My Big Needy Clit
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Times like this my clit feels as big as a longshoreman’s fist. (Writing that sentence, I wonder why in this age of “postal carriers” and “firefighters,” of “chairpersons” and “Congresspersons,” we continue to use words like “longshoreman,” “gunman,” and “manpower.” Are there no female longshorepeople? No lone women in towers training their sites and focusing their rage on passersby? No sense of anonymous hordes of women working untold hours? For the first two questions, the answer is probably not many. The last one, however, receives in response a resounding yes, so you have to wonder why the term “manpower” lingers. But I digress,)
Days like this my clit feels as big as a longshoreman’s fist. It’s not. I’ve checked. It’s tinier than the head of a baby bird, though just as hungry. That chaotic image-clit, fist, baby bird-may provide too much information, a phrase we of the relentlessly informed use to denote those bits and pieces of intelligence so intimate we feel beset. Stop! We protest, holding our hands up palms out like a French traffic cop. Too much.
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Real Chicks & Rubber Dicks
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What can I say? I like the idea of a fetching wench adorned with a harness and a rubber dick. I must, in the effort of total accuracy, emphasize “the idea,” for I’ve not yet encountered the reality, though I do hope to rectify that disparity. I think I’d like to be laid open, splayed as a cookbook, and fucked with precision by a chick with a dick. Not to, you know, put too blunt a point on the notion or anything.
Being an impressionable woman with a penchant for collecting imagistic desires like other people collect comic books or dolls or something less creepsome like, say, snow-domes, I garnered this bobbing silicone desire from idle exposure to cable. The night I found it, I wasn’t expecting to find some winsome image that would stick to the Teflon walls of my brain like a messy omelet, but I’m often surprised by what nuggets remain after the sieve of my gray matter has sifted through the dross. Yet, here I am, years later, years after watching some errant episode of HBO’s Real Sex, years after viewing this spliced and diced “reality” tee-vee show on “Girls Who Love Their Strap-Ons and Party in a Club Together,” or something to that effect.
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Marilynity
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I’m not sure if this is my idea, or if I’ve stolen it from someone and my memory does not permit me to recall whom, but here goes: Marilyn Monroe, the name itself is an open-mouthed confectionary kiss.
“Em”: the lips pooch outwards, opening. “Air”: the mouth opens wider, enveloping. “Ih”: the tongue begins to reach forward. “Ell”: it darts out, searching another. “Ihn”: the mouth closes, but only for a slim second because “Moh” opens it again; “Ehn” closes the mouth (but not the lips, never the lips) momentarily, for it fulsomely, fetchingly pouts with “Roe,” and the name leaves us open-lipped and hoping for more.
Each syllable, each phoneme, is a will to seduction. A name that, unlike her quotidian Norma Jean Baker, compels the speaker and the auditor both to submit to the flicker in the naughty bits. And it was she, this Marilyn Monroe, who captivated adolescent me.
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Fetish Club Field Trip
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My very close friend Becky appears to be going through a sexual renaissance, of sorts. Perhaps it is that her kids are now old enough to if not fend for themselves, at least be totally copasetic with being placed under the tremulous care of Daddy. Perhaps it is that she is inching toward her fortieth birthday and all the tectonic shifting that birthday produces in us women folk.
Whatever the reason: I’m loving it. And so when she texted me last week to ask if I wanted to accompany her to a fetish party I wrote back a single word: sure.
Originally, Becky was supposed to bring her eighteen year-old babysitter whom she’s corrupting with glacial rapidity and inexorableness. That would have been interesting. However, he bailed due to a baseball game, which is just lame. What is wrong with kids today? No chains, whips, chips & dips? What happened to our usual teenage fanfare?
Yesterday’s Orgasmic Flavor
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It was either the spring of 1978 or the spring of 1979. I was seventeen, and I had therapy every Wednesday afternoon after school. I think my friend Anne Marie dropped me off-I can’t really recollect how I traveled from my high school that was a good twenty-plus miles away to my therapist’s office. Maybe Anne Marie drove; maybe I got one of my parents’ cars. I doubt the latter; they were never very forthcoming with the wheels.
At any rate, every Wednesday afternoon, I would go to my therapist. She was trained as an art therapist, though we never did any art projects. We just sat around and talked. Her couches were tan, a color I’ve noticed over the years is much favored by the therapists of the world, or anyway the color unites the ones I’ve been a patient of. Her office had a lot of kid things: tiny desks, floppy dolls, construction paper, heaps of crayons. It had the affect of a hotel lobby having a clandestine tryst with a kindergarten. I found it both a tad disconcerting and a bit soothing both at the same time.
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