May 9, 2008
The Prettiest Girl in the Bar
“You,” I said, lips right next to her ear, the gardenia scent on her neck more tangible at such close range, “are the most beautiful girl in this whole place.”
The music thumped, colors from the lights fluttered. I’d been watching her for half an hour, since I got here, and had danced next to her for the last two songs. I couldn’t hear my own words but trusted she could.
She could. She flushed, bowing her head a little, looking up at me through her lashes. Tossed her thin, long blonde hair.
“Can I buy you a drink?” I asked.
She nodded, still shy, eyes flashing. Interested. “Vodka cranberry?”
May 2, 2008
The Changing of the Seasons
It’s spring again.
We’re all coming out of the long hibernation, dragging our bodies out into the light and sun again, rediscovering picnics, parks, promenades, pool tables.
We’re putting away our winter woolen suits and outing our skin, letting it breathe again, letting the gym work pay off (or letting the lack thereof be noticed).
And me, I notice the girls: you’re everywhere. Seasons changing brings new fashion in a big city like mine, and I cannot help but to stare at the shift in shoes, in hemline, in neckline, in sleeve cuffs, in ankles.
These moments make me fear I objectify women too much. The feminist in me occasionally recoils. But isn’t there a difference between rude objectification and deep appreciation for the female form?
Of course, it is not just appreciation. Changes in season bring out the teenage-boy-in-heat in me, the desperation to fuck. I watch your swishy skirts and strappy sandals and I wonder how your hips move, how well you follow orders, how hard you like the pounding. How does your face flush when you come? Would your hands grasp for me, or for the mattress, or for the headboard?
Making women come: it is a skill I will never fully master, but for which I will always strive to perfect. Such infinite variation of pleasure, pain, release, surrender, power. I want a magic touch, I want a full year’s graduate study of the female orgasm, I want clipboards and a white lab coat to observe woman after woman getting off.
Not only because I aspire to be a good lover - also, I crave it. Need it like oxygen, water, like I need to finish a book once I get to the last ten pages. Something deep in me shudders and releases when I can hold you, shaking, until your body calms. Something in me is soothed to heal, to leave you better than when I found you, to convince you of your inherent beauty, if only one night, if only one moment, to bring you a little heaven in a little death.
April 28, 2008
On Prelapsarian Sex, or a Consideration of Al Fresco Fucking
For sex to be truly al fresco it must take place in the unobstructed great outdoors. Inside a human-made structure, however penetrable to the peering eyes of willing-or hapless-voyeurs, doesn’t really count. This criterion of al fresco sex inherently needing to be unencumbered by human structure precludes allowing sex in a tent, or in a shed with an open door, or half in and half out of a car to count as genuinely “al fresco.” I suppose one could make a case for lean-tos. But if one were a purist-and who is these days?-one would absolutely say no to lean-tos.
I have definitely fucked the alfresco fuck, however austerely defined. I have been bent over roof-top carapaces and fucked from behind, the yellow glow of the undulating city rolling out beneath my gaze and my staccato popping hips. I have lain naked on the dark-warm tarmac of the top of a parking garage and had asphalt burns rubbed into the knobs of my shoulder blades and the knuckles of my spine from my long-ago boyfriend’s unwilling and furtive fucking. I had to whisper in his ear to urge him on. It was not his idea.
I have lain in flowering fields, drowsy bees clumsily bumbling by my ankles as they were raised into the blue summer air, my first longtime girlfriend tongue-fucking me from above. I have rolled in sand and felt it grate in my tender nethers on beaches in Cayman, Puerto Rico, Mexico and Cape Cod. I don’t know why it took me so long to learn the gritty lesson that while fucking on beaches may seem like a really good idea, it’s one best left to the movies. I have picked sand out of my pink mucous membranes too many times.
April 11, 2008
Little Miss X
To be honest, I don’t remember her name. I have only the vaguest recollection of what she looked like. I remember that her hair was shortish and pixie-like, but given that it was 1984, that would hardly differentiate her from most chicks, myself included. We were almost all of us sporting asymmetrical choppy hairstyles that relied on generous applications of copious polymer-based hair products.
