Scissors

I scrape my nails across your scalp and your hair bunches between my fingers. Relaxed into my touch, head lolling, skull heavy in my hands, I hold you, loving the heat of your skin, the coolness of hair, the way it tickles the backs of my hands as scratch into your nape. Burying my face, scent of shampoo and skin.

Hair. Tricky subject for me. Currently blocking two writing projects. I have read and digested the psychology of identity and perception and past trauma and none of it makes any difference. Cutting hair, either in real life or here in this alter ego, is difficult.
It’s not even like mine is some sort of crowning glory. It is dyed improbably red and hangs in a slightly limp almost style down to over my shoulders. In the past, it has been both nearly to my waist and cut so short most of it was done with clippers. 
Colour doesn’t bother me like cutting. I love the fun. Stepping out into a new tribe at Eroticon I could see I was not alone with this. I love the bold pinks and blues and purples worn by Emily-Rose and others who I admire and prefer to be anonymous in this community. The discussion of whether red heads have more fun with with Rose (and we do). The fantastic long white hair, the dreads, and all the other combinations I saw in Camden all statements of confidence. Every two months or so I go back to the hairdressers and beg for them to send it royal blue. I make do with extensions because they’re reluctant to bleach it, but it makes me feel like some sort of wannabe. If it’s ruined, cut it off! 
When it is short, I am relaxed. I like it in a style that is all in the cut, mainly because I don’t have time for a hairdryer in my life, let alone straighteners. Especially a style that makes a statement. I think it speaks of confidence and of someone who can make decisions. This is who I need to be in my real life. Last year, I let it get a little longer for an evening out where I wanted to look “ladylike”. Just long enough for a beautiful up-do. Now it has reached the awkward “just long enough to call long” length. It looks nice, but you can tell how I feel about it from the description above. Six or more inches too long yet I can’t bear the thought of it being cut. But this is ridiculous. It grows quickly enough that this is only one year since the last time clippers cut my nape in close and sharp.
It’s not sensory dislike. I think it is purely the social message hair provides. I wanted to be ladylike. I want to look decisive. I want to be sexy. And I want my hair to convey all of those messages, because I am none of those things. When I write about hair, I write the hair I want. The reaction I want.
I’m a man of numbers, spreadsheets, logic, sitting in an office, staring at a computer screen. A geek. A nerd. Aiming for nothing more challenging than to not be alone. I guess I’m a romantic underneath, confused as to just how much to try to say aloud. To be more than an avatar or dismembered voice from the speaker. Channelling my inner James Bond; hoping for Brosnan not Moore. But when I needed him, when I saw a fall of straight dark hair across the office, his voice fell silent. I began to struggle to think anything more than the most basic images and feelings. Want. Need. Fuck.
  And that was was just your hair. Just a fraction of you. I need that voice now, with you, more than ever. Too many things I can’t put into words. Things that are just not manly enough to let out of my mouth. Things I’m scared will drive you away. My inner poet is frustrated with the lack of words. So I will start where we started. Your beautiful hair.
I’ve always been a sucker for hair that trails across my chest, hair I can grab as I thrust into a sweet mouth. This was fantasy hair. Hair that made the world tilt on its axis and changed my chemistry till every hormone focussed on you. My phone rang and I had to turn away, stare back at the screen of my computer and try to convince my dry mouth to function. Reality rushed back as oxygen to suffocating lungs and despite the hum of my body I answered that call, and the next, and the next.
That night I fisted my dick to the imagined softness of that hair between my fingers, the slight resistance of neck muscles matching the tension in my hips, both of us trying to avoid my natural urge to thrust deeply and feel the wet tightness of a throat closing on my sensitive tip.
Anticipating a next glimpse near the coffee machine, perhaps diamond sharp cheekbones or smudgy dark eyes, I thought about the colour, the cut, every detail that could possibly elicit more clues. Smooth hair falling over sharp shoulders in a strictly tailored jacket, dark mocha brown with caramel hints. I’ve nothing against colour, but there is something in the confidence of leaving it natural that is more appealing to me than bright dye, or worse yet uniform mundanity. I wanted it to be paired with milk white skin and burning, intense eyes. Ice blue, if you can cope with the mixed metaphors, but then I told you I was a frustrated poet. Maybe the caramel hinted at something warmer, but the beauty of dark hair is highlighted in the contrasts and I visualised something virginally pure perhaps spotted with the occasional dark freckle.
Blunt cut and thick, with beautiful movement. Unfussy. No fringe, I thought, one length that would run through my fingers like silk through a loom, weighing heavily against my hands. I closed my eyes and imagined cradling the weight of skull and brain, the fragility and sculpted strength slack and satiated against my belly. No make up, naturally dark lashes I could hope might match the cocoa and caramel hues. A mouth rouged by friction, glistening with my spunk.
Because of my fear, I’m sure, hair cutting has become eroticised for me. I am torn between the sick feeling if I see hair hitting the floor, and the squirm in my stomach that sends me looking for video clips late at night. Cutting the hair of my fantasies. Cutting the hair of characters I create.
I could understand it if I was forcing them, but right now both of the characters are complicit. They want their haircut. It is me that doesn’t.
My first character is a female who wants to shed the confines of expectation she has created for herself with a very traditional femme packaging, ice-queen platinum hair included, which needs to change up to a pixie cut. She is exhausted by shaping herself for others and the hair is part of that. It needs to go, and the scissors that cut it will be sharp, easily shearing through the thin slivers that hang limply from her scalp.
Second character is a man. He’s been rocking androgyny, but now wants something that better reflects new confidence in his sexuality. He’s worried his partner loves his hair more than him, but really knows this is stupid. I know it’s stupid, as I am crafting their ending and the hair that is vital to the plot is unimportant by then. Blunt kitchen scissors wielded by his partner will crunch and saw and pull through his ponytail, just below his shoulders. He may well go to the hairdressers afterwards and have it cut shorter, emphasizing his cheekbones and fantastic eyebrows.
Hair is a fragment of these characters, but at the same time is crucial to their development.
I have armed myself with first-hand knowledge. Clippers wielded, articles read, scissors sharpened, videos watched. I can feel the slightly slippy but at the same time crunchy feeling of scissors cutting through hair. The vibration of clippers. The soft tufts of hair falling away and rolling down a body like tumbleweed. Dead and gone. The feel of cool air on the nape of your neck. The stranger in the mirror…but was that before or after the cut?

