Tamara & Tamara & . . .

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cydytame134.jpgEarlier 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.

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“A” is for Androgynous

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cydytame034.jpgShe 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.

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Petit Fours

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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.
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Sappho’s Poem of Jealousy

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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)
http://www.bopsecrets.org/gateway/passages/sappho.htm

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.

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The Incredible Edible Ava

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cydytame065.jpgOne 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.

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Cold Ass Ice

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cydytame016.jpgStep 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.

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Words So Leisured…

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cydytame143.jpgMarta 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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