Friday, May 18, 2007

The Push and The Pull, Erotica by Georgina Ragazza

Sex writers aren't supposed to have hang-ups, Lila thought...

What's a girl to do, when her lover's horny -- but she can't quite bring herself to bridge a personal taboo?
Author Georgina Ragazza wrote this sexy story of acceptance and when she submitted it to Tit-Elation she said, "I wanted to write an erotic yet tender story about menstruation, because it's a subject which tends to get overlooked!"

Here's the story, The Push and The Pull, in full:

Lila looked over her laptop at Michael's computer screen on the other side of the room.

A pert Goth girl gazed up through candy-pink bangs and thrust her breasts out. She was ordinary and real, a proper person with a bit of a tummy and a nice smile. A shaved snatch glistened between splayed legs.

"Come and play with me!" read the banner.

Lila caught Michael's blush as he switched back to his Word document.

"You don't have to do that on my account," she said. But she had that cold feeling in the bottom of her stomach and thought of snakes in pits. She watched him force an embarrassed smile.

Lila looked at her own laptop screen full of vintage nudes and minimized the story she'd been writing about Victorians and their obsession with spanking. She was such a hypocrite - why did she feel this way? She researched passion and beauty, and then wrote about it. Some of the dirtiest words came out of her head; her stories were full of wildness and strange fantasies.

She couldn't explain the snakes crawling in her belly and the way the dark pain gripped her insides.

Michael walked over to hug her from behind and she shivered at his touch. His skin smelt like sun and oranges and she wanted to drink him in. She ran her fingers over his arms and traced the taut muscles. She knew that he loved her. She knew there was no one else.

They had met online a year ago, and for that first month Michael had been words on a screen, a message here and there. Longer conversations led to photographs and Lila was hooked. The first time they had phone sex she cried afterwards, by herself in the dark.

When she saw his face for real, her heart came undone. He hugged her so close on the station platform that she almost fainted. A proper swoon. Apart from one lonely weekend, they were inseparable from then on.

She was in her ripe 40s and he was a good generation younger, full of the fire that men seem to lose as the years grind them down. He told her he was in love with her passionate wisdom, and she adored his endless spirit.

Every day he said, "I love you." When she was working, he cuddled her and made her cups of tea. At night he smiled and kissed her and wrapped his arms around her. He couldn't sleep unless she was in the bed with him.

He was everything and he was hers.

Lila had never known a man as tender as Michael. His kisses were slow and tentative; his fingers touched her skin with care, as if he were exploring a new terrain. The first time he inched his cock inside her, she saw his eyes widen.

"We're a perfect fit," he gasped. He rocked, slid against the ache of her sex, whilst his fingers traced her face. She heard the click of boxes unlocking in her soul, and felt the joy and the secrets and the need tumble out.

When he came, he held her close.

"Before you it was just sex," he whispered. "You're the only woman I've ever made love to, the only woman I've ever wanted to make love to."

We lost our virginity together, he said. Souls only fuse once, and now we belong to each other.

The trouble had started the first time she got her period. They couldn't make love for the first time in their romance, couldn't melt together. She made a face when he suggested it.

"I'm cool with it," he said. "I want you and your blood is part of you, part of me, part of us."

She caressed him, and tried to take him in her mouth.

"That's not making love," he said. "That's just fucking. I don't want to go back to the days of fumbling and groping and half-arsed dating. I want to be inside you."


She'd fucked a friend of her brother years ago, some Indie kid who'd supplied her with dope and had the hots for her. It was a perfunctory screw, more stoned than horny, and she was at the rusty end of bleeding.

It was a disaster, an embarrassment. His half-hard cock got stuck in dried clots and the smell made her gag. She never saw him again and was relieved. She hadn't told Michael any of this.

So he lay next to her that first night and he stroked her skin and kissed her but they were separate. After he wanked himself to sleep she spooned him and smelled the sweat on his skin. That's when the snakes began to writhe.

His need was palpable to her. She knew he dreaded her period because he said it felt like a loss. The hormonal swell of your breasts excites me, he had told her. Could I just touch you? All she could smell was the metallic tang of her crotch and she disgusted herself. She felt the bed rock with his strokes.

"I like porn because it's physical," he said. "Nothing to do with love. I don't want to make love to the girls in the pictures. They're tits and ass and nothing more, a release of frustration, a diversion. You make my heart leap and catch my soul on fire. The smell of your hair intoxicates me, and your smile makes my day worthwhile."

She typed out her stories and looked at the full Victorian women in the sepia photos and wondered what they thought about.

Lila felt like she had failed him when the blood began to flow. It was a complicated mix of not being pregnant and not being available. She wondered if the girls on his screen were available. Would blood excite them, and make them horny?

She wrote a story about a rock chick and a guitarist painting each other with red streaks and licking each other's hot bodies into a frenzy. She re-read Erica Jong's tampon scene. She shuddered.

Michael's hard drive filled up with videos and pictures and every month the bed shook. You're my sexual fantasy, he'd told her, my sexual reality. You take me to places I've never even dreamed of. Don't you know how beautiful you are? Can't you feel how much you make me come?

Every time she caught a glimpse of his screen he winced and held her and told her she was sexy. She felt the snakes boiling deep inside and couldn't explain.


Lila had found an old photo of herself.

Long thick brown hair fell around a smooth face, and her dark eyes sparkled. There were no bags and no spare flesh. She was young once.

Michael took the photo and smiled at her.

"Look how pretty you are," he said.

"Look how pretty I was." She frowned and the porn images flooded her head.

