marriage. And it follows the same-old problem I still often face, doing things I’m supposed to do rather than maybe what I want to do. Will that ever change? Or is that just who I am? In this particular case, I was madly in love. We had a long-lasting, passionate relationship. Sometimes I wonder about that word “passionate” and its connotations. They aren’t all positive. Yes. I want to lead a life of passion but with passion can also come turmoil and heartbreak, highs and lows, ups and downs, break-ups and make-ups, and happiness and sadness. And so was the case with this relationship. It was a never-ending circus of emotions. And I remember the day I realized that if I didn’t end it, that if I kept at it, in this co-dependent, emotionally destructive situation, my life would not be one filled with peace or true happiness, but a life of constant battles. In short, it was an unhealthy relationship that lasted far too long. The poem tries to encapsulate that day of epiphany, that day I knew at once the person I wanted him to be and the person he truly was, that day I couldn’t continue to draw him into my ideal but had to accept the truth, that day I couldn’t follow my strict Catholic background and go through with something that I knew would only be destructive in the end but instead do the most painful thing I needed to do. And I really did write it on a park bench! So as you reread it, perhaps it will make a little more sense to you. Romance. Passion. Relationships. Sex. And ultimately break up. But honestly, I want the poem to mean to you whatever it did when you read it. It is yours now because I shared it (which I don’t often do). It has been taken out of my hands and now given to you. Make it what you want and what it isn’t. It is yours. Find your story in it. That’s what happens the minute our words unfold to be shared. I must give up what it meant to me. Otherwise, there is no point in sharing our writing, and believe me, there is much that will never be seen by any eyes but my own! St. Patrick's Contrived on a grainy park bench with a pen in my hand and the sun on my face, I drew you effortlessly as I looked at St. Patrick’s across the street through the cracks of light between the oak trees and wondered if I’d marry you in it and kiss you fervently against the coarse wood of the pew in front of everyone who had fantasized about what we had done with our clothes off in the hot heat of that summer like a neo-classical ballet against the glassy reflection of the lake where we swam. I saw you light a cigarette against the figment of my heart, black and smoky stains, your existence, muted with the opalescent colors of my imagination. I sat there and crossed and uncrossed my long, sunburnt legs, sore from the exhaustion of being good and behaved and trained. The clouds rolled across the cerulean sky with steely vigilance to hide the ephemeral happiness of anything remotely squeezed out from the heightened cry of the birds. And my loneliness was heard in the deepest hollow of the dirt. R.B. O'Brien Many of us who write erotica, erotic romance, dark romance, or bdsm-related stories cannot reveal our real names or identities. And let me tell you, it’s difficult and lonely at times. I can’t connect with “real life” friends on Facebook or Tweet them my favorite event of the day or share a review I got on my books. Because I teach, and just the nature of my life in general, people in my ‘circles’ would never understand. They certainly wouldn’t believe I write what I write. Everyone I know knows that I write, of course, I write much for my job that is not erotic-related, but they will never know my books of fiction or my stories. It’s just not worth it to be judged like that. Never mind that I need my job and happen to truly love it. But…I must write what I write or wither and perish altogether. It’s my only outlet to explore things I can’t begin to understand about myself or explore in real life. Before I published the Natalie’s Edge series, I didn’t have a Facebook page, couldn’t even fathom the concept of Twitter, and creating a website or blog? I used to pride myself a Luddite actually. The social media stuff just seemed to be asking for trouble in my line of profession. Case in point: My very first job out of college was teaching high school seniors, and I was just barely older than they were. Things got a little sticky at times to say the least. I certainly didn’t want to open any more doors than were necessary. Some of the stereotypes are true. Boys are horny ALL THE TIME. (And no. I do not find that exciting in the least bit. Sorry.) So social media? I didn’t want that kind of trouble. Why would I open those kinds of doors? So why do I tell you all of this? Because some of you are becoming a very real part of my life, in this crazy virtual world. I’ve connected with many of you, would love to have a beer or a glass of wine with a few of you (you know who you are!), and a part of me wishes everything didn’t have to be so secret. At times, I feel much closer to many of you than I do to some of my real-life companions. How strange it has become! Because honestly, as Shakespeare wrote, WHAT’S IN A NAME? It couldn’t be more accurate. A name is a label. It doesn’t make