TUMBLEWEED CONTESSA

Thursday, April 17, 2014

SHORTS - FLASH FICTION: EXPOSED

This was beyond bondage.

This was fear.

This was becoming survival.

^©Exposed

Mimi Wolske

Tears streamed down swollen cheeks as Robyn spun on a three-foot platform, naked and tied to the platform on her hands and knees while all three orifices were pounded by BigDick. BD was the battery-operated, custom-made orgasm machine with its multiple, larger-than-human, rubber cocks.

In the dark recesses of a copy of Louisiana's Big Easy sex club, a platform altar spun. Mud spattered the one window like a Jackson Pollock painting and prevented any outside light from entering and any pervert outside from being able to see into the room. Every male and female, with a perfect view from their chairs and sofas in the circular theater, shouted, "Faster. Fuck her faster." The man at the controls, who sat quietly behind the members, increased the speed another notch and smiled.

"Best entertainment in months, Ron. Where'd you find this one?" one of the patrons of BigEasy asked, and took another, long swig of his drink concocted by their host.

The handsome, young professional laughed wickedly. "On Facebook about a year ago. An obvious and easy target since she was writing erotic porn stories."

A female patron set down her glass of the same concoction and asked, "Whatcha promise this one?"

Ronald didn't pause to think. "To expose her to the most debauched sexual experiences her limited imagination could hope for."

"Faster," came shouts from the balcony over the circling altar. Robyn's moan was muffled by the ball gag in her mouth.

Ronald edged the orgasm machine up another notch.

The lights in the chandeliers flashed. The altar slowed.

BigDick halted abruptly.

The lights went out. The altar stopped.

"What the...."

Strange gagging sounds came from the revolving stage. Those in the front rose and tried to move further back.

A frightened, painful scream shattered the Pollock window.

The sounds of something slurping grew louder.

Ronald ran to the door and opened it. The light from the hall drifted into the circular room inch by slow inch until it became like a spotlight on some horrific alien beast on the altar unplugging its mate from BigDick. The bound female being ravished by Ronald's machine morphed before club members' eyes.

The long tongue of the alien reached into the balcony and decapitated a woman, then brought the head to its open mouth. The head was devoured.

The fully morphed female alien stretched her tongue, wound it around Ronald, and yanked him back into the room of torture. She ripped away his pants with two of her eight hands. Two hands bound his arms and two more his legs. Shredded material littered the floor. She opened her mouth and drew in her tongue. One of the last two free arms was thrust up his ass and the other up the meatus slit.

Survivors screamed in horror knowing the beasts would be taking them next.

Be careful what you effing play with.

Monday, April 14, 2014

POETRY - ROMANTIC: Virgo and Aquarius

Virgo and Aquarius

©Mimi Wolske, April 2014

There exists a tension

between the moment

and the permanence,

between the flash of life and

the patinated reflection

that is years and years old.

If you can believe

what you see here, or there,

are you aroused by

some kind of feeling—

is it a vulnerability—

or the possibility of one?

How do we begin to

address this relationship...

not the process or the

rationalism,

which in our modern world

are stifled to often?

Dazzling light becomes subdued

polarity that's lost in an

emotional entanglement

of kisses, embraces, and tears,

which are credulous promises

of love's endurance.

Unreserved, we fell into

an unconditional

love that met the desired

qualifications of

promise through actions with

a capacity for so much more.

A desire for order, a lust for chaos,

perfection and intelligence,

honesty and trust, obsession

and eccentricity,

a unique and surprisingly

comfortable union coexists.

You may contact me concerning permissions via email. This copyright notice overrides, negates, and renders void any alleged copyright or license claimed by any pers on or entity, specifically including but not limited to any claim of right or license by any individual, group of individuals, companies and corporations, or web hosting service, except when I have transferred such rights with a signed writing that complies with the requirements for transferring the entire copyright as specified in Title 17 of the United States Code. This includes, but is not limited to, translation or other creation of derivative works, use in advertising or other publicity materials without prior authorization in writing, or any other non-private use that falls outside the fair use exception specified in Title 17 of the United States Code.

