January 19, 2008
More Utopia: The No Where Woman


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.

In my fantasy, I enter the hotel room pinkywet with anticipation. The room, I notice, has wide windows along one wall, some vertical urban horizon slivered by blinds and sliced by pale afternoon light. The room, I notice, is quiet. There is a scent of some candle burning, somewhere. There is a cool antiseptic bed in the center, against a wall, some kind of laminate headboard, some kind of picture above, some color of martially tightly fitted sheets.

I notice this all very briefly, for in a hot moment I am enclosed in a strong woman’s arms and we are kissing and her taste of salt and sweet and tobacco fills my mouth. It’s the flavor of lust.

I feel her pull my body into her and my body yields with alacrity; it responds with knowledge. My hands curl around her back, my fingers entwine themselves in her hair, they tug and they pull like the Spanish moss on Faulkner’s tree.

I feel like Cathy with her muddy drawers, I want her that profoundly.

And she knows. And she stops me; enclosing first one wrist and then the other in her hands, she pins both behind my back. My shoulders automatically pull down and my breasts jut out.

“No.” She says holding me at a distance. “Not yet.” And she looks at me, standing there, all wild child confused lust, and she says, “who are you?”

Chelsea, I say.

“No. Who are you to me?”

I pause. I get it. I smile. Your whore, I say.

“No.” She says, a smile twitching like a cat’s tail at her mouth. “Not yet. But you will be.”

She half leads, half pushes me to the bed. She lifts my dress over my head. She tells me to lie down, to put my head on a pillow. To keep my hands at my sides. She looks at me compose myself, there on that wide, cool and apparitional bed, and she walks to the other side and slides onto the bed herself, positioning her body at a 30 degree angle to mine.

She begins kissing me, intently, not touching me, not kissing me with so much an interest to my desire as in an almost nonchalant way, an exploration of tongues, of mouths, of teeth, of taste. She kisses me and I can feel myself being drawn into her body like breath.

She tells me to lift my hair from behind my neck, to turn my head to my left so that I will be looking away from her. I comply, yielding without thought.

She takes my chin in her hand and he lifts it, tilts it, nearly uncomfortably, stretching my face away from my body, elongating my neck to her gaze, to her touch, to her lips. Her lips graze my throat. I feel like The Sleeping Gypsy by Henri Rousseau. She is the lion who has my throat between her lips, between her teeth, under her tongue. I gasp and I do not move. She turns my head with her hands, exposing the other side of my neck, and half pulls me off the pillow so that she can devour my neck, my throat, the length of my trapezius to my shoulder.

This, like her kissing, she does with a paradoxical urgent casualness. As if it, my body, is for her pleasure. And it begins to dawn on me, under her cruelkind caresses, that it is. That I am. That my body is there to receive. And I’m merely along for the ride.

She stops, and I take the moment to look at her, still entirely dressed, there on the bed, and I see her breath a bit ragged, and I see her pupils a tad big, and I see the crotch of her jeans in what must be a pleasurable constriction.

“Kneel.” She says. And on the bed I do. She looks at me and she tells me that I am beautiful. It is no surprise; I feel beautiful, there, under her gaze. I can feel my cheeks pink, yet not as pink as my clit that goes throb throb throb against the wetcool fabric of my panties.

She reclines on the bed, her head on the pillow, her face now behind me, and she looks at me. I feel her gaze on my back. My ass, my thighs, my back, all these pieces sloping into one another, undulating in infinite curves. She reaches and unhooks my bra; she tells me to slip it off and to lie back down. I do.

Lying on her side, next to me, she uses one hand to lift and let fall each breast. As if she’s weighing them like mangoes. I watch her face as he watches her fingers. Her fingertips make light circles over my breasts, across my nipples, light figure eights like figure skaters. My nipples tighten and rise, my body responds to her touch.

She gets to her knees and straddles my hips. I can fully see her erection pressing against the fly of her pants and I want to unbuckle, unzip, and free her cunt. I want to press my face against it, nuzzle it with my mouth and nose, slide it under my lips and suckle it. I want to inhale it. I want to swallow her whole.