the person. Behind every pseudonym is a human being, alive, full of feelings and emotions, ideas, thoughts, seeking out advice, caring about the lives of those around her in the virtual sphere. We share bits and pieces each and every day, opening up, becoming closer with others, thinking about them upon the very first breath of morning and the very last before bed. It’s much harder than I thought it would be to remain hidden. In fact, many of you know more than most. So while we may hide our names, we do not hide ourselves. We are just people, trying to make the best of it each day, trying to have a go at it. I didn’t expect to feel things for people I may never meet. And there are days, I question what I’m doing and my sanity. I wish society was more open, more open to sex, to erotica, to writing taboo subjects. But presently, that is impossible. So I share my triumphs and failures with you. Thank you for letting me. “The witching hour, somebody had once whispered to her, was a special moment in the middle of the night when every child and every grown-up was in a deep deep sleep, and all the dark things came out from hiding and had the world all to themselves.” ― Roald Dahl, The BFG Writing fictional romance, for me, is a Catch 22. Without it, I wither, but too much of it and I lose myself, my true self, the self of my waking world, aka, reality. It’s an odd occurrence to dissolve into a character’s mind or two or three, to lose oneself within their story. Coming up for air is hard. It can almost feel like the life of a madman. It can be quite upsetting when a story you spent a great deal of time being a part of comes to an end. And it is emotionally taxing to go into that world of writing and to feel it so viscerally that to come out is sometimes a daunting and difficult task. The story must end at some point. It can’t go on for eternity. And getting your bearings back is a tough task. True, you can go back and read your stories, over and over again. I do that with my favorite books all the time. As a teacher, I am often forced to read the same novel or play, again and again as I teach it, and the great ones never really get old. I get savvier about the themes. I understand the characters and their motivations more. Symbols or imagery that I may not have noticed now become visible. Rereading a text one loves is peaceful. A slice of heaven. So why is writing a story you love so different? It just is. There is something to be said about closure when writing. When it’s over, you take that breath, and say those famous two words: "The End." The story is complete. The denouement has most likely been written. And though sometimes you and your readers might imagine what the future looks like for the characters after the last page, it is still time to move on. Their story has been told. It is time to start fresh. To start a new story. A new chapter, filled with new characters and struggles and triumphs. It is time to say goodbye to the past. It is very much like relationships. They don’t all last forever, and the ones that matter or mattered hurt tremendously when they’re over. But when it’s time to move on, it’s time to move on. Period. It’s hard as hell, and it’s even harder when closure doesn’t quite exist. Without closure, it’s almost impossible to move on. And if a person repeatedly opens and closes doors, it can become a vicious cycle of pain and heartache. But we have choices. We don’t have to open the doors again to the same repeated offenders. It doesn’t matter if the breeze they let in is refreshing or exciting or invigorating. It will only leave you chilled when they walk out it again. You know this. You’ve let them do it too often. You can only accept the word sorry so many times. You don’t owe them second and third chances. Their patterns have been established. You know who they are. And so, while I envy Roald Dahl and his writing routine, I don’t have what it takes to dedicate my every day to it. Perhaps that is why I will never be great. Perhaps I am far too emotional of a person. I feel too much. To live a life of perpetual starts and stops, relationships beginning and ending far too frequently, is exhausting, even as I scream to myself, “It’s only fantasy! This is fiction.” When submerged like that, it doesn’t feel that way, and truth be told, it almost always isn’t. I get too lost. I get too caught up. My subconscious comes through. And becoming that invested and then having to say goodbye like that...I’ll never get comfortable with it. Yes. It can be cathartic. It can also just be draining. Aren’t the starts and stops of our real-life relationships enough? I am thankful for small epiphanies that light my path and show me my limits. Every day is another learning curve in my journey of self-discovery. And I get a little stronger every day. I have my own special “witching hour” where I let the darkness shine, and that window is enough for me…for now. |
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I LOVE to write and read. I particularly enjoy reading erotic romance that has tons of emotion in it. I hope you will ask me questions and share your favorite authors and novels. I welcome all feedback.
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