If you have any question about whether commercial use, publicity or advertising use, or republication in any form satisfies this notice, it probably does not. Violations of intellectual property rights will be dealt with swiftly using appropriate process of law, probably including a note to your mother telling her that you’re a thief.

Saturday, April 12, 2014

POETRY: Her Sanguine-Colored Rue

Her Sanguine-Colored Rue

Mimi Wolske, April 2014

She'd considered herself a master,

A tormented, public artist;

She hoped this one work would vindicate her.

She called him her womanizing lover.

A blank canvas stretched taut before her

Waiting for her palette's embittered story.

Hands chased his words with arabesque brushes,

Mixed shades, drying water-colored untruths

That had stroked her with Olympian deceit.

The colors she used, trapped in swirls

Of liquid ichor, created lips and

Crafted his long fingers that were his lies.

Painted fingers pushed away red, permed curls

Then spun silver threads between his thighs

Like unspoken hues once believed in his eyes.

A golden shower of myth would be his;

Her coppery ire, her iniquity,

Possessed artist's hands molded handsomeness.

Relentless, consuming, erosive waves

Colored the maleness that was his fame.

Shrouded in despair, her horsehair tongue cursed his name.

Unlike the painted god placed before us,

We'd sat back, watched her painting come to life,

Observed jealousy grow and wind her tight.

Eternity would not belong to her.

Toleration lost, her heart on her sleeve,

She surrendered her brush, touched palm to paint;

She'd believed all his stories of romance,

His tales of wooing and domination...

His untruths became her unfinished work.

We minimize the screen, roll together.

He coaxes a blush pink and blissful moans

From my half-formed lips as he gives me his.

Tactile heat burns and he sinks into me.

Lusty, breathy, we are our own canvas

And keep love alive in oils that won't gel.

Friday, April 11, 2014

POETRY - ROMANTIC: This Is Not Californication

This Is Not Californication

Mimi Wolske, April 2014

Every time we meet

I want you off your feet

I wanna touch your skin

Kiss your lips...kiss them again

I wanna hold your hand

Feel your silky hair and...

And then he added Baby

I am there, oh, Baby

Tonight you'll get the last

Semen doesn't come so fast

Baby, you're so naked

And trembling sated,

sighing, and smiling, too

I'm giving all to you

Talk dirty to me sweet

You've swept me off my feet

You've pushed me to my back

You're my aphrodisiac

And I told him You're hot

So give me all you've got

Such a tiny pressure

But taken in measure

It's our love on a wing

And it's stimulating

Then he said Oh Darlin'

You are veneration

What's the hullabaloo

My affection's for you

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

POETRY - ROMANTIC: But for Fortuity

But for Fortuity

we'd be continuing our separate lives

together on opposite sides of the forty-ninth parallel

never knowing the other breathes or plays

discriminating traveler in the political

differences across the invisible border.

Fun-loving but serious lovers in an

unparodistic affair, we present far-

flung artistic flesh montages with our

bedroom-living-room-shower-kitchen-inside-outside

acrobatics and become romanticized performers

challenging those ethical norms with our didactics.

We encourage the hedonistic behavior previously

repressed and disruptive as opposed to that

conventionally acceptable and accepted.

Now that we are together, let our

manifesto be to transvalue

some of the antiquated—

wait! Do we really care if anybody gets it?

©Mimi Wolske, March 2014

Monday, March 24, 2014

POETRY - EROTIC: Mona's Demons

Mona's Demons

were kept in a drawer of curiosities,

illustrated with colorful adjectives.

Her mantra was slightly embarrassing...

naked cheesecake photos...when repeated

endlessly in a group of elderly ladies

on a Christian tour bus in Vatican City.

Sexual demons calling themselves fantasies

and mental images from Eros, she felt like a

shepherd-lass on the run from her frock and

from the Nephilim. Yes, they still exist,

the giant fallen ones. They continue to

scour the planet for Mona, hoping to find a

nymph of the wood...on their wood.

But Mona's demons remain in a drawer.

©Mimi Wolske, March 2014

Friday, March 21, 2014

POETRY - HEARTS ACHE

Hearts Ache

because you can't cut out the

pain of another's heart...

I've never attended a

Bitchelor Party in my life;

I guess that's obvious.

