Denial Has Better Taste @lesspie - Tumblr Blog

Smelling the melting ice

The only sense that refuses to get the memo, and that happily grins and flips you the bird when you try to kick it in the teeth, is the sense of smell. You roll your eyes internally when your heart skips a beat upon catching the smell of her hanging off the air. It's stupid, oh-so-stupid, you know it is, but your sense of smell is a little fucker and, when it wants to be a dictator, it likes to assault you with one or two flashes, if you ever happen to stumble onto her perfume. Your lips on the side of her neck, just below her ear. The sharp angle of her collarbone. Soft, soft skin you tasted and which (obviously, otherwise your stupid sense of smell - the asshole - wouldn't be stuck on it) holds her sweet perfume. Everything else you can stop, control, mold; every other sense is nicely cooperating - even your imagination! Everything but your sense of smell. This one remains deeply rooted in the fascination brought forth by her perfume, for some reason; a smell of warmth and softness, of want and sweetness. Part forbidden, part delightful, with hints of desires, smiles and snow. Half hard enough, half too easy. Just wrong enough to make it feel a little too right. And, now, with time that's passed, the scent took an aura of dream and distance, like shrouded in the mystery of something you can't be sure you really had.

When He Helped You Breathe

That day where you thought you were dying, and he was there. He ran after you during the break and looked everywhere for you. When he finally found you, he was so worried that he hugged you. Held you in his arms while you cried. He just tightened his embrace around you and said nothing. Except that he was so relieved that he found you. He had looked everywhere, even in the woods, at this spot where he said he would bring you to make love. And so you cried in his arms, all you were able to say, between your sobs, was “How do you do it? How do you LIVE?”. You had forgotten about that too, about how he was there for you, the only one there when you thought you couldn’t bear being alive.

Time and Illusions

She joked about how she’s the only one you offer your services to for free and, for a short handful of minutes, it felt like old times, like you guys were “back to it” again. And it felt good. Light and funny and slightly arousing, to play with her, to banter with her, and to be reminded that you guys used to be neck-deep into… This Thing. Into each other. It made you miss her, a whole lot, it made you miss “your” girl. The one she is when she only speaks to you; a little dirty, a little careful, a little curious. And, if you do say so yourself, a lot wanting. You don’t know if it was in your mind but, for a while, you could smell it in the air, you could feel its pressure on your skin, you could see it in the way she settled closer to you, and looked at you, and smiled at you, and it sent a thrill through your body – up and down your spine. It felt good, to somehow have “your” girl back. To want to touch her. To almost tremble when she’d gesture a little too close to you, hoping her hand would land on you, and maybe linger. So you fell into an illusion, for an hour or so, you went back in time somewhat, and you lost yourself in the curve of her smile and in the subtle blush that you thought you could see coloring her cheeks.

And watch me move

Tonight, you're too hyper for your own skin; it's so warm out you feel like chain smoking. Or maybe flirt with that bartender like, "What's your name, girl, what's your sign? What's the best drink to make me lose my mind?" 'Cause you feel like letting loose and dance a little, and maybe lift that cup 'til you talk in riddles. You feel like letting go and BE: Be free, be here; fire that flirty smile and let your hips talk. Let them see how you walk that walk.

Nothingness and wonders

It's all peaceful and quiet and, yeah, a little weird. It's like you stepped into real adult territory, and you're there, watching from the sidelines. Not that it's bad. You put "The Experience" playlist and you're so tired you let yourself drift away and back, with the music, the atmosphere, the day and the city. It's all a big wave of overwhelming nothingness, potential making your eyes shine and slipping through your fingers, like thousands of wonders you get to see but never to know. And it's beautiful. It's a little like Her, come to think of it. A "maybe" you don't get to hold.

Not So Happy Hour

As painful and confusing as it is, nights like last night still are way too much fun to be prevented. Although you were tamer than you'd have been a couple of weeks ago, it was still great to look up into her eyes and see them shine, feel the tension slowly rise and shift, become thick and hot. To see her grin and send you dirty looks. To feel the want like it could really be just that simple, to laugh and joke and talk like friends, but also to just be attracted to one another, under the casual and the mask you both gotta keep on. Nothing weird, no jealousy, no desperate and unsatisfied desire, no potential feelings, no waiting and fighting to keep still. Just two girls playing not so coy and being attracted to each other.

