October 26, 2013
Roses on Fishnet Stockings

On the V train:

Caramel skin and she smelled like vanilla. Her hat was knit, covering her head like a something poofy and french, brown ringlets poking deliberately out from under it. Her jacket was mocha coffee colored suede with white fur at the seams, it came in stylishly at the waist and flared at the bust, unbuttoned to reveal delicious curves, cleavage. I don’t usually notice cleavage. Hers was near perfect.

On the E train:

Snow white: ruby lips, raven hair, creamy skin. Stop staring, I tell myself.

At Union Square:

Roses embroidered on the backs of her fishnet stockings. Black heels, not delicate, but not clunky either, rather very solid, firm. I wanted to bite each rose from her calf. Tear it with my teeth.

Clearly something is happening to my libido today. I do go through these moods occasionally. I wonder where I am in my cycle, if this corresponds.

Makes me wish I had someone to call & fuck.

posted by: sinclair | Permalink | Comments: 0

July 20, 2013
Sappho’s Poem of Jealousy

cydytame066.jpgTo me it seems
that man has the fortune of gods,
whoever sits beside you, and close,
who listens to you sweetly speaking
and laughing temptingly;
my heart flutters in my breast,
whenever I look quickly, for a moment -
I say nothing, my tongue broken,
a delicate fire runs under my skin,
my eyes see nothing, my ears roar,
cold sweat rushes down me,
trembling seizes me,
I am greener than grass,
to myself I seem
needing but little to die.

But all must be endured, since . . .

Translated by Diane Rayor (1991)

Bureau of Public Secrets: Sappho: Poem of Jealousy (28 translations)

It’s the metaphor near the end that really makes this poem for me, that simple declaration, “I am greener  than grass.” It’s one of those lines, short and intensely pithy, that I wish I had written myself. The line in one deft stroke paints its author as jealous, vulnerable, tender, lush, and naïve all at once. It’s just a solitary perfect image.

Continue reading . . .

posted by: Chelsea | Permalink | Comments: 2

June 24, 2013
All this heat

I’ve been hard for days. Ready to fuck. I take long luxurious laps at the briefest contacts to my pelvis – the moment of walking through the subway turnstyles. Leaning up against a table. My hips tilt upward in wait, like the center of a plant revealing to the blue sky. Magnetic and animal and it’s all I can do to keep from growling, sharpening my teeth on the skin of the girl next to me, behind me, in front of me.

My cock is hard. That internal butch cock that raises and piques when I feel that rush to my clit, that swelling between my legs.

I am a battery charged. Plugged in and there is much I would do for the chance to spend a weekend in bed. Or a day – I’d settle for a day.

Cock so hard I could force it through brick. Through plywood. It could puncture glass, plastic. What would it do to you?

posted by: sinclair | Permalink | Comments: 2

June 24, 2013
Petit Fours

cydytame054.jpgYesterday, I woke from a nap with a sex dream. In this one, as in almost all of my sex dreams, I was masturbating. Rarely does my unconscious gift me with dreams of extracurricular activity. It likes me to rely on my own devious devices. It’s a shame, really. I’d like a dream about being the final course in a Catherine Deneuve/Susan Sarandon The Hunger-era floaty white bed vampiric fantasy, but a girl can’t control her unconscious.

Yesterday, while in my nap my unconscious placed me in the center of a large Japanese room with tatami mats and shoji screens and yellow light like butterfat, like lemon ice, like béchamel.

I was seated on the mat, my feet in socks but not shoes, my legs bent like two “vee”s, the right heel curled up under my pussy. I rocked back and forth over my heel, grinding my clit into the voluptuous curve of my heel. I’m rocking back and forth, trying to find a surreptitious purchase on my heel, trying to get my groove on, and aware that I’m trying to do it without anyone seeing me do it.
Continue reading . . .

posted by: Chelsea | Permalink | Comments: 1

June 21, 2013
In Praise of Summertime Girls

mar-5172th.jpgThe really fantastic thing about summer, and it nearly goes without saying, is the marvelous paucity of clothing. The sheerness of the fabrics, the slenderness of the straps, the floatiness of the skirts, the way that the summer air itself becomes more of a garment than what we put on in the morning.

Women walking around in deep v-cut t-shirts, their breasts puddling like liquid mangoes all ripe and juicy. Blackberry nipples. Apricot aureoles. The sweet peachy down of the cleft of an ass. The succulent slipperiness of persimmon labia (though now I’ve undressed the ubiquitous woman in question, without her permission, and slipped her metonymically into autumn fruit. That is so unfair). The long downward-sloping plane of the abdomen, rounded gently as the bottom of a watermelon.

Summer is the time of edible women. Girls tall and cool, dripping sweet like popsicles. And girls short and plump as dusky plums, with mysterious and sheeny-slick skins. Tasty chicks you want to lick from instep to eyeball, just because they look so good standing there in the summer sun, backlit maybe, their gauze skirts flirting with translucency. Only their eyes behind their sunglasses are shuttered tight as windows in Guadalajara at noontime; only their eyes are icy and off-putting.

The other day, a Sunday, I saw a girl struggling with both her many-sectioned paper and a broken strap on her sandal. She was across the street from me, sitting on the curb, paper under one arm, bent over and attentive to her recalcitrant footwear. She was wearing a white shirt and a red skirt, a flippy red skirt whose hem had a mind of its own, or perhaps it had a mind of my own.

