April 15, 2012
Cream Dream
The dream begins with a slim blonde woman kneeling over my face. My view is the elongated skyscraper of her body. Her thighs nestle around each of my shoulders, and I gaze up up up her body, the angle making her hips a foundation, her belly a tower, her breasts a parapet, her head a dome, her face smiling down at me, a giant and detailed caryatid.
Her pussy, then, perched on my sternum, becomes her grand entranceway.
She is not yet very excited. Her pussy is a closed slit. It warns a careful approach-it extends no wet welcome to my tongue or my fingers. I pull her hips toward me and slowly separate her slitty lips with my tongue. My nose nuzzles into her pudendum, and I inhale her; she is muskysweet ocean pale.
Continue reading . . .
April 14, 2012
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.
April 11, 2012
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.
March 28, 2012
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 . . .
March 27, 2012
Break-up Aura
I could have taken her home. She asked me to. Said her name was Drea. She didn’t like the whole thing, Andrea, it was too common. Drea was edgier. It clearly fit her better.
She ordered a gin and tonic at the bar, making eye contact with the bar tender, flirting; the bartender was providing extra-strong gin and tonics, Drea was kind and grateful and seemed genuine, and already a little flushed from the alcohol.
She was sitting with friends, but before returning to them she noticed me nursing an already half-empty Jameson on the rocks, and said, “So did she leave you, or did you leave her?”
I smiled into my drink, thought about this. Tipped my glass enough to knock a piece of ice into my mouth and sucked it. “Not exactly either,” I said. “This is my usual drink.”
“Oh it’s not the drink, it’s the — well, forgive my hippie moment, but it’s the aura. Break-up aura.” I considered this and looked at her.
She, like the rest of the fashionably-conscious girls in Manhattan, had pulled her spring fashion out from her storage locker. Her legs were encircled in a flowy skirt with many layers, maybe a wrap-around, with a big flowery pastel pattern, aquamarine and salmon and honeydew and peach and beige, petals askew and overlapping, and she wore a white tank top, silver glitter and sparkles at the neck, tight and round over her breasts. Her cornsilk light-brown hair was layered just past her shoulders; she kept tossing her head to keep it out of her face, but gently as to not disturb its positioning. Not so edgy, maybe; but she had an energy to her, a way of slicing through things, a sharpness that made her more than just an uptown Andrea.
She took my silence for recoil. “Your heart looks broken, that’s all,â€? she said, and shrugged, making to pick up her drinks and turn back to her table, but giving me one more chance to respond, attempting eye contact, searching my face for – something – what? – and waiting.
“You’re not far off,” I said. “That’s one way to say it. But it’s been a very slow separation, not the shatter-crunch I’m used to. This was like a buttonhook needle in the sternum, an unraveling, fiber by fiber.” I’ve been reading too much Sarah Waters. She nodded, as if understanding, sympathetic. Touched my hand as we chatted. Flirted. Gave me the eyes.
It didn’t take long for her to take me to the back, to our own booth in the shadowy corner, tongues damp with another round. Her hand playfully pushed my shoulder and made an excuse to feel the muscles of my arms and wrap her fingers around my wrist, as if checking its girth.
“You have beautiful hands,” she said, and took one hand in both of hers, pulling my fingers back, exposing my palm. “Long fingers.”
Her hand moved to my thigh without any fanfare. My hand tangled in her hair at the back of her neck and her tongue was tangy, sweet and strong with gin.
She would have taken me home with her. Wouldn’t have hesitated to have me follow her into the restroom and let me finger her, fuck her. But as she attempted trick after trick to get me off, get me interested, I could only think that her mouth wasn’t as supple as yours, wasn’t as soft, and that she tasted nothing like you.
March 21, 2012
Executive Assist – A Story
The secretary was bent over the desk with her skirt bunched up over her back and her panties pooled by her feet. Her breathing was strained and she tried to look at the wall clock by her left side, praying that her lateness wouldn’t be noticed. Her cheap rayon H&M blouse was pushed carelessly up her chest, exposing her breasts, which had been pulled out and over the top of her beige bra.
Binder clips were cruelly pinching her nipples.
“Keep facing forward,” she heard from behind her, and then the soft whoosh of the rolling chair’s wheels on the industrial carpet. She flinched in blind preparation; she knew something painful was going to happen, but she wasn’t sure what.
There was the clank and rustle of something to the right and behind her. The metal cup and rack that held her office tools. She knew the sound well.
The scratch of the open stapler. The bite of the staple remover. The relentless nip of the binder clips. The smack of the ruler. The poke and scrape of the letter opener. The smooth hardness of the “Received” stamp in her asshole. She knew them all, knew them well, wore the memory of the perverted use of these quotidian implements on her flesh like shameful, naughty undergarments.
“Lift your ass toward me,” said the voice behind her. Not angry, not passionate. Not anything. Its tone could be requesting her to pass the salt.
Continue reading . . .
March 16, 2012
Desert Dreams
or Tall Women with Short Dark Hair
Living in the desert motivates you to get up early. Just on the edge of darkness is best. Get up, start the coffee and shuffle through the beat-up screen door onto the porch — the front porch in my case, because it faces east. Naked. That’s important. No one will see you naked on your porch at dawn and if they did they wouldn’t care. Desert dwellers are like that. You can feel the air, softer and cooler than any sheets, enclose you. Desert air feels very personal when the sun is just about to wink over the mountains, when the sky is stained with peach-amber fading to luminous gray and gray to royal blue. The last few stars who have not yet called it a night palely gleam and in the absolute stillness of dawn their winking carries its own music. So sit down on the porch step and put your arms over your head. Open your legs. Wide. Nothing should be closed against air as sensitive as this. And most important of all, don’t wake up.
Dawn in the desert is for dreaming. Holding onto dreams that teased you just on the edge of perception. Out here you can grab those dreams and take them onto the porch with you and savor them while you wait for the coffee and masturbate.
At least that’s what I do. I lie back on the night-cooled boards of the front porch and do the old finger dance for the Sun — the ancient eye of the voyeur gods. Orgasm flows out of me like syrup at that hour, slow and sweet, and the desert soaks it up. The air thickens with my wetness and as I breath in the honey and musk, I often say Thank you, I’l take two — with cream. If the morning’s especially greedy I’ll have three; the desert needs all the help it can get. When I’m done, so is the coffee and it’s safe let it pull me into consciousness. I’ve got the dreams safely stowed, ready to take out and finger when it gets too hot to be outside.
That won’t take long. By 9:00 AM it’ll be hot enough that just standing raises a sweat, and by 11:00 the heat will have fried the new crop of pancaked road rabbits onto the main highway hard enough that the crows can’t scrape off anything more, although nothing will stop them from trying. At noon, it goes right through you, so hot and clean it hollows you right out.
By then, I’ve usually finished my errands and have my elbows down in the Ivory suds, doing last night’s — or last week’s — dishes, depending. That’s when I take out the dreams again. This morning they’re dreams of tall women with short dark hair.
Continue reading . . .
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