July 30, 2011
Tamara & Tamara & . . .
Earlier today I got waxed. Unlike just about every other woman I’ve ever spoken to about this Brazilian matter-and every man too, actually-I like getting waxed. I like the whole de-furred enchilada: the exhibition of my naughty bits, the warmth of the wax, the laborious process, the prepubescent effect, and the pain.
I wanted to take a picture of my waxer, Tamara, with my camera phone. I considered it, but then thought maybe she wouldn’t like the exposure, if that’s possible. I like Tamara quite a bit. She’s of uncertain Eastern European origin and she calls me “my dear.”
She compliments my cootch. It’s nice. “You are lovely, my darling,” she says as she carefully separates my labia, paints a swatch of wax on the minoris, presses a gauze strip down with a matronly and comforting firmness, and then deftly rips the it off with surprising abandon. She seems to have a vendetta against my pubic hair; it’s like she and my pubes have a grudge from the old neighborhood.
July 28, 2011
Food, booze, & girls
When a banquet is laid out before me, fresh strawberries and glazed pastries and luscious sauces for pasta and spices, herbs, steam rising, I can’t not eat. I just can’t.
Sometimes I wish I had the willpower. It does occasionally get me into trouble. I just came back from a lunch where there were five kinds of potato chips, and I just could not resist the barbeque flavored ones, even though I know they’re not real food, and they’re awful for me – they’re never something I would buy for myself.
But when they’re right there? Just, right there, in my reach, in front of me? I cannot resist.
And booze, too. “Another drink?” My friends ask, poising the bottle of wine above my glass. Well, no – I’m drunk enough, I’m comfy and feeling no pain. But why not? It’s right there.
And then there’s girls.
I know better, half the time. I know it’s trouble to kiss your best friend’s girlfriend, or even worse, your best friend’s sister, or even to kiss this girl who’s been coming onto me all night but in whom I have little interest.
But sometimes they’re all stunning and seductive, and I give in, I give over. I cannot resist.
Does it sound like a cop-out to say I’m rendered powerless against these feminine wiles? I always thought that was such a sexist stereotype: “I’m just a big dumb guy, I can’t possibly be held accountable for my actions once a woman seduced me.”
But sometimes, that’s how I feel. That’s exactly it. I start to feel like we are so well matched, that my soft places are just where she’s hard, that her hard places are just where I’m soft, and that she knows exactly where to stroke my thin underbelly before she digs her nails in.
I cannot resist when she starts giving me those under-the-eyelashes looks of submission and seduction and permission to step in and take her. The way she begs with her skin and fingertips and the way she sips a drink and flips her hair. I can’t not take her down. I can’t not go inside and see.
Maybe that makes me a pushover. My buttons get pushed and I respond, knee-jerk reactions. But I want, I ache for it when it get close to me, like my teeth starting to sting and my tongue starting to water when a beautiful china plate with German chocolate cake gets placed in front of me, knife and fork in hand.
How could I possibly walk away?
July 24, 2011
“A” is for Androgynous
She had short brown hair like the boy who sat behind you in third grade: parted on the side, cut just above her ears, flopping slightly in her left eye. She, however, was no child. She was all woman, all five-feet something of her, all rangy length of arms and legs, all skinny-hot, milk-fleshed, tattooed beauty of her.
You’d see her at the gym because you were there and she was there and you seemed to have the same schedule. It happened once, twice, three times, and before you knew it, you were scanning the gym floor for her as you crossed to the locker room. You were disappointed if you didn’t see her. You tweaked your workout if you did.
The cardio could wait. You could do legs tomorrow. There was no reason why you couldn’t start chest with cable presses. There was no rule against it, and if there were, you were ready to say fuck it.
July 17, 2011
Star Fuck
I have fucked exactly one famous person. It’s not good form to name the people one has fucked on a blog, regardless of his or her fame. And I am always the soul of propriety.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t give some hints.
She is a tall, thin and not conventionally pretty woman comedian. She starred in a movie with an aging great comedy legend who played an aging great comedy legend. This early 80′s dark comedy was directed by a very renowned director, and its third star is a slightly unhinged New York actor who played a more than slightly unhinged New York actor. My starfuck, I’ll call her “S” for “Starfuck.”
Continue reading . . .
July 16, 2011
The Incredible Edible Ava
One summer, a couple of years ago, I had this threesome. Clocking in at under forty minutes, it was quite possibly the fastest threesome in history. This threesome was with a totally forgettable man and Ava, this 23 year-old woman who is the postergirl for a new, uncharted, and busy sexuality. Ava, a petite, busty, exotically sloe-eyed brunette, is married; she also has a male lover, and she regularly has threesomes with both her husband and her lover, though with separate women. (I shudder to think about the cryptography of her Blackberry.) Moreover, she comes at the drop of a g-string and claims to spend most of her time at her desk at work with ben-wa balls inserted in her small, pink pussy, chatting with girls online.
Ava is a tiny powerbunny of sexual energy. She flounced into the hotel room of the world’s fastest threesome, exclaiming, “I came seven times this morning with my rabbit.” Then she took a fast slug of wine out of the open bottle resting on the laminate dresser and undressed so quickly I don’t recall she was ever even wearing clothes.
July 14, 2011
Cold Ass Ice
Step outside and it feels as if you’ve entered a hot, wet oven. You’re the pat of butter on the baked potato that is Gotham. It’s hot, hot, hot heat, wet and hot, and it cleaves to you, sweat-pressing your skin and enervating you with its doughy-moist succubus embrace.
You need to go somewhere the sun don’t shine. You need to find your place in the shade. You need to embrace your inner arctic. You need to stick an ice cube up your ass.
Maybe you try it on your own the first time. Maybe you go out and you buy a bag of ice because the cubes in your fridge just seem like you’d be shoving a square peg in a round hole, which you would. So you go out to the delis and the bodegas, the grocery stores and the mini-marts, you search high and low for those cubes shaped more like a child’s cartoon smile than a shoe box. You find a bag, you plunk down the outrageous $2.50, and gleefully you bring them home.
July 11, 2011
Words So Leisured…
Marta was the first lover I wooed with words. I was eighteen, she was 22, we were both counselors at a Catholic girls’ camp. I kissed her within the first week, and separated as we were, as propriety necessitated, we would send our preteen charges back and forth between our tables at meals — all these little – tanned, summer-stink cupids unwittingly bearing messages of our love.
I would spend the meal half minding my kids but mostly patiently tearing rough hewn letters out of cheap paper napkins. “T,” “E,” “A,” “M,” “O,” I would tear; it was shorter than the English equivalent and given Marta’s central American heritage, the Spanish was appropriate (I realize now that if you rearranged the letters you could spell “o meat” and “a tome,” both far less apropos).
We spent that summer crushed in the haze of our forbidden love. We would escape the nuns’ gaze whenever we could in Marta’s cocoa-colored mustang. We’d make out in fields, on the beach, in the shed next to the lawnmower. I was in love with her, and she with me. I was her first lover, male or female; she was just one in a litany of mine.
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