A Cup of Jo

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She doesn’t know I exist. Sure, she takes my two clammy dollars and single quarter for my medium half-caf and she punches my card, and she puts the .13¢ in the ceramic jug that is labeled “Tips!” and adorned with jaunty daisies, but she doesn’t see me. I am reduced to my faceless caffeine addiction in the face of her casual neglect of my existence. I nothing but a cup of joe.

But her, she is a being of extraordinary beauty, and she knows it. She wears her beauty like a dress she found in a bargain bin at a church sale. It cost her little and therefore merits just that much regard. Her hair is defiantly highlighted in great swarthy swatches of blonde that stride strident against her natural oak brown. Her almond skin is bare of make-up, but for two level lines that march across her eyelids, just above her lashes, and streak out toward her temples. Sometimes her lips bear the lightest brunt of berry-hued gloss, but most usually not.

People already stop and stare, so why court their attention, or so I’d guess her thinking goes, for I’ve never spoken to her other than to order, obsequiously, my cup of coffee. What would I say? I quell and quake before her. She and her beauty and her disregard of it and her inescapable pulse of cool render me speechless. I am stuck dumb.
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A Star-Spangled Booty

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There is not much better than sex on a national holiday. The national holiday hangs low, and the air itself feels heavy and quiet; lassitudinous and torpid is the feel of a national holiday. It lends itself to fucking, this weighty and still air; it seems to press itself upon you and force you into bed like the firm hand of a knowing lover. It gives you the tacit permission to fuck off and fuck. The banks are closed. Stores are shuttered. People stroll with nowhere to go, but bed. Fucking on a national holiday is almost an obligation like paying your taxes or voting.

The last national holiday, I went to my lover’s apartment late in the afternoon. I had taken the dog to the dog run, I had washed my floors and cleaned the cat’s box. I had showered and eaten and brushed my teeth, I had sent a few emails. I had done a bit of duty to others and to self, and then it was time for me to do my duty to my country and my cunt. It was time to fuck.

“What would you like?” my lover asked, naked in the orange light of the sun setting.

I want you to spank me, I said.
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More Utopia: The No Where Woman

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A hotel room is utopia. It exists on a plane disconnected from the real world. It has the same things your own personal and real space has—a bed, a mirror, a chest of drawers or two, a television, a bathroom—but it is almost exactly unlike your real life.

A hotel room is nowhere. The many people who have passed through it, sleeping, fucking, weeping, laughing, sitting and staring at blank walls or blanker t.v. screens have left a kind of apparitional haze. The ghostiness is overwhelming and alluring.

My lavish fantasy takes place in a hotel room, because hotel rooms are fantasy spaces. They both don’t and do exist in equal measure. My lavish fantasy centers on my knowing woman obsession, a person who, like the hotel room, both exists and does not in equal proportions. I have made her up; I have not made her up. The room is somewhere; the room is nowhere.

In the end, it doesn’t matter because it exists in my mind, and if you read this, it will exist in yours too.
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Star Fuck

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I have fucked exactly one famous person. It’s not good form to name the people one has fucked on a blog, regardless of his or her fame. And I am always the soul of propriety.

But that doesn’t mean I won’t give some hints.

She is a tall, thin and not conventionally pretty woman comedian. She starred in a movie with an aging great comedy legend who played an aging great comedy legend. This early 80’s dark comedy was directed by a very renowned director, and its third star is a slightly unhinged New York actor who played a more than slightly unhinged New York actor. My starfuck, I’ll call her “S” for “Starfuck.”
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What Nowherewoman?

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What if I found my nowherewoman in some utopian city, some land tethered by the slenderest ship shrouds to my urban not urbane reality?

What if I found her, my nowherewoman, my nobomummy, no longer silent & invisible, this starry-eyed celestial woman whose clit hides divine in fluffy pubic clouds Michelangelo’s God on her putti-borne litter, while I recline in Adam’s leisure and nakedness? What if I found her?

(Would I then be recreated in her fashion? Or would I just lose a rib?)

What if I found her and she placed my hands on some vinyl wallpaper while some Oscar-turning blind-bard performance broadcasted banal in the background?

What if with one awesome godhand she pinned my two human hands there, on that vinyl wall, its texture pebbled like a Gideon Bible under my flat and pressed palms, what if she held them there, and what if with the other she raked her celestial nobomummy fingers into my hair?

What if she did that? (What if she gave me words & laws, would I follow them? Would I defy them? Or would I merely make them mine own?)

What if her hands clenched grabbed whiteknuckled my hair as if it could save her sweet sweet nobomummy ass from drowning (and what if it could)?
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Sunshine’s Kiss

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Her real name was Sunshine; I don’t recall her stripper name. It would be hard to top “Sunshine,” so she probably chose something banal like “Nancy,” or “Drew,” or “Amy.” Sunshine had the blue-black hair of Dita Von Teese, pale skin and a large tattoo of a sunflower on one of her deltoids. Her body had that kind of compact curviness that demanded visceral notice. Her breasts were fake, I think, but they had neither the aerodynamic nature of hard Swedish furniture that some fake boobs have, nor the undulating smushiness that other implants have. Sunshine’s boobs were at neither end of the fake boob spectrum; they might have been the only thing about her that defied polarity.

Sunshine carried herself with a kind of insouciant sensuality. She took your prurient interest in her for granted. It was less that she knew everyone wanted to fuck her and that she was proud of it; rather, it felt like your desire for her like a natural law, like gravity, like the conservation of mass. Things that were inherently inescapable and therefore had to be accepted, even if she spent private moments dreaming of flying, or pointing her finger at a solid object and seeing it shimmer and dissolve into nothingness, merely because she willed it.
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Dressing Room - A Story

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You call me and tell me that in one hour I must meet you in a dressing room at Macy’s on the designer suit floor; “Armani,” you tell me. You tell me to wear a short skirt with no panties and high heels. You tell me to ride the train, not take a taxi, and that I must do so while wearing the largest buttplug I have. You tell me I must not let my knees touch, regardless of whether I am sitting or standing, nor may I close my lips except to swallow. You tell me that I will enter the dressing room and I will kneel with my back to the door and wait patiently for you. If the dressing room is full, I will wait outside until it is empty and then enter it. I will not lock the door; it must be open.

I tell you I will, of course, do as you wish, even though it means that I must clear my schedule. I begin to ask a question. You tell me, “Do it.” And the phone goes dead.

I ride the train as you will me to do so. I am very aware of the brevity of my skirt and that one false move will show everyone on the train my pussy. I am afraid that if I sit I will leave my wetness on the seat, but I know that standing I am equally exposed.
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