These girls were words on a screen, a message here and there, just as she'd been. But they were a good 20 years younger than Lila, and she knew she couldn't keep up with them. Every day brought a fresh wrinkle to her face, a new grey hair. Her breasts were softer and heavier, and her waist had started to thicken.

"But you're perfect to me!" he said.

She saw a cloud of frustration pass across his face, and she pulled the old photo away.

"Don't do that." His voice was quiet and hurt. "When I look at you, I see that same beautiful girl. You're better than any 20 year old. Why can't you see that?"

Because you look at young naked women, she thought. You masturbate over girls who have no issues, and don't get fat, and never grow old. You never masturbate over me. And when I bleed, I feel cut adrift from you, and I panic. When you wank, you're back in your sex days, and I can't reach you.

She didn't answer him.


She knew she was sexy. She knew he was hers. What she hated more than anything was that for five days every month she didn't feel like his sexual fantasy and she didn't know how to tell him that. She could smell his sweat and his come in the bed and she wanted him so much that it made her cry. She wanted him to turn off the computer, wipe the hard drive clean and never be separate from her.

She was so conscious of herself as a woman, she took such a fierce pride in it. She loved the sharp contrast of their bodies, the excitement of her softness and his hardness, her musk and his salt. She hated that five-day interruption when the irony of menstruation made her feel less like a woman and more like a sewer.

Sex writers aren't supposed to have hang-ups, Lila thought. They push the envelope for everyone else and run around naked with radical tattoos and intimate piercings. Balls to the wall. Sex writers smell of come and blood and juice and they never say "no". Their arses bear the deep imprint of past whippings and their breasts are big and their pussies are shaved into hearts.

She looked at her own screen and the Victorian nudes rolled their eyes and showed her their bums.

Write what you know, they said. Live from your heart and your soul. Do you think that the first time the shutter clicked at our nakedness, we weren't afraid? Do you believe that we came to this life prepared and bold?
Love is scary, and it's a leap of faith. He already belongs to you - now give him everything you have.

She clicked the lid of the laptop and looked up at Michael.

"Am I beautiful?" she asked. She watched him stifle a sigh and leaned towards him to grab his hands. "Am I?"

Lila smiled as she caught him off guard. He gave her a quick, soft kiss and was about to speak when she put her finger to his lips.

"Put on the cowboy hat," she said. "You know what that does to me."

Now he looked confused. She knew he was about to ask her where she was in her cycle, and she let out a throaty laugh. His cock was pushing at his zipper and she squeezed it just enough to make him sigh.

He pulled her into a long, wet kiss and she melted on his tongue. Her lips became soft liquid fire as she lapped and tugged, and a wave of longing rushed through her, wild and sweet. Her breasts were still a little swollen, as she drew his hand down under her blouse and rubbed him over her nipple.

He groaned for her and she tore at the buttons of his shirt. His glorious skin was fresh and smooth and she thought of eating him. She curved a slow gentle trail of kisses over his chest, and down to the fur at the edge of his belly. He arched up to her mouth, as she undid his fly buttons one by one, and stopped at the sight of his glorious pink cock.

Michael looked at her and shook his head. She laughed and tore off his pants, and licked up the length of his shaft. A small tear of pre-come shone at the tip, and she lapped at it, and drew him into her mouth.

"Baby, please don't." He tried to protest but began to shake, as she sucked harder and raked her long fingernails under his thighs and brought him in closer. He bumped his hips upwards with his fingers tangled in her hair. She squeezed his cock, pulled her mouth away, and stretched herself over his body.

"All of this is making love when it's with you," she said.

He arched against her pussy and hesitated, still unsure, and started to ease her off her clothes. The snakes thrashed in her belly and she looked them in the eye.

Stop. I'm not listening to you any more.

His eyes were bright with love and lust and she kissed him hard.

"No one makes me laugh as much as you do," she said. "You astound me with your joy and your fire, and you blow me away with all that you are. You're my forever."

He traced the curves of her soft heavy breasts and teased at the nipples until she moaned and sighed. His fingers swept along the lips of her aching cunt as he spread the slippery blood around her clit and squeezed her between his fingertips. Everything was wet and warm, and she tingled against his touch.

She concentrated on his eyes and her desire and spread her legs wide for him.

"Now," she said.

As his cock slid in she closed her eyes and thought of his face on the station platform. She let her heart come undone. He pushed in and she heard his first joke, he pulled out and she saw his first smile. And everything was intimacy and wonder and freedom. The musk and the salt, the heat and the glorious sweetness of it all swept over and down and caught them in a perfect moment of bliss.

And yes, the smell was wrong and there was blood all over the floor but his eyes were wide and full of his soul and she gazed up at him and sighed. And no, the women on the screen didn't cry, didn't shout, never bled, weren't fucked up. They never got embarrassed. They didn't think about which brand of carpet shampoo would get out bloodstains. They weren't real.

Michael and Lila melted into each other, a sticky, silly, breathless heap.

She kissed the tip of his nose, and smiled.

"Oh, how beautiful we are," she said.

** This story was published at Tit-Elation, used with permission, of course!

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At May 19, 2007 2:49 AM , Blogger Sara Winters said...

How surreal. I remember helping the author critique this story a few months ago. Nice to read the finished product.

At May 19, 2007 5:46 PM , Blogger Autumn Seave said...

That was wonderful and so real for me. I know I have my own hang ups even though people think I'll do/say/be anything.

At June 26, 2007 5:23 PM , Anonymous Anonymous said...

It's a good story, very romantic. More romantic than erotic I think.


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