Happy New Year!

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Assignate! Be boisterous! Celebrate! Disrobe, display, dispense with decorum; dally and dance; debauch, deflower, deftly diddle! Enjoy, effloresce, escalate, even exceed! Fondle and fuck! Gainfully grope! Hug happily! Indulge! Jump jubilantly! Kiss, kiss, KISS! Lovingly languor; lecherously love! Mutually masturbate! Nuzzle naked! Openly osculate! Pleasure pussies! Quote queers! Rumba rowdily! Succeed or just suck! Tickle tits! Tie toes together! Use utensils unusually! Visualize voluptuous vulvas, verily! Woo wonderful women! XXX marks the spot! Yell! And finally ZZZzzzzzzzzzzz into the sweet dawn of the New Year in the arms of your Most Beautiful Woman in the World…

See you next year…

A Small Wet Goddess In Gotham

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One does not expect to glimpse a naiad on the A train, yet there she was. Just inside the door she stood, compact yet slight, jet hair cropped short in fetching brutal chunks around her face, clad in nothing but a diaphanous tunic of algae green. An incongruous sight on the MTA, this water sprite set plumb in the middle of Manhattan, but then Manhattan is an island.

I’ve seen some sundry strangeness on the subway. I’ve seen a relentless parade of beggars, peddlers and hawkers. I’ve been entertained by strolling mariachi bands, gospel singers, drummers, break-dancers, rappers, flautists, comedians and even one mime. I’ve witnessed New Yorkers riding the subway calmly, newspaper in hand, iPod buds in ears, dressed in nothing but their skivvies and shoes. I’ve witnessed couples meet, fight, make-up, make out and all but fornicate. I’ve seen New Yorkers riding the rails with a dizzying array of objects: multiple dogs, a stand-up bass, a bassoon, goldfish in bags, a book case, and rolling racks of clothes come to mind. I’ve seen clowns, cowboys, drag queens, and one person on stilts. I’ve seen celebrities, politicians, and nobodies. I just never really thought a goddess would take the A train, but I suppose even deities need to get uptown quickly.
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Orlando, Bloom…

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Listen.

I’m telling you stories.

I met Orlando not in Orlando but in New York City, which has three islands, really, so maybe it is appropriate. Islands aren’t attached to anything; neither, it turns out, is/was/will be Orlando. Like the string of beads that is Venice, New York too is a series of islands. Fluid bits of lands attached to other lands by bridges, by tunnels, by boats.

We met in Manhattan. We met at a bus stop. It was raining. I offered Orlando my umbrella. It seemed like the thing to do. We weren’t, either of us, waiting for the bus. Orlando was waiting for something. (Orlando was/is/will always be waiting for something.)

It turned out that the thing I was waiting for was Orlando.
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Happy Holidays

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We are going take a few days off from posting to celebrate, and we hope you all will take a few days off from surfing the internet to being with people you can touch in the flesh and not just over an IP connection. Posting will resume on Boxing Day.

See you then. . .

Executive Assist - A Story

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The secretary was bent over the desk with her skirt bunched up over her back and her panties pooled by her feet. Her breathing was strained and she tried to look at the wall clock by her left side, praying that her lateness wouldn’t be noticed. Her cheap rayon H&M blouse was pushed carelessly up her chest, exposing her breasts, which had been pulled out and over the top of her beige bra.

Binder clips were cruelly pinching her nipples.

“Keep facing forward,” she heard from behind her, and then the soft whoosh of the rolling chair’s wheels on the industrial carpet. She flinched in blind preparation; she knew something painful was going to happen, but she wasn’t sure what.

There was the clank and rustle of something to the right and behind her. The metal cup and rack that held her office tools. She knew the sound well.

The scratch of the open stapler. The bite of the staple remover. The relentless nip of the binder clips. The smack of the ruler. The poke and scrape of the letter opener. The smooth hardness of the “Received” stamp in her asshole. She knew them all, knew them well, wore the memory of the perverted use of these quotidian implements on her flesh like shameful, naughty undergarments.

“Lift your ass toward me,” said the voice behind her. Not angry, not passionate. Not anything. Its tone could be requesting her to pass the salt.
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On Sucking & Suckers

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The act of sucking hardly gets fair linguistic treatment. When something is really awful, we say it “sucks,” however puerile it may be of us to do so; if it’s really bad, we might add a “dude,” as in the commiserative “Wow, that sucks, dude.” (Although, oddly, when something, really, really sucks, when it sucks beyond all comparable suckitude, we often says it “blows,” unless we just add an intensifying adverb and say that the thing in question “fucking sucks,” a phrase that does have a lovely assonant belly to it.)

When someone is currying favor, that person is “sucking up.” But when a person is gobbling food hurriedly and unmindfully, he or she is “sucking it down.” When person is inept, or when an event fails to live up to our expectation, we might say the person or the event in question “sucks ass.” P.T. Barnum famously said that a sucker is born every minute, less referring to babies, who do in fact literally suck, than those of us who are figurative gullible prats, ready and willing to fall victim to machinations of the wily and the brash, if also the somewhat amoral.

We might, after we’ve fallen prey to a scam, turn around and call the perpetrator of said scam a “cocksucker,” a term usually reserved for men, despite the fact that far more women suck cocks, just speaking on pure empirics. “Cocksucker” interests me not merely because of it’s often inaccurate hurling-I’m way more of a cocksucker than most of the men I’ve called a “cocksucker”-but also because the word embodies a grudging admiration, even if it also sometimes gestures to homophobia. Most cocksuckers don’t, for example, either suck up or suck ass. Most cocksuckers have a luster about them. I think I’d almost rather be a cocksucker than a bitch, and I actually like being a bitch.
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On Being Blonde

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To be blonde is a state of being. There are some, a few, who have no choice. Like others into greatness, they are thrust into blondeness, and whether they want it or not, they walk among us blonde and glimmering.

The rest of us, though, we have to choose to be blonde. Nature gave me what is most kindly called “honey” hair. It’s not brown, it’s not blonde. It’s not dishwater. It’s a not-unpleasant color that defies being placed into any hirsute lexicon. It’s not unattractive, but it’s not blonde.

With enough sun and time, salt and chlorine, lassitude and exposure to harmful ultraviolet rays, I can become blonde as a volleyball competitor. I am like a Malibu Barbie; my skin turns a happy toasty marshmallow tan and my hair becomes as gloriously striated as a tulip, given enough sun.
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