Self-adoration

Amid the tumult of daily life and the occasional dull daily routine, she sought release. Not permanent release, of course. She was much too good at her job to want out. In fact, her self-made success only boosted her confidence further, and that was just the fuel her embers needed to kindle the fire.

She was the quintessential modern woman, and a voracious feminist. She needed no man before, and she certainly did not need one now.

Of course, human company is not all that bad, but no one had a greater desire for the flesh of her body than she did. Her voluptuous physique tempted her with the sort of girl-on-girl experience some women may only dream of. Yet here she was standing in front of the mirror beholding the most succulent pair of breasts. Her flesh began to ripple. The thin hairs on her lightly tanned forearms stiffened erectly in unison as libido brushed her skin with electric current. Sudden bolts of lightning fed her body with energy as her imagination warmed up. Her velvet areolas shrunk to half their former dimensions while her nipples became tumescent.

For a few seconds she admired her beauty with a faint coy smile that was followed by a bite of her sweet bottom lip. She lusted for that woman in the mirror, and by-God, she would have her. The door was locked and in those predawn hours, she was the only soul awake.

With gentle caresses, she ran her fingers down her neck and around her shoulders and forearms to relax her trembling limbs. Then, she ran the warm palms of her hands down the middle of her chest, and around her stiff nipples, and down her stomach, stopping just before the gates of paradise. She was aroused, and the mere anticipation of what would ensue made her heart palpitate tenfold.

She now sat on the bar stool she had brought in front of the bathroom mirror. It wasn’t the most comfortable set up, but it would do nonetheless. She spread her legs to have a clear view of the seat of her womanhood. It was here that the magna opera of her own divine creation was manifest. Her womb, which carried her from princess-hood to queendom, was smooth and radiant. The gates of the barbican that stood at the front of her majestically walled fortification bloomed as they opened gently.

She closed her eyes now and ran just the tip of her index, middle, and ring fingers down the hood of her pearl and through the middle of her nether-lips, drawing in a quiet yet sudden inhalation. The electric current that had run through her whole body now ran from her fingers through her genitalia, and she was not surprised to discover that droplets of her feminine nectar were streaming from within her. The honey trickled down the exit of her blossom and down her perineum. Her hips twitched as her body tingled with static. Cupping the inside of her left thigh close to her buttock with one hand, she ventured to glide her fingers around her labia with gyration. As she heaved and her hips moved with rhythmic oscillations, her aperture was probed almost unwittingly–half a result of her pelvis drawing closer to her fingers and the other half caused by her yearning to be inside herself.

She was now in, and the waves of euphoria seized her. A plethora of story-lines set in fantasy shot through her mind at the speed of light and she was barely able to connect them or grasp onto any of the details as she became enthralled with the expressions of pleasure she caught on her face when her eyes halfway opened to see herself in the mirror. Rapture was near, and there were no signs of her slowing down.

Her toes tensed and released periodically as her most sensitive regions were indulged. Deep in concentration, her body gained a sense of levitation. She was in the clouds, enveloped in sunlight, resting on a bed of lotuses, perfumed in the fragrance of jasmines, and all creation bowed to her majesty, spectators to her artful process. Her bronze limbs tensed almost enough to curl inward toward her abdomen as blood pulsed through every vein and artery in her body. She was gasping loudly now as her head hung back, almost unhinging off her neck and rolling off her shoulders. Dozens of butterflies flapped their silky wings all over her body and most gathered near her womb as she drifted into paradise. Her legs shook with vibrating twitches as her toes curled inward and the interior of her womb and the gates of her domain pulsated vigorously. For several seconds she sat there, bathing in the aroma of her art with glee. Consumed by the fire of passion, she rose to heaven a queen to descend a goddess among mortals.

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I’m Not Going Back

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I got a text message from my mother this morning. The few times she actually decides to send me a message, I can’t help but remember how seldom it happens.

This is what it said (I’ve translated it from Spanish):

“I love you. If you wish to come back someday and you need our help, we will be here.”

I waited about two hours to send a reply. I didn’t know how to say everything that I felt inside. The only message I really needed to convey was simple: “I’m not going back.”

Somehow, though, I couldn’t say it just like that. I read my mom’s text over and over, each time hearing her kind voice speaking. She has always meant the best for me, whether most people think it’s right or not. I know my mother better than anyone else. She means well. She loves me, and I know that. I’m sure of it.

