The Black Bald Lesbian and Some Dark Corners

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img_7388.jpgI was, when I started stripping at FlashDancers, a very, very good girl. I didn’t touch my customers but for the fleetest moment when my fingers pressed their knees as I rose between them, or when my hands rested on their shoulders as I swung my hair around and over their heads, draping them in its blonde waterfall, creating a curtain of intimacy for a second. And then was gone.

I didn’t touch them when I started.

That didn’t last.

I never, ever became a very bad girl. But I learned the delicate tease of the touch, or the tease of the delicate touch; I learned to rest my butt for a swift second on their laps, or on the chair between their legs, so they could imagine unto actually feeling its softfirm swell. I learned to bend backwards and rest my head, to nestle it really, like a lover, onto the curve of their shoulder, so that my lips would be near their ears while they gazed down the plane of my chest, down, down and dropping off the cliff of my belly.
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On the Time I Paid for Tits

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img_4286th1.jpgI grew up under the terrible misapprehension that I was going to look like Raquel Welch.  Never mind the fact that I was blonde, boxy, muscular hippie child, resembling the fourth unknown member of Hanson; I was convinced as a little girl that I would suddenly sprout long and amber limbs.

And big boobs. I was sure I would have them.

I did not. I no longer have the physical evidence-I lost the picture after the mysterious circumstance of having shown it to a friend who was quite frankly appalled that I would thrust it under her unwilling gaze-but I used to have small, flat A-B cup breasts. I tell myself that if my breasts had grown small and peach perfect I’d never have touched them, but the truth is I probably would have, steeped as I was at the time I bought my boobs in the heady largess of stripculture.

In short, between my long-held physical expectations and the fact that I was a stripper, when July of 1992 hit, I was more than ready for manufactured, silicone-shelled, saline-filled artificial second adolescence.

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The Good, The Bad, and the Angry

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cydytame071.jpgI have been known to flash a panty or a pussy. I’ve been guilty of my fair share of nipple slips, long before that was a term in cultural use. I have many tattoos. I’ve been paid to Jello wrestle, and I was a stripper. I have, from time to time, engaged in some brief fisticuffs. I’m not above or beyond getting into near-physical altercations with taxi drivers. I have drunk to excess and dabbled in illegal, unprescribed and pleasurable drugs.

I’ve shoplifted. My parents have caught me in bed, naked and rubbing naughty bits with another woman. I’ve fucked more men than I can recall; insert the verb “blown” and that number doubles. I swear like a longshoreman. I’ve stolen men from my girlfriends, and I’ve knowingly carried on affairs with married men. In many ways, I have been a prototypical bad girl.
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How I Came To Masturbate

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cydytame191.jpgThe thing was that while my mother had fully apprised me at a very early age of all of the mechanics of sex-biological, anatomical and medical-she had neglected to expound on one detail: why people fucked. By the age of six, I knew how you had sex, I knew what happened when you did, I even knew too well how to protect yourself from pregnancy, but I didn’t know why you would. In her intermittent and unending narrative of sex, my mom had left out the pleasure part.

I had to learn about that on the streets.

Actually, it wasn’t on the streets. Technically, it was in the enviably candy-striped bedroom of my childhood friend Miriam. I was about twelve. It was the morning after a sleepover, and Miriam and I and her cat Maia and Miriam’s sister Debby were all lounging on Miriam’s terrifically pink and jealousy-inducing bed.
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I Dream of Jenna

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cydytame162.jpgI haven’t had sex in a week. I know that for many people, that’s not that big a deal, but for my libido, it is, because when I haven’t had sex in what my body perceives as too long, it reminds me by sending me strange sex dreams.

Usually in my dreams I’m with chicks. I’m sure my friend Dr. Freud would have something to say about this, but uncharacteristically I don’t feel like analyzing this particular somatic quirk. Let’s just accept my polyvaliently perverse unconscious and move on.

Last night, I had a dream wherein I was in a bed with an Asian chick I don’t know in real life. It was, in my dream our first time together, and for some reason we were in a bed that had a viewing gallery filled with other women from whom we had to hide what we were doing. Mostly, what I remember from this dream is a very graphic visual of her pussy, which my fecund imagination created in a goddess-like perfection.

No pussy on earth is as pretty as the one in my dream last night.
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In Shame-faced Praise of Slick Cheesecake Porn

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cydypotd182.jpg About ten years ago, an ex-lover gave me a copy of Playboy’s Voluptuous Vixens as a gag birthday gift. It languished for a while in a pile of magazines, papers and books - my bedroom regularly looks like the aftermath of a bar-brawl between a Salvation Army and a used book shop-until one ennui-and-hormone-filled afternoon I rediscovered it and unearthed it from the pile in which it was buried and forgotten like last Wednesday’s lunch.

I get bored with my onanistic practices. Given enough time and repetition, even the best toy, the best rhythm, the most efficient vibrator loses its orgasmic luster and grows shadowy and dull. I grow disenchanted easily and randomly. My pussy is a capricious and petulant mistress-I never know what beloved trick trotted out one too many times will send it, sighing mightily with unaffected boredom, spiraling into a yawning pet. I find myself surprised as a naïve and besotted swain when, finger pressing knowingly on clit, or toy inserted perfectly against g-spot, or tried-and-true fantasy replaying like a favorite blue movie inside my brain, my pussy stamps her tiny feet, shuts down, and pouts as fetchingly as an over-indulged demimonde.
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