Kill Me Soflty

Man, you could just let it all flow through you and consume you, you could write 'til you're dead and it still wouldn't be enough. You could write your life's worth, bleed through countless of notebooks and it still wouldn't be enough. And you could publish a book, and people could throw flowers at your feet, and it still wouldn't be enough. Because these words, following you, haunting you, they are so very much bigger than you. And people can serve you countless of meaningless praises; they're not enough. Nothing's ever enough, even when you write 'til you're breathless, 'til you don't think you can pick up a pen ever again. It's just there, it pulls at you, pushes at you, tears at you, 'til you're nothing but a word-machine, 'til your heart doesn't think it can muster another beat and yet there's still ink to be poured and words to be written. So you let it all take you away, even if you're just a puppet to your own inspiration, even if you can't move along anymore, even if it'll kill you to scratch down another word. Yet you still do. And you shake and you quake, and you breathe but it never ends, and you hope it never ends, 'cause what you love the most is killing you and you think that, yeah, it could be the most perfect way to die.

12 Hours - Undress me

And it’s like it jolts her into action, in your dream, ’cause she springs forward as soon as your lips graze hers, taking the bottom one between her teeth and pulling softly before you feel her tongue ease up the bite. And you don’t know if it’s what you’ve said, what you’ve done, but then her hands are at your sides and you think that, maybe, it has nothing to do with what you said or what you did, ‘cause she squeezes at your ribs and pulls you into her as her tongue delves in, insistent, soft yet decisive, ‘til you lick at it with the same want. It all has to do with you, and with her, and with the two of you finally having what you’ve been craving for months. She squeezes again and pulls again as your hands land on her arms, dragging your fingers up to her shoulders and to her neck, one hand to the nape and the other closing around the back of her head. And you try to remind yourself to slow down as you push back into her, as her fingers move to undo the buttons of your shirt, slowly but still with some shaking urgency. As one hand painfully-slowly undoes the buttons, she snakes her other arm around your waist, pulls you to her while your tongue pushes between her lips to draw a long exhale from her lungs. And you can feel yourself start to lose control, by the way you grip her neck and bite her top lip, by the way you’re two seconds away from telling her you need her hands on your skin. But then another button gets popped open, she’s halfway done, and the fingers that were clutching your side are now moving to the small of your back, slithering under your tank top and touching you. A trail of goosebumps raises under her fingertips and you shiver as she strokes from one dimple to the other and then up. She presses her fingers to your back as she undoes the last button of your shirt, parting each side by splaying her hand on your stomach and moving it to your hip. She’s touching you, she’s so close to you, one hand to the middle of your back, on bare skin, the other stroking just above the waistband of your low-cut skirt ‘til her thumb slips under the hem of your top to rub at the hollow of your hip. She’s making you dizzy, breathless, as she kisses you relentlessly, but with less blazing desperation, as if finally touching your skin was enough to calm her down. It has the opposite effect on you: You can feel the arousal pool low in your gut, white-hot and heavy, the want coiling and twisting your insides. There’s a tingle, from your clit to your bellybutton, firing dizzying sparks of desire with each press of her fingers and each sweep of her tongue. She’s turning you on, so much, and you haven’t even laid your hands on her yet. And, by the way you moan against her lips and push your body into her touch, by the way you feel yourself getting damper with each move she makes, you think you might be in for one hell of a ride.

Lil' D - A day before the first official date

She's soft. So soft and so sweet you're actually nervous. Are you gonna screw this up? Are you gonna screw her up? You keep thinking about her blinding smile, her warm, twinkling eyes, and the way she always sorta squeals when you kiss her. And the dimples showing up when she grins at you. And this way she just doesn't pretend or hide; what you see is what you get and, yeah, if you don't screw up, you'd get to get her. You take a deep, long breath. You can do this, right, you can keep it together long enough to show her you're good enough? Good enough for her sweet innocence, for the way it's so easy with her you don't even understand where it comes from. So you breathe again. And, yeah, maybe you pray. Pray that you're not too much trouble, for once. Just breathe.

