Archive for September, 2011

Dionysius Reigns


This is Auntie Carol and Dear Diary, I have the need to unburden myself. Lord knows I try to please my Herman/Emma. Herman is relatively easy to please but Emma is another story. She requires that I do things I formerly could never imagine myself doing. Heavens, before marriage, I thought it was woman’s duty to cook, clean and make love to her husband with her eyes closed in a darkened room with Doris Day songs playing. I thought, and I deign to say the word, sex was a kind of duty and that it had to be endured like any other chore such as washing dishes. That is what my dear mother, Hermione, taught me. She said it pleased men and I was to act as if I enjoyed it too and NEVER to open my eyes, to keep them tightly closed shut, as it was naughty not to. And I was to pretend I liked it as it was kind of like taking castor oil (in her own words). She told me a man would crawl on top of me and “do his business” and every good, virtuous woman did it at least twice a week at the most.
Well, my Herman, is quite a lusty man, and I feel things my mother never told me about and Emma, Herman’s other side is practically insatiable and “polymorphous perverse.” Lately, Emma has been dominant and I seldom see Herman, unless his clients require a male therapist, then he functions as Herman. I must say, for those who are uninformed of my situation, Herman/Emma are the same person, a hermaphrodite. Emma has us reenact scenes from erotic literature and from the Bible. I thought it a bit disrespectful to serve her a jello mold of John the Baptist’s head on a silver serving tray, and Lord knows it was quite arduous to find the mold. I searched for months to find such a thing in an odd, quaint thrift store. I hope the Lord understands the strange creature my Emma is, and I hope we both don’t burn in everlasting flames when we pass from this life. Until I met Emma I never put my tongue on anything but food and drink for I thought mouths were just for eating or kissing on the lips. I will delineate some of our adventures.
My Emma had me reenact a photograph in his book. Helmut Newton was a premier Fashion photographer of the late 80’s who specialized in S&M erotica. I am fond of saying I went from M&M’s to S&M. I got on a bed with an English riding saddle strapped to my back, wearing nothing but black silk stockings, high nine inch ankle boots and a garter belt. Emma was dressed similarly and she got on my back and lightly flayed my derriere with a cat of nine tails. The pain made me all tingly and I wet myself or think I did but it may have been something else. Then, Emma used the butt of the whip to pleasure her woman’s flower by intense friction, and, oh, I am so ashamed, penetration. Oh, that is so what I wouldn’t do: think of the germs! Yet Emma is so lustful, and the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
My Darling, Emma, had me dress as O. with the back of my lower dress cut out and no undies so I would always be bare wherever I sat, and she played the part of O’s lover, Sir Stephen, and made me take whomever she chose. She was dressed as a Nazi SS soldier, with whip and high riding boots and a black push up bra. Her breasts were like two tense nectarines. And in her high strident female voice she orchestrated our love making and positioned us as was her wont. I kissed their naughty areas and they, mine, and she whipped anyone who did not flow with love’s juices with a slight tap of her whip, all the while touching what was most feminine in her, and her male part was also aroused though she was behaving as Emma. It must have looked like the Kama Sutra or an Escher drawing. Angles and angst and for some reason I felt a bit sad. The Germans call it Welchmerze. Like I used to worship the mother on the Brady bunch, so cheerful and sunshiny, and there I was pleasing my lover by doing perverse things. But one must cleave to one’s man like Ruth, and Emma was teaching me about life. I believe a woman must please her man and put his interests first. That’s being a good wife. Of course if he told me to lie, steal or murder, I would not deign to do so. You simply must know I am no mindless drone, nor am I a weak puppet like woman.
There was the time when we played out a scene in the book where Mellors, played by me, and Lady Chatterly, played by Emma, were in the garden and they wove flowers into their private areas and frolicked in the field, making love, and I, of course, took the dominant role being on top. I kissed her brutally as Mellor’s would and put the tubular thing up her vagina and drove it home so to speak. I was enraged with passion, and certainly didn’t know I had it in me, which of course, I didn’t. The only thing I regret is giving Mr. Zickanfeeble, a heart attack. He was found some days later with his pants around his ankles. I remember the hard rain that fell on us that day as we made love in the viscous mud, and the earth seemed soft and giving and the feel of the rain pricking our skins like tiny needles aroused in me a rich and luxuriant pain. My loins were moist with want and need, and I went with my love, Emma, to that celestial place of no return. Yet, I regret the loss of Mr. Z. He knew so much about roses, and his old eyes contained volumes of life. Bon Soir, Mes Amis.
Written by CAROL ANN BOND writer of Poems of Thunder (Noire & Whimsy)


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