Continue reading . . .

posted by: Chelsea | Permalink | Comments: 0

May 23, 2013
Summer Game Plan

She saw me the moment I walked into the bar. I saw her, too, just a moment before she looked up from her vodka tonic and gave me the once-over, by which time I’d already looked away (keeping her in my periphery) and began greeting the regular barflies that were starting to recognize me. The bartender gave me a nod and poured me a Jameson rocks.

She was sitting at a table near the bar with a small group of girls of varying degrees of heteroflexible, one in sporty clothes and looking very uncomfortable, and one androgynous poster-dyke who clearly knew her way around the place and was just returning from the jukebox, which she had no doubt taken over and pumped full of quarters to last the next three hours.

The girl was in a summery dress, white with thin black lines, that tied at the shoulders, one of those perfect a-skirts that twirls a little and swishes when she walks. The ones that make me stop and stare on a busy street before I realize it. That turn me into a teenaged boy, drooling and tugging at my jeans to hide my embarrassing arousal.

And the shoes – they were low strappy sandals, my favorites, criss-crossed over the top of her feet, gently nestled against each other on the legs of her tall barstool chair.

The other dykes in the bar disregarded her, I could see it as they walked in and scanned the place. Straight, they thought. But she wasn’t.

I knew the same way I knew her friend was – I just knew. Something about her femininity was deliberate, thought through. Her nails were short. Her hair was pulled up off her neck and twisted into a clip, wispy around her face. Cheeks flushed from the recent streak of sunshine and heat, maybe she’d been playing in the park today.

And she checked me out.

(That’s how I really knew.)

Straight girls don’t look at me the way femmes do. And femme bottoms don’t look at me the way femme tops do – the tops have a self-satisfied smirk, a command, an external push of energy. The bottoms hold their breath, lower their eyes and wait a moment before checking to see if I’m still looking.

I am.

I settle at the bar. Okay, game plan: she’s with friends, but already noticed me. Wants me to make the first move (I tell myself) but I need an excuse to say something, to get her alone. And what’ll I say?

Jesse – the bartender and one of my best friends – chats with me casually as the place fills up and gets increasingly busy. She goes off to pull some beers and I’m deep into my second James when I get a tap on my shoulder.

“Excuse me.” It’s the girl. Dammit, I was going to say hi first. I turn my shoulders, not my legs, and raise my eyebrows.

“Could you get the bartender’s attention? I’ve been standing here five minutes … ” I shoot a look to Jesse and she’s smiling in that way that means she’s about to crack up, deliberately not looking at me.

I simultaneously think, “you asshole,” and “thanks.”

I give Jesse a nod when she meets my eyes and she nods back, to me and the girl, who is reassured.

I suspect it wasn’t Jesse’s attention this girl really wanted. “I’m Sinclair,” I say. The barstool next to me is suddenly vacant and the girl moves in to rest her elbows on the bar.

“Moira,” she says, and looks at me sideways, slyly, with a little shy smile, chin in her shoulder.

“Well, Moira. What are you drinking?”

“Vodka tonic. Stoli raspberry.”

I nod. Jesse approaches and I repeat: “Stoli raspberry and tonic, thanks man.”

We sit in silence a moment and I take a watery swig of the end of my James. Jesse puts a new one down in front of me next to her drink, I peel a twenty out of my pocket, throw it on the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I say.

She almost blushes. A warm flush. Her few freckles deepen. “Thank you. I mean, I think you just did.” She crosses her legs at the knee and picks up her drink, discarding the lime on the napkin and taking a sip through the two thin bar straws, swiveling on her stool slightly to face me.

“So,” she says, “I guess that bought you a drink’s worth of conversation. I’m curious – does this kind of thing work on lots of girls?” Her eyes are flashing, lips curling at the edge. Playful.

“Well, I … uh … ” I want to tell her there are no other girls, there haven’t been in months. I’m in a dry spell and I like it that way. Sure, they catch my eye, but they don’t keep it. I want to tell her not to come home with me because she’ll just determine like all the others that my heart is broken, that I’m broken. I want to tell her I love her shoes. I want to taste that drink in her mouth, feel her slender fingers in the short hairs on my neck.

I breathe in, out. Then shrug. “Sometimes.”

She laughs. Jesse looks over at me from behind the beer taps and smirks.

posted by: sinclair | Permalink | Comments: 1

May 20, 2013
ask for what you want

I want you to only address me as Sir.

I want you to start playing with your clit ten minutes before I arrive, but under no circumstances are you allowed to come.

I want you wearing high heels and a short skirt with nothing underneath.

I want your safeword to be carnation, which means, you can yell no all you like, but I will not stop.

I want you ready to bend over my lap struggling as I spank you. Lift your dress up and turn your ass-cheeks red until my hand hurts. And then you’ll kiss it, suck my fingers, make it better. I’ll scold you for making me all hard and wanting, and you’ll straddle me and ride.

I want your explicit consent. I want your permission and submission.

I want you to know how to draw it from me. I am afraid of my own power. I want you to pull these cruelties from me, to beg for them. I want to take your energy and mine into one huge fireball that I will weild and you will receive. I want your surrender. I want you to make me feel like the biggest, baddest top in the room, even if I’m not.

Can you do that for me?

posted by: sinclair | Permalink | Comments: 3

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