It’s not about me though, is it? I just need to detach enough to get on with the writing. 
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Pandora visits Fuck.com

Welcome to my first Wicked Wednesday short. Again many links back to the lovely Eroticon, especially for the introduction to sponsors Fuck.com who have inspired this story.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked
Pandora visits Fuck.com
“I signed up for a dating agency last night.”
“Oh.” He says, as though I am discussing the chance of rain.
“Didn’t know if you felt bi-curious or bi-sexual?”
The choked sound from across the kitchen is funny. As is his decision to keep making his coffee as though it hadn’t happened. I let him stew.
This is fantasy and I am making it real. Not waiting or hoping for some miracle intervention that will take us from two to three. I am looking. Shopping. I love him, my man and I want him sexually fulfilled, not stunted by our traditional monogamous lifestyle simply because that is the thing we fell into. Monogamy because we can’t imagine anything else is boredom. Monogamy because the idea of touching someone of someone touching us is abhorrent is precious. I don’t want him bored.
Making it real may cement that difference for both of us.
“As long as I’m the one doing the fucking. Pitching not catching. You get the drift.” And I do, because I know him well. Well enough to know this is our moment.
He sits with his coffee and the aroma fills the air with familiarity. Domesticity. If this was it for us, it would be fine.
I don’t know how to broach this with him, without it sounding like a plea for commitment. He knows I’ve had a few adventures before him, whereas he stuck to the traditional one girlfriend at a time. He knows I like women as much as men. He knows I don’t even need the binary definition to fancy someone.
Sometimes he mimics double entry, fat butt plugs and deeply plunging fingers the substitute for… no not substitute, just different. I think he know that and is frightened I might get bored. I long to be held against a strong body while he ruts against the pair of us. The quiet fucks where I rock between them. To feel a different cock, a different angle, a different scent and taste. Is this it? Forever?
I think that would be alright too.
“Go with bi-sexual.” He says.
I open the web-site. I lied when I said “dating”. I meant “fucking”.
I bring up the empty profile boxes. “You do that bit.” He dismissively waves me past the description of him to the boxes where he can state what he wants. “Trans?” I hum a non-answer. He passes over, but I store away that it raised a comment.
“What do I like?” I have to think for a second whether he is really asking or musing aloud. Blood from a stone. Maybe he is going to baulk at this. He sips he coffee and I can imagine the taste in his kiss. Imagine his as the only kiss I taste.  
“When I imagine a guy, he’s no bigger than me.” This time his pause gives me time to consider the sudden burst of arousal I feel.
“He’s clean and tidy on the outside, bad boy on the under his clothes. I know you have a thing for piercings, so yeah, I’d like him to have pierced nipples, maybe a PA.”
I didn’t even know you knew what a PA was.
“Younger. I think younger would be nice. And smoother. Can you check the bit for less body hair?”
Bursts of excitement explode in my muscles, more like fireworks than butterflies. He is paying more attention now to the screen.
“Dominant. You need to put me as active there. My bed, my rules.”
Yes, Sir!
“Careful. You’ll have my eye out with those.” He stares pointedly at my nipples which are doing their best to wave at my webcam. Fuck, I feel so tight and turned on, but I don’t want to disturb him. The fantasy in our bed one thing. But in our kitchen? It is a powerful and heady thing.
He takes the computer from me and clicks between the windows. The clatter of the keys and the scrape of finger nails across the surface rapid and energetic. I take his coffee and sip it feeling the burst of warmth and flavour. I usually drink tea. Bland and comforting. But this is a coffee moment. Full and rich and vibrant.
“Desires and Fantasies? You type. You’re faster than me.” He pushes the keyboard to me and takes back his coffee. I absorb the tiny intimacy even as a process the rush of want for this suddenly tangible ‘more’.
“I want to feel his cock in your arse as I fill your pussy.” Cold and hot all at once. Blood rushing as though it has no idea where it is needed. He never talks like this and the words sound wrong and so fucking right. Suddenly I can imagine him in full technicolour doing just that. Fucking me and a stranger as though this was the most normal thing to be planning on a Tuesday tea-time.
“Want to fuck him into you. Watch him eat you out.” You pause, a wicked gleam in your eye. “Watch him eat my jizz from your cunt.” There. That moment. That is your fantasy. Your moment for yourself. Not for me. I wonder if you would take a blow job from this man. Whether that is in your lexicon of bi-sexual? I would like to watch.
“Type it!” My hands, stilled as I lost myself in fantasy, jump against the keys. The rest of my body is somewhere else. Feeling that mouth. Your cock. Your breath. Feel the heat from your knee, pressed against mine below the knotty pine. Here. Now.
We upload the profile. It is a fragile thing, coming out as an open couple. Open to possibilities. Open to hurting each other. Something has changed, as though this two now needs to become three to have that feeling of completeness again. Something we had that is now gone.
This fantasy is now real. A fact in cyberspace. An idea that for the thinking cannot be recalled.

All that remains is hope. 
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