Oooh… Mami
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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.
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Modifiers . . .
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“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.
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The Despot & The Boddhisatva
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I slept naked last night. I don’t usually. Usually, when I sleep naked, I feel my breasts try to run away from me at night; they scamper in my sleep like puppies. Hence the tank top to corral them into slumberous submission. The pajama bottoms are just for balance. Or occasionally for warmth.
But last night, almost before I knew it, I was clambering into bed totally starkers, and I thought, ok, I’m naked tonight. And I slept.
I think I wanted the feel of the sheets against my skin.
My libido, you see, is a despot.
Go Bad Girls! Go!
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The bad girl.. She’s generally inappropriately dressed, or dressed incompletely. She’s the one in the upskirt shots, playing all faux-surprise flashy-flashy with her panties or her naked nethers with the paparazzi. She might be the one who is admitting some truth a bit too titillating to be wholly healy to Oprah, or whomever. She poses in the nude. She admits to doing drugs. She steals other women’s boyfriends or husbands. She steals other women. She is not above neither saying “fuck” nor doing it. Gleefully.
She’s Lindsay Lohan. She’s not Mandy Moore. She’s Angelina Jolie. She is not Reese Witherspoon. She’s the old drinking short-short wearing Madonna. She is not the new world-hugging, duty-free accented, garden-mummy Madonna.
This Unknown Mistress
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I have a fantasy that centers on a woman who knows my body better than I do myself. In my fantasy, her voice tells me to touch myself, how to touch and where.
“Use your left hand,” she says, “and peel back your labia like the pages of a book. Let your right finger tease with a gentle pain the tip of your clit.”
I hear her voice, a sweet rosé of a voice, purrs in my ear.
“It feels good, doesn’t it.” Less a question than a statement. She knows what feels good. She always knows.
In my fantasy, she watches.
In my fantasy she tells me when to arch my back so that the finger, the toy or the cock - my fantasies are liquid and swirling with possibility - rubs against my g-spot. Or so that it doesn’t.
She can be cruel, my fantasy woman. Her voice, her knowledge, make me impossibly wet, improbably swollen; she makes my cunt flower forth like a Georgia O’Keefe lily.
Cream Dream
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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.
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Words to Stitch on a Pillow
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I don’t have a family who passes much from generation to generation. There is a Hepplewhite table that used to hold our mail and telephone and now resides in my uncle’s log cabin in Wisconsin. There are some pieces of furniture and some sculpture that my grandfather crafted that are spread across three states and the respective homes of his four children. There are some Chinese vases and antique chopsticks and so forth that my great-grandfather brought back from China when he and his brothers taught English there.
And there are three pieces of matrilineal wisdom.
My great-grandmother said, “It hurts to be beautiful.”
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