Signs of Spring

I haven’t been writing much recently (at least not dirty things) so I apologize if things have been a little slow around here.


New York is still cold, and I keep struggling to see signs of spring. Even the infrequent warm days don’t do much to help, as they vanish quicker than I remember. I haven’t seen a crocus or a bare knee since last year, and it’s pushing me more into myself.


I suspect one of these days I’ll wake up and remember that I like to fuck. I’ll wake up with a hard-on, and I’ll open the window before climbing back into bed with two hot cups of coffee. If I’m good, I’ll wake her with kisses against her stomach even as the smell of cinnamon and dark sugar do the same. In the warm breeze I’ll move lower until all I can taste is her, even as she bring the mug to her lips and sighs with the new warmth filling her.


“It’s spring,” she’ll moan as she clenches the sheets.


When I finally move up and kiss her stained lips, she’ll reach down and insist that I fuck her, loudly and without pause. Together we’ll sweat and laugh until we come so hard that winter is only a faint memory.


One of these days can’t come soon enough.

 

-gny

(If you enjoy my writing and would like to support the blog, you can buy my novel or one of my dirty e-books on Amazon here. You can also contribute via pay pal on quickienewyork.com if you enjoy the content.)

My Home

New Yorke isn’t just my home.

For four-hundred-yeers people have been coming over, under, and across, all to find a place to fit in. They’ve built up and down, moved in together and apart, and they’ve mayde it into something nobody ever dreamed up before. I like the people and the noyse and the warm air that blows up from the subway grates even if it’s not all the subway grates and sometimes it takes a long time to find the right one.

But when it’s coldest out people forget it’s myne too. They don’t stop and stare so much as they used to, which is maybe worse, but they don’t slow down either. In the coldest of weather people move faster rather than slower and that doesn’t make a lick of sense to me. When the snow starts to fall, I freeze up until mostly all I can do is look up from someplace warm and remember what it was like when you could still see the stars.

But the snow falling is as close as it gets nowadays. Especially with the bright lights and the noyse and the cabs honking, it’s as close as it gets nowadays. I look up, and if I squint real tight I can pretend for just a few moments, that after all these years of up up up, I can see again. After all these years of more smoke and light, the sky has opened up; each white flake glitters and twinkles in my eyes just like stars.

I like when it snows. I like when there’s a warm grate and a dark night. I like looking up, even if no one ever looks down.

-gny

©2012 The Dirty Gentleman (#574)
She used to read me dirty stories in bed, but I swear she made up the parts in the middle.
One night while it was snowing, she warmed up the wine and cranked up the heat. She lit a candle that smelled like spring and we crawled into bed with Anais Nin and George Bataille. She made me lie on my stomach as she read out loud, and I only sat up for slow sips of mulled red and spices I didn’t know.
“Mary’s cunt is crimson and her dress covers nothing. I can still smell her sex on my fingers, but I miss her presence between my legs already. If I don’t fuck her again I’m never going back to Paris.”
“It doesn’t say that,” I said as I reached out for my glass.
“Be quiet,” she said, before she continued. “Mary’s brother says I’m a terrible influence, but I know he abused himself as he watched us last night, and I can’t get the image out of my head. His prick was red and hard, and when I pulled her mouth hardest against me he collapsed on the other side of the door. I believe he wants to fuck Mary as much as me, and frankly I don’t care.”
“You’re totally making this up.”
“Do you want me to finish the story?” she asked.
“Yes love,” I replied, and it was the truth. I was hard against the bed and I didn’t care whose words they were at all. In fact, the only thing that mattered was the sound of her voice.
“One day I’m going to have them both and I’ll write words on her thighs with my tongue as he fills me until I drown. Some nights the thought keeps me up forever, and I wonder if it’s my only hope. Maybe the more I lose myself in my dreams the less it will hurt to be awake. Maybe drowning will be my bliss.”
I rolled over and pulled her to me with a kiss that was long and deep. The thought of her drowning in anything did too many things to my mind for me to let go. She was wet between the legs as well as both her cheeks, and by the time I was inside her the book had fallen to the floor.
She didn’t open her eyes for hours, and I was afraid that if I said a word her dream might end.

—Guy New York
(If you enjoy my writing, you might like my new novel, The Island on The Edge of Normal, now available on Kindle and in Print.)

©2012 The Dirty Gentleman (#574)

She used to read me dirty stories in bed, but I swear she made up the parts in the middle.

One night while it was snowing, she warmed up the wine and cranked up the heat. She lit a candle that smelled like spring and we crawled into bed with Anais Nin and George Bataille. She made me lie on my stomach as she read out loud, and I only sat up for slow sips of mulled red and spices I didn’t know.

“Mary’s cunt is crimson and her dress covers nothing. I can still smell her sex on my fingers, but I miss her presence between my legs already. If I don’t fuck her again I’m never going back to Paris.”

“It doesn’t say that,” I said as I reached out for my glass.

“Be quiet,” she said, before she continued. “Mary’s brother says I’m a terrible influence, but I know he abused himself as he watched us last night, and I can’t get the image out of my head. His prick was red and hard, and when I pulled her mouth hardest against me he collapsed on the other side of the door. I believe he wants to fuck Mary as much as me, and frankly I don’t care.”

“You’re totally making this up.”

“Do you want me to finish the story?” she asked.

“Yes love,” I replied, and it was the truth. I was hard against the bed and I didn’t care whose words they were at all. In fact, the only thing that mattered was the sound of her voice.

“One day I’m going to have them both and I’ll write words on her thighs with my tongue as he fills me until I drown. Some nights the thought keeps me up forever, and I wonder if it’s my only hope. Maybe the more I lose myself in my dreams the less it will hurt to be awake. Maybe drowning will be my bliss.”

I rolled over and pulled her to me with a kiss that was long and deep. The thought of her drowning in anything did too many things to my mind for me to let go. She was wet between the legs as well as both her cheeks, and by the time I was inside her the book had fallen to the floor.

She didn’t open her eyes for hours, and I was afraid that if I said a word her dream might end.

—Guy New York

(If you enjoy my writing, you might like my new novel, The Island on The Edge of Normal, now available on Kindle and in Print.)