But, before I could realize her good intentions, I wrote a draft. This is what I wrote:

I love you too and I appreciate your follow up, but I believe it would cause you more pain and unrest if I lead you to believe I will be returning to the congregation in the near future.
My knowledge of the congregation remains unforgotten and I will always cherish the education you set before me, but I have learnt over the last few years that my mentality and point of view seem to no longer conform to that of the Christian Congregation.
I dedicated my heart and soul to the congregation in an attempt to clear my sins, but it did not do. I saw as I fell deeper and deeper into sin until I simply could not be a Witness anymore. I will never forget how abandoned and rejected I felt even while I was in the congregation doing what is wrong according to the Bible. I remember very well the injury of the judgement on the part of those who thought they were better than me. I did nothing but think about others and whether they were pleased, including my parents. I spent my entire youth trying to redeem a stepfather that didn’t want redemption. I built a religious refuge for myself while my family was not there for me, because the pain of unresponsive and uncaring parents was too unbearable. In the end, however, I failed to live by the norms and standards which I had sworn to abide. I was the only one devoted when no one else cared. My innocence and kindness allowed me to forgive what no one else could, and when things seemed to get worse instead of getting better, I put hope before my own interests and opinions. That was a long time ago.
I swore I would never become the monster that reeked havoc in my family all those years, but I failed. Now, in this day and age, I get a phone call that I should not contact or even attempt to contact my parents unless I am bedridden and in the hospital. Just like when I wrote all those letters pleading Emilio to come back and make a change of heart, right? Just like all those times I knew very well he would cause us pain again and yet I was the first to give him another chance.
In conclusion, if you both made the decision of calling me to let me know that you would not speak with me unless I was bedridden, it would be best to set the record straight in regards to whether I will return to the congregation.
I know that you are both trying very hard to sanctify yourselves and live lives of discipline and devotion, because that is what people of guilty minds set forth to do. I wish you both the best and hope that you continue to live the life I can no longer follow. Do not cause yourselves anymore pain, because in the end it just pains me in the process.

With love
–always here if you decide to accept him–
Your son,

L.D. Davis

I sat and read it a few times and realized how unfair it would be to send all those words to my mother. She doesn’t care what I do with my life or if I want to go back, although in her mind she knows that’s the right thing to do. All she said in her message was that she loves me and if I do so happen to go back one day, they will be waiting for me. She will be waiting for me. I suppose I forgot her kindness because it’s been such a long time since I’ve spoken with my mother in person.

You see, I don’t judge Jehovah’s Witnesses, because that is who I was once. It still makes me who I am, whether I like it or not. So, to criticize them simply because it just didn’t work out for me, well, it’s just ludicrous.

So, what did I send to her?

Thank you, mom. I love you too, but I can’t lead you to believe that I’m returning to the congregation. I don’t want to cause you any more pain, so I must be honest.

SHARE MY WORK

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Last year 76% of Facebook users (approximately 957,600,000) logged in at least once a day. The average Facebook user liked 40 posts each day and a total of 110 million songs were shared, while only 1,470,000 million books were shared.

A lot of our time is spent on Facebook. Most of that time is used absorbing unproductive media.

I’m not saying the information I share is of any use, but it seems we sometimes have to scavenge for useful bits of information among the clutter of today’s media that plagues our News Feed.

What is my point? Artists and writers like myself struggle each day to get their work across. If you truly appreciate literature, you can help me out. You have no idea how much impact a LIKE could have–or even better yet, SHARE my work with your friends and encourage them to share it with their friends. Who knows, you could be helping me publish my first book.

P.S. Feel free to visit my blog: lorenddavis.wordpress.com

Thank you!

Lost

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That day was the most terrifying of my life.  It was the crack of dawn.  I awoke in a wooded area of a park with nothing on me but khaki pants and a blue dress shirt.  My glasses lay next to me, shattered and without a leg.  The ground was damp with melting snow and all I could see in the distance were ducks and geese flying past the trees of this unknown park in this unknown city.

The mist filled the air of the vegetated area with an eerie density that wasn’t any more reassuring.  I sat there for a few minutes, with an incredible headache, thinking where I could possibly be.  More interestingly—who am I?

I finally mustered up enough strength to walk around to investigate my surroundings and I found a bicycle against a bench.  The wheels were severely deflated, but I needed the transportation.

The entire time I was pedaling I thought to myself about the circumstances that might have lead to my abandonment.  I was obviously out for some sort of business, because I was dressed for such a purpose, but how did I end up in the middle of this park with no wallet, no keys, and no means of communication?

I continued on and saw a green sign.  As I approached it, I could see that it said ‘Dayton City Limit’.  This didn’t help much.  I didn’t know where Dayton was, what I was doing there or what my very own name was.  I needed help, but given that I was left here in the middle of the city, something told me that trusting anyone was not a good idea.

I finally found a nice-looking little diner with a few cars parked in front and I decided to walk in.  I needed to try to contact someone—but whom?

“Excuse me.  Could I use your phone?” I asked with slight hesitation.