The 12 Hours - Reigning Yourself In

In your dream, you have to reign yourself in, remember all these things she told you, about slow and soft and shy; about how she's never done this before. You don't grab her waist, don't reach out for her hips, don't pull her closer into you. You want her to be in control of whatever happens within these twelve hours. You want to respect her pace, to know what she likes through her actions, since her words have always been so controlled. You shiver when her hand lands on your hip, when she goes to kiss you again. And you try not to sigh into her mouth, you really do, but then her tongue is parting your lips, and it's like you were programmed for this, for taking her in and licking at the roof of her mouth and closing your teeth around the tip of her tongue. Your brain is working overtime, reminding you to breathe and slow down, to not let your urges take over, to not push her shoulders 'til her back is flat against the bed. And you think you guys might fight for control the whole way through, 'cause she does the exact opposite of what you would do: She breaks the kiss, pulls at your hand as she stands up 'til you're on your feet too. And you think you feel it, that she's nervous, hesitant, but she still moves, still acts, still puts her hands on you. Fingers at your hips, clutching the material of your top, bunching it up every time she squeezes as she moves back in for a kiss. And it's a different kiss, this time, you can feel her teeth and her desperation for 2, maybe 3 seconds, enough to have a shiver pull at your insides and, to your dismay, enough to have you moan against her lips, before she slows down again. You get the message. She wants you, but she wants you slowly. She still pulls you into her, body to body, 'til you feel the whole of her, and it's making you dizzy, it's making you wish for all these clothes to disappear, 'til you can feel her skin against your skin. But no, you think. Slow. Slow. You know, you think you know, what she might want, so you just let her run the show.

I'll Drink To A Country Song

Okay, so this is gonna sound country AF, and maybe you should turn off that Tim McGraw, but she is a lot like Whiskey. She spreads this warmth, all up in your belly. You try to take it slow, take just a sip, but you always end up wanting to get tipsy offa her, wanting to drink all of her in, wanting to get your head spinning. She numbs your senses, loosens your inhibitions, 'til you think it might be okay to steal that kiss, to laugh too loud, to tell that reckless story you wouldn't talk about were she not making you want to let go and just be. She makes you want to do things you wouldn't be doing otherwise, stretches your lips into that hungry half-smile, has your eyes shine with something akin to mischief, something light, and fun, and, yeah, a little dirty. She triggers that subtle itch; for seduction and trouble. Just like Whiskey, the more you drink of her, the more you want, 'til the world is a blurry, delightful mess. There's no drinking her tonight, though, so you pour yourself another glass of this amber, burning liquid, and you imagine that this taste lingering on your lips is hers, and you enjoy it, you enjoy her, you enjoy the buzz they bring, her and Whiskey, you enjoy it 'til you're dizzily happy yet starving.

Saving each other

"You knew it was coming, though. Her, giving in. She's been so strong for the last couple of months, holding you, being the courageous warrior to your nightmares and your doubts. You got so wrapped up in not drowning that you forgot she needed to... Be vulnerable and afraid. To be taken care of. That's the deal, between the two of you. Sometimes, you forget that this whole relationship is not about her saving you. It's about you two saving each other. "

Maybe you're just lucky, not sick

There's this music you never took the time to love and this inspiration you never took the chance to free; it's all burning up in your blood 'til you shake and you think, yeah you think, that all this hurt is worth it if it means you get to put it down to words. Maybe you're not sick, maybe you're just lucky. 'Cause others might not know they're writers because nothing happens in their life, but you? You get to live it all, over and over, time and time again, 'til you've bled out all the words you can feel crawling under your skin. And that, that's when you know you're slipping. And you do it smilin'.

The scars of the crazy kid

You clench your fists as you step back inside. As much as you've grown, as much as you came to forget everything you went through when you were younger, your body never really forgot. Often, especially during winter or on warm nights, your knuckles start to hurt again, as if, moments before, you were this small teenager once again, throwing your fists at the walls until it hurt so much that you couldn't feel your fingers. Your knuckles are red and swollen, and you can just remember the rage and the fear you were unable to control back then, the fits you would throw against yourself, fighting and punching, trying to get rid of all these emotions tensing up in your body. You have not hit anything since... A while. Years maybe. And if the scars are always showing, as if to remind you that you are not quite done with that kind of self-inflicted pain yet, you know, when your fists hurt for no reason, that you're not the crazed kid you used to be.