My daddy told me once

nice people get walked on...

hell! I think someone is

actually wiping their dirty feet on me!

Anyway, I would have hung myself

From my shower curtain before—

Okay, let me say this:

I'd rather lay a bet on

Charlie Sheen leading a

Sunday School class

than wager attendees at such a

soiree would be up to any good.

What?

Sarcastic? Irreverent?

Me?

Surely you do not expect me to

surpass my capacity for responsibility,

a responsibility that is to myself first

and to my loved ones second...

maybe there's no responsibility to the second.

Let me cut off this sleeve because

this is not about me but

those whose hearts have a hole

smack dab in the center and who

find enjoyment...laughter...

at the expense of others—

talking about and laughing at

a person behind her / his back

while everywhere love is breathing

heavily like a draft at their doors.

Agony grows up like a cancer

from their hearts to their brains

and the wearers throw out daggers

to arrest the victim with

their disease of aching hearts.

Honestly, don't you just

want to give them your best

Nanny-Nanny-Boo-Boo face?

Childish? Okay, but I certainly

feel their childish actions

deserve equal immature reactions.

You may contact me concerning permissions via email. This copyright notice overrides, negates, and renders void any alleged copyright or license claimed by any person or entity, specifically including but not limited to any claim of right or license by any individual, group of individuals, companies and corporations, or web hosting service, except when I have transferred such rights with a signed writing that complies with the requirements for transferring the entire copyright as specified in Title 17 of the United States Code. This includes, but is not limited to, translation or other creation of derivative works, use in advertising or other publicity materials without prior authorization in writing, or any other non-private use that falls outside the fair use exception specified in Title 17 of the United States Code.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

POETRY - EROTIC: Dancing, Just Before The Storm Breaks,

Dancing, Just Before The Storm Breaks,

With you in that special

pinkish-grey quality of light

where patches of bright,

cool light cut through

darker, muddier illumination,

the aroma of the coming rain

hangs lightly like a mist

in the air, I anticipate

the first clap of thunder.

Lightning becomes our only

electricity, candles

our only light soliciting

us to continue the tango.

Wax melts, wicks tender

flickering flames with massive

achromatic chords as our

stuttering melody proceeds

not by slow layers but

expressive, successive, rapid

notes like fingers that seem to be

Saying, or writing something

Halfway down our spines.

Delicious tension increases

sweeping the clouds aside

so that soft place between

dancing scrotum and anus

where you linger in what

seems like the ancient

entranceway sealed over

by time permits no release

until the storm subsides

as if a switch was thrown

and the frantic fugato rhythms

Slow to a steady rise and fall.

Everything is liquid and

aromatic—yes, you can smell

again—and you are gripped

at the root by those powerful

contracting pulses...more felt than

seen or heard yet echoes in

plangent cadences from

dissipating clouds above.

Acquiring textures of

luminous clarity, you appreciate

I can take you to the brink

again and again, your entire

focus surges toward the end of

your throbbing organ and the

storm's tremendous pressure

reaches your head and chest and

you can hear a fast-approaching

climax of whooping horns ready

to blow. You stiffen. The air tightens.

The tornadic winds and

torrential are unleashed.

POETRY - EROTIC / ROMANTIC: PAINTING YOU

Painting You

Would be more fun if you were lying naked on a

Chaise and not from a photograph or my memory, or

Of you pulling into my garage and turning off the key,

Of you sitting across from me at the table as we have a staring contest,

Of you prone on my bed making those groans as I massage your back,

Of you looking down at me while I'm moaning on my back.

Watching you lounging on that small bed at the lake

And being happy and at peace, I want to kiss you. so

I can absorb more of the feeling of contentment you exude. I

Suddenly wonder why in the world we can't stay.

There are no paintings hanging on the walls, but that's okay;

I'd rather look at you than any portrait in the whole world.

Surprising is the blue-and-white striped nautical

Feeling from the couch and the bookcase of unread

Words that acted as voyeurs as you bent me over the

Back of that cottage sofa before we even unpacked.

As often as the temperatures of Spring change,

We drift back and forth between the freezing

North and the heat of the south looking

At each other through our spectacles of love.