Her hair was slightly red; she was, I think, a strawberry blonde. Her skin was pale, and when we kissed, I had to bow slightly to meet her lips.
I don’t remember where we met. I do, however, remember our first date, which was a date that neither of us realized was a date, but this black dude at the bar recognized it for us. He turned to us, all of us sitting in a row at that heavy-wooded, nautical themed, low-ceilinged bar and said, “It’s nice to see two people who enjoy each other,” and he grinned, his eyes going all evil-twinkly.
He saw something in us that we didn’t quite recognize: we were hott for each other. Miss X and I sipped wine and slipped oysters, and the world fell away in this pleasantly buzzing fashion. Though it wasn’t until later, when in her tiny floor-flung bed and fumbling with each other’s bras, that we realized that it had.
April 8, 2008
On How I Came To Come
I started masturbating at around twelve. As far as I can remember, my orgasms then were kind of like a box lunch: contained, satisfying, pleasurable, sometimes even surprisingly so, but nothing to write home about. I certainly enjoyed them enough to rub myself raw in the process of procuring them. I enjoyed them enough to learn how to masturbate in such a way as to orgasm undetected while sleeping in a bunk in a roomful of other sleeping girls at camp (face down, breathing huskily into my pillow, pelvis pressing on my finger that ran ragged circles on my clit).
But these orgasms pale in comparison to the orgasms I have now when I masturbate, and they whimper and cower in the face of the orgasms I have with my lover. These were fledgling comings, and inasmuch as I knew nothing else, they were fine.
Continue reading . . .
March 11, 2008
Their VaJayJay is paining me
Google the word “va-jay-jay,” or its linguistic twin “vajajay,” and you’ll get around 114,000 hits. It’s a lot, especially when you consider that the word wasn’t even on the cultural radar until two years ago when it dropped like a fluffy little bomb from the mouth of Dr. Miranda Baily, a character on the television show Grey’s Anatomy.
The term, like so many other things—olive oil potato chips, Spanx undergarments and A Million Little Pieces, for example—achieved instant cultural legitimacy when Oprah uttered it. While dangling from a harness and swinging through space, the somewhat freaked-out-looking Oprah exclaimed, “My va-jay-jay’s paining me,” and a euphemism was born. If Oprah’s audience of 46 million wasn’t enough to give “va-jay-jay” a certain cultural heft, the 28 October 2007 New York Times’ piece titled “What Did You Call It?” tracing the term’s movement into mainstream culture pretty much sealed the deal.
The cover of this month’s Cosmopolitan boasts the headline “Your Va-Jay-Jay; Fascinating Facts About Your Lovely Lady Parts,” thus proving that the word is safe for shopping-line voyeuristic consumption. You can imagine Cosmo’s editorial board sitting around, discussing the cover, wanting desperately to catch the eye of all of us women who harbor a deep desire for information on our genitals (and look to Helen Gurley Brown et al for it). You can see them proposing terms in quick succession and dropping them like little verbal hot potatoes. Pussy? Too pornified. Vagina? Too medical. Cooter? Too Junior High. Muff? Too 70’s, plus there’s that Willie Nelson beard imagery. Whatever can a fun, fearless female call it? Eureka! Va-jay-jay.
Continue reading . . .
March 9, 2008
These things I cannot say…
I myself am tongue tied. I can write filthy sweet nothings that make a grown woman keen inwardly. I can talk a tear of naughty shreds into a phone. I can, at innocuous moments, lean over, place my lips just thisclose to your ear and drop-whisper some dirty bomb mot into your ear that will make you slippery with lust in a wet hot second.
I cannot, however, do it in bed. In bed, my language leaves. My words fumble and falter. They can’t find purchase. In bed, or its desk/chair/bathroom/kitchen counter equivalent, my tongue trips and stumbles. I open my mouth and I am struck dumb.
Oh. Yes. I try to say. Your pussyfeels so…good.
Continue reading . . .
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