February 7, 2010
The Key of G
I don’t know about you, but it has taken me years to make friends with my g-spot. Decades, even. My clit and I had that magical connection you feel with that weird-pretty girl you’ve seen around, you know because you go to the same clubs and bookstores and used clothing shops, and then something happens, some strange serendipitous act throws you together like perfect salad ingredients-like dried cranberries and crumbled gorgonzola, say-and you both realize in a blinding white epiphany that you were best friends just waiting to happen.
My clit and I were like that: fast friends on first acquaintance. My g-spot and I, not so much.
It might be because it’s so reclusive, like Greta Garbo, shrouded in the obscuring silk scarf of my vaginal walls. All tucked up inside, under, and away, the g-spot hides behind the stony prominence of the pubic bone, like a star cowering under a paparazzi siege. The g-spot is a small thing, easy to overlook in fumbling explorations. It doesn’t stick out or pop up or do much of anything to announce its presence. Wearing latex gloves, you’d miss the slight cat-tongue roughness of the g-spot.
I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that more than its mere reclusivity, the g-spot is also like fine wine: it takes time to mature. I don’t have any hard evidence on this hypothesis, no scientific studies, no empiric substantiation, nothing more than a long and searching self-analysis, nothing but my own experience upon which to reflect and wonder how the exact and precise hell I missed this seat of pleasure for so many years.
February 1, 2010
My Lover’s Absolute Devotions
My lover has fallen in love with my pussy. By stating this, my lover’s in-loveness, I don’t mean to suggest that there was a time when she didn’t like my pussy, if not love it. I mean rather to suggest that what she feels now seems to have turned a more scarlet shade of passion, a richer hue of devotion, a more singular tone of monomania. My lover is seriously in love with my pussy.
She kneels, she kowtows, she pays deep, wet, and oral obeisance to my cunt. She seems unable to help herself; she loses control; she stampedes toward my pussy. There is only the sweetest, too brief interlude at my mouth, the quicksilver flash of her tongue rolling in my mouth like a piece of sashimi, the gum-rubber slickness of her lips. There is a cursory stay at my neck; she pulls my head back and she pauses like Rousseau’s lion at my gypsy throat. She bites, but all too fleetingly. She takes a detour—the swiftest pit-stop—at my breasts. She sucks one nipple, she bites it as if she were nipping a berry from a bush. She suckles, summarily. She then descends, rapidly, single-mindedly, thrillingly, to my hoary depths so that she may worship at the altar of my cunt.
Continue reading . . .
January 31, 2010
Oooh… Mami
There are five components to a human’s sense of taste: salty, sweet, sour, bitter and umami. Salty and sweet are fairly straightforward-salt and sugar, basically. Sour and bitter are a bit more ambiguous-a lemon is sour, but its seeds are bitter, and often these two sensations are intermingled making it difficult to conceive of sourness and bitterness as distinct. But the most free-floating of the five is the most recent addition to our Western understanding of taste: umami.
Umami is that bass note of soy sauce, parmesan cheese, mushrooms and MSG.
It is also the taste of pussy.
Continue reading . . .
January 28, 2010
A Cup of Jo
She doesn’t know I exist. Sure, she takes my two clammy dollars and single quarter for my medium half-caf and she punches my card, and she puts the .13¢ in the ceramic jug that is labeled “Tips!� and adorned with jaunty daisies, but she doesn’t see me. I am reduced to my faceless caffeine addiction in the face of her casual neglect of my existence. I nothing but a cup of joe.
But her, she is a being of extraordinary beauty, and she knows it. She wears her beauty like a dress she found in a bargain bin at a church sale. It cost her little and therefore merits just that much regard. Her hair is defiantly highlighted in great swarthy swatches of blonde that stride strident against her natural oak brown. Her almond skin is bare of make-up, but for two level lines that march across her eyelids, just above her lashes, and streak out toward her temples. Sometimes her lips bear the lightest brunt of berry-hued gloss, but most usually not.
People already stop and stare, so why court their attention, or so I’d guess her thinking goes, for I’ve never spoken to her other than to order, obsequiously, my cup of coffee. What would I say? I quell and quake before her. She and her beauty and her disregard of it and her inescapable pulse of cool render me speechless. I am stuck dumb.
Continue reading . . .
January 26, 2010
Marta, the Loved
The summer between high school and college, the first go at college, anyway, I spent as a counselor in an all-girl’s Catholic summer camp. I taught swimming, sailing, canoeing, and other water-related fun to a hundred or so really very good girls from around the world.
I also taught one twenty-two year-old half-Ecuadorian, half-El Salvadorian woman named Marta that she was, in fact, really a dyke.
I was seventeen. I had joined the proud legion of consenting adults about a year and a half previous, and I’d been diddling girls since around fifteen. So, yeah, basically I remember I landed at Camp VirginCrest, immediately surveyed the moldering 1920’s hotel that served as its bunkhouse, meetinghouse, and dining hall, and I thought: so where the boys at?
There was one. And he was, to his credit, pretty hot. Tall, athletic, lean and…blond.
I’ve never had an affinity for the blond man, and Mr. Tennis counselor wasn’t going to do it for me.
And then, as if almost to the sudden song of wicked angels, I saw Marta. Continue reading . . .
January 24, 2010
Modifiers . . .
“I want to fuck you violently,” My lover says in my ear as she rips off her belt and begins to unzip her jeans. I can’t see her; my face is buried in her doggy-scented couch, my ass up in the air, my knees parted, my pussy open as a ripe, burst mango.
Does “violently” modify your want or your fucking? I ask her.
“Both,” she says and laughs. She plunges her fingers deeply into me. “Take it,” she says.
We had been planning to take the dogs to the dog run. I was slipping on my boots when she leans down and she seals her mouth to mine. Prising my mouth wider with her hard and searching tongue, she swirls my tongue with her and then sucks my tongue into her mouth with painful force.
Continue reading . . .
January 19, 2010
On Sucking & Suckers
The act of sucking hardly gets fair linguistic treatment. When something is really awful, we say it “sucks,” however puerile it may be of us to do so; if it’s really bad, we might add a “dude,” as in the commiserative “Wow, that sucks, dude.” (Although, oddly, when something, really, really sucks, when it sucks beyond all comparable suckitude, we often says it “blows,” unless we just add an intensifying adverb and say that the thing in question “fucking sucks,” a phrase that does have a lovely assonant belly to it.)
When someone is currying favor, that person is “sucking up.” But when a person is gobbling food hurriedly and unmindfully, he or she is “sucking it down.” When person is inept, or when an event fails to live up to our expectation, we might say the person or the event in question “sucks ass.” P.T. Barnum famously said that a sucker is born every minute, less referring to babies, who do in fact literally suck, than those of us who are figurative gullible prats, ready and willing to fall victim to machinations of the wily and the brash, if also the somewhat amoral.
We might, after we’ve fallen prey to a scam, turn around and call the perpetrator of said scam a “cocksucker,” a term usually reserved for men, despite the fact that far more women suck cocks, just speaking on pure empirics. “Cocksucker” interests me not merely because of it’s often inaccurate hurling-I’m way more of a cocksucker than most of the men I’ve called a “cocksucker”-but also because the word embodies a grudging admiration, even if it also sometimes gestures to homophobia. Most cocksuckers don’t, for example, either suck up or suck ass. Most cocksuckers have a luster about them. I think I’d almost rather be a cocksucker than a bitch, and I actually like being a bitch.
Continue reading . . .
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