“Sure, hun,” replied the hostess as she brought the cordless phone to me.

“Thank you.  Um… what is the phone number for the police?”

The woman now looked at me as though I was from out of this world.  “Well, 911, of course,” she said in a patronizing manner.

“Oh, right.”

As I dialed the number and waited for it to ring once or twice, I looked up at the TV and saw on the news the report of a young man whose body had been found in a park outside of Dayton.  I immediately dropped the phone as I felt an electrifying shiver run through my body as if a cold wind had just blown.

As I turned back to the TV, I heard the reporter say:  “The cause of death is yet to be announced, but local police currently have the case under investigation and will be disclosing details when they are made available.”

As the reporter closed her sentence, a picture of the young man ran across the screen along with his name.  In an instant, I felt an excruciating pain in my chest.  Naturally, I held my hand over my chest with my right hand, only to bring it up to my face again.  As I looked up astonished at the sight of blood on my right hand, everyone in the diner had turned their attention to me with apparent fright.

I now knew who I was and all that had happened to me, but now I was lost and none of that meant anything.

Rick

walmart greeter

Good morning to all.  I have been waiting anxiously to post today’s blog post since last night.  First of all, I’d like to say that I have decided to structure my blog in a way that would allow me to use various styles and write about a broad array of subjects each week.  Each day will be unique.  I’m still using 642 Things To Write About as an exercise book of sorts, but I want to be diverse, so I’ll do that once a week or so and share it on here.

Anyhow, last night, as we finished gathering our groceries and approached the cashier that we thought was less occupied, we experienced an enlightening moment of sorts.  There was a man in front of us, with his groceries already laid out on the conveyor.  We watched as the cashier slowly scanned the items for him.  It took a while, needless to say, but we finally got our turn.

I greeted Rick, the cashier.  Now, this man was bashful in a way.  He seldom directed his eyesight toward us to make eye-contact.  He was soft-spoken enough that his voice was barely comprehensible, yet there was a weight to his voice that told a story; it added background and depth.

I looked over the display that showed the soaring total of our transaction and caught a glimpse of his name badge, which I now saw labelled him as a People Greeter.  So I thought…  I was thinking about how annoyingly slow this man is scanning these items, sorting them and reaching for items out of the order they’re in on the conveyor, loosening the plastic grocery bags each time he was done packing the bags…  I hadn’t realized, however, the circumstances, his background, his story.  I was too concerned about my priorities and my rush to get back home.

This man was so precise and patient.  Time meant nothing to him.  All that mattered was that he wanted to do his very best for the customers, even if that meant taking a while in the process.

Perhaps when one has lived just as long, time becomes one’s companion.  Time no longer controls Rick the People Greeter.  He is the master of his own time.

Very few people, if any, are like this anymore.  We let time dictate our every action and thought.  It tells us where to go and when to do things.  The truth, however, is that we only live once–why rush right through it?  It could make the difference between dying of old age after a fruitful life or dying at 21 just because we wanted to rush, because we were in a hurry.

“Patience is a virtue” that many lack nowadays, that’s why I am resolved to make patience my virtue.

–L. D. Davis

Riding Through the Glen

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At the sight of the crimson ribbon
as it stretches over the expanse,
The Cardinal’s song is given
For the swan to begin her dance.

Droplets of dew,
Dense with saturation,
Atop the grass anew
Bring life to jubilation.

In this world, we are God
And this day is our realm.
To us the sun brings laud;
We’re surely at the helm.

Tomorrow is a future unforetold,
But today has been cast in gold.
Reach out to greet him with the firmest clasp,
For invincible is the man with Time in his grasp.

The night has gone.
Our bright friend is out again.
At last, it is Dawn
Riding through the glen.

Parental Guidance or Religious Belief?

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Empathy and compassion– elements of human morality–are innate and passed on from generation to generation.  Our parents, whether religious or not, set before us their lifetime experience and beliefs with the hope of making us better members of society—people of good reputation and moral standing.  That is not to say they didn’t partake in their share of mischief and wrongdoing with wild revelries as is characteristic of youthful behavior.  In the end, however, when the time comes for children to be raised, a more serious environment is prepared, one seemingly more suitable for the creation and development of successful and reputable persons.  To some, religion plays a fundamental role in the development of children and teens as they make their way into adulthood.  Many seek the kind of guidance that philosophical and religious belief systems and institutions provide, be it because they fail to provide said guidance on their own or because the traditions that their predecessors have followed is so embedded in their lives that they require its presence.

In any case, I do not seek to judge or advise as to which path is the wisest or most ideal to follow.  I would, however, like to tell my own story.  It is the story of a young Jehovah’s Witness whom in the end failed to live by his beliefs.

(To be continued…)