The 12 Hours - First Kiss

In your dream, you rent a hotel room from 8AM to 8PM, so that whatever happens within these 12 hours takes place somewhere that’s only yours for half a day, that you can leave when the spell fades away and you have to go back to not touching her. And, in your dream, you bring white wine, ‘cause you don’t see yourself tasting her lips without the sweet tang of her preferred drink. And you take pleasure in making her drink early in the morning, 'cause you’re a rebel and she’s a good girl, soon-to-be-bad. So you drink, and you smoke, so that she’ll think of you when she smells the scent of cigarette, so that she’ll taste it on her tongue when she kisses you. And she kisses you, you make sure she’s the one to take that first -burning- step, even though she’s nervous, even though she rolls her eyes and smiles and looks away, blushing, telling you that she won’t do it, she won’t kiss you first; even though she challenges you into doing it instead, looking you right in the eyes with warm, intense blues that would twist your insides in a knot were you not so amused, so convinced that she’ll break first, even as she playfully insists, eyes cast aside and pink coloring her cheeks, that her resolve cannot be bent, that she’s too hard-headed to give-in now that you’ve challenged her into kissing you first. But she still kisses you first, long minutes after she could have, were she not so adorably stubborn, she still touches her lips to yours first, 'cause you know how to get your way, you know which strings to pull for her to come to you, even if you cheated, somehow, and kissed just below her ear after trailing the tip of your nose from the crook of her neck to under her chin, making her move her head your way. And you’re gloating inside, pressing a proud grin to her lips, and you would be teasing her mercifully, mocking her like the rebel that she likes in you, were you not finally kissing her, her tongue slithering between your lips in search for yours. In your dreams, past and present get blurred into flashes and your breath is stolen from your lungs, and you wonder how you were once able to forget how it was, to be kissing her. How you were ever able to stop, and spend months without her lips wedged between yours. And it’s slow; the first kiss is so very slow it almost feels shy but you’re not nervous. It all feels too good for you not to be anything but electrified yet petrified. In your dream, she’s sitting on the bed and your knees are touching, enough to feel the press all the way up your spine, but you still put your hand on her thigh 'cause it’s the only move you can make that doesn’t make you feel like it’ll all vanish up in smoke should you move too fast. You still press your lips harder into hers, still swipe your tongue over hers, a little faster, a little hungrier, 'cause she’s there, she’s right there and she’s kissing you back, pulling away long enough to change the slant of her mouth before chasing after your lips again. And you’re not scared of moving anymore. You’re scared you won’t be able to stop. You exhale as she bites your lip, soft and subtle, and you realize your hand is at the nape of her neck, fingertips lost in silky strands. You didn’t realize your hand snaked its way there and it makes you break the kiss, 'cause this is a little too much, too fast. Your heart is racing, your cheeks are burning and you watch her face with delight as her eyes slowly flutter open, blue made darker and lips made redder. She’s so pretty, so enticing, you just want to kiss her again, and you almost do but then you don’t, you laugh instead, and she frowns for a second, confused, just before she smiles, and it’s decadent; this gorgeous girl staring at you, the perfect picture of temptation. There’s still a spark of puzzlement twinkling in the silver of blue swallowed up by blown pupils as she looks at you, but she grins, raises an eyebrow and asks a falsely-offended “What?!” And, in your dream, you commit this image to your memory, 'cause you think that, right this moment, she might be the most beautiful girl you have ever seen.

So, people want sensual?? You're gonna give them sensual!

"It started with a clench of your stomach that sent shudders through your whole body: Like a wave slamming onto you; you wanted her. You wanted her desperately. It had never happened before, that you'd so hopelessly want her. Your body was craving hers in waves, making your hands shake and your breath itch. And you didn't want to touch her, kiss her, you wanted her, her body pressed onto yours, you wanted to feel her flushed, heated skin, you needed her, warm and pliant against you. It's not something you said or something you thought; you simply started to need her, outta the blue. And it lasted a good 5 minutes, this strong pull, this deep desire burning up your insides, and then it went away. Only to come back, 10 minutes or so after, hitting you as hard as the first time, making you waver, eyes unfocused and breath short all over again. And it was all you could think of: To plaster yourself against her, giving up and giving in to that attraction that only grows 'til your body is a burning, shuddering mess, 'til all you can think of is release, so that you can finally snap and tear into her. There were pictures and feelings and tastes, of her skin against yours, her lip between your teeth, her moans falling, warm and wet, onto your tongue, all so vivid you'd freeze, body wrecked by want. Even now, even while writing these lines, you want her so very much it's painful, like heavenly torture."

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