Out of the shadows?

•November 30, 2009 • 4 Comments

There, in between the crisp white sheets he rested as the sun rose. Sleepily he said “Get up” and reached for his camera.

I tried for graceful as I slipped out of bed.

The rising sun warmed my skin and I moved, slowly, as the shutter snapped several times.

“Now, come back to bed.”

And I did, challenging him not to drop the camera as I climbed back in.

Photo of Molly by W. Merganser.

Deep, hard, fast

•November 12, 2009 • 3 Comments

My needs are deep, like canyons

Carved by soft strong water that etches sharp cuts into the sinuous rock.

Flood my chambers, rip through me,

Leave your marks in the rough ridges that mark my core.

Your passion, rushing hard and fast, takes with it everything it desires,

Leaving behind the detritus of lust

And it only increases my need.


Photo by Molly Montrevoir


Femme: shy

•February 15, 2009 • 1 Comment


Photo of Molly by W. Merganser.

Molly’s Diary: He will win

•February 11, 2009 • 4 Comments

The last time I saw him he counted the buttons on my dress. Leaning across a table in a busy restaurant while our companions waited patiently he slid his hands under the fabric to pull it away from my body and I tried to breathe slowly and evenly as the air brushed my skin and his hands did not.

Half a year later I will see him again. “Bring your femme,” he growls into my voicemail. “I may sully you.” This is followed by “Wear a skirt. It’s … easier.” The pause is agony because in it is all the pent up desire that has built for months and yet there are 28 more hours left before his voice will be more than digital signals. There is yet more than a full day before the words will be made flesh.

This is the man who brings lingerie for us to try on. This is the radical faerie who fantasizes about my kisses and has never yet fucked me. This is the one whose cock, wrapped in pearls, graces these pages, and this is the one whose kinship I need and whose clan I knew I belonged to long before the day, a decade ago, when we met at a party where he watched me cause a scene with a crazy beautiful boy in a gold dress and a purple pixie wig.

I imagine meeting him in the hotel bar. He will text me his room number when he checks in but I imagine arriving and texting him from downstairs. I imagine the tug-of-war beginning that way and continuing as we challenge one another for power throughout the evening.

He will win.

I want it that way.


•February 11, 2009 • Leave a Comment


The sting of the butterfly

•January 17, 2009 • Leave a Comment



The sting of the butterfly is in the way that its ethereal feet brush your skin when it lands and in the knowledge you gain at exactly that moment that your first movement will chase it away.

The sting of the butterfly is in its freedom and beauty and fragility. It may approach and kiss your face or touch your hair and yet you must not reach for it. 

You stand there mute and frozen in your frustration: Such a beautiful creature, mysterious and compelling, and ultimately untouchable.

The butterfly approaches carelessly, takes what it needs, and then flits away. And all you can do is watch in momentary awe as you try,

very hard,

not to breathe.


Photos by Molly Montrevoir.

Molly’s Diary: Mechanical Advantage

•January 13, 2009 • 2 Comments

My knees press into her thighs, holding them open as she lies there on her back, pinned. Four fingers deep inside her cunt, thumb inside, knuckles at the entrance.

“Open for me,” I growl.

She whimpers. She wants this just as much as I do. She needs it even more. My knuckles are pressing hard against her body, thumb of my other hand circling her clit. I lean over her menacingly, but my voice betrays kindness, desire, longing to penetrate her completely. I flex the fingers inside her and when she gasps I growl again: “Look at me.”

She does. And in that moment my knuckles slide through. I’m there. She’s open. We have joined in a way that is impossible to describe.

Except we never get this far. Indeed we never kissed.

She used her crush like a lever to wrench herself out of disengagement and into a conflict, forcing her to face the things she’d been avoiding. She slid it under a pile of desires she had not fully owned up to and then stepped on the other end, balancing the entire thing on a small but strong fulcrum and exposing the truths that had been hidden underneath.

What she will do with those truths I do not know. What I know is that it is not mechanical advantage she really needed but navigational tools instead. She has a magnetism about her that seems to disrupt her confidence in her inner compass.

That compass is within her, and if only she could filter out the noise perhaps she’d have faith that by following it she will be able to navigate the most complex of her desires.