I do not. I do nothing. I lie there and receive her ministrations.

Her fingers cruelly pinch my nipples. She pulls upwards on them; my elongated nipples pull the weight of my breasts up with them. She lets them drop, then palms them, her fingers pinching the brownpink of my nipples, rolling them like one of her cigarettes. It hurts and it is exquisite. I gasp with each pinch, and I sigh with each release. She swats my breasts with her hands, slapping them gently. My pelvis grinds upwards toward her ass, almost without my knowledge.

My body burns with incendiary want.

She gets off me and lies back down. “You have my permission to do what you want to me, until I tell you to stop, but then you must stop. Do you understand?”

Yes, I say, and I climb on top of her, kissing her with the force of my avalanche desire, as if by pressing my lips to her, by circling my tongue in her mouth, I can communicate that which she has made me feel beyond words. I ask if I have her permission to remove her shirt. She says I do, and I do, unbuttoning it methodically and laying it carefully over the nearest piece of prefab furniture.

I begin to rub my face on her neck, her breasts, her abdomen, to rub my face on her as much to imbue my body with her scent as to feel her against my flesh. I trace my nose down her inner arm and press my eye sockets against her biceps, my forehead to her forearm, my nose to her wrist. I press my lips to her open palm and take each finger into my mouth. I rub my face against the fabric of her pants, my breasts press against her inner thighs, my mouth traces the length of her fabricbound pussy. I exhale hot breath through the clothing layers and I hear her moan.

“Stop,” she tells me. I do. “Lie back down.” I do. She removes my panties, so sodden with my wetness that a viscous string pulls, extends, and snaps as she moves them down the length of my legs.

“Plant your feet on the bed with your knees bent. Now open your thighs as wide as you can.” She says. I do.

“Wider.” I do.

“Is that as far as you can go?” She asks.

Yes, I tell her.

“Is it uncomfortable?”

Yes, I tell her.

“Good,” She says and positions herself between my spread open knees, half-reclining. Her hand begins to make the same lazy, gentle figure eights over my pubic mound, down my labia, across my cunt, as she had done on my breasts. I feel very open and not entirely comfortable, but her fingers feel so good. It’s almost as if I can see little trails of light like phosphorescence left behind by her fingertips.

She runs a finger lazily down the length of my slit, opening me, up and down, up and down, as if she has no agenda, as if she does not know what it makes me want. As if with my whole body I am not willing her to fill me, fill me completely, fill me now, with something, anything, anything just now.

She stops. From between my legs, she looks at me with her grey eyes, her body still half-dressed, her graying hair brushing my inner knees. I am hyperaware of every touch, every breath, every glance—my skin feels her eyes I am that awake in every nerve. I suffer under her gaze.

“I am going to make you come.” She tells me. “And then I’m going to fuck you, and I’m going to make you come again. Do you understand?”

Yes, I tell her.

“I want you to tilt your hips up to me,” she says. “And I want you to keep them tilted. If you let them drop, I will stop what I am doing. You don’t want that, do you.”

No, I tell her.

“Tilt.” She says. And I do.

She looks at me and slips one finger inside me, then she curves her other arm under my thigh and around my waist, her hand on my pubic mound, and with two fingers she opens my cunt like a book, she spreads me wide, and she licks me.

One finger, then another enters my pussy. I can feel her fingers on my g-spot, exploring my cunt, twiddling my cervix. I can feel her lips on my pussy, her tongue on my clit, and while I’m aware of all of these individual components, I’m not at the same time. It all becomes some impossibly pleasurable symphony of feeling, and the only thought in my head is to keep my hips tilted toward her giving mouth, to keep my pussy open to her spelunking fingers, to stay exactly as I am, to feel the paroxysm of restraint, to receive her to feel to do to be to hold to lie there to keep my knees impossibly wide to keep my hips tilted tilted tilted toward the light the lips and god the mouth and the fingers.

I feel my swollen clit aching, wanting, calling a clarion to come. Hovering above me like a ghost, I can see the outline of my orgasm, but I know it will remain disembodied, incorporeal, until she lets me come. Until she gives me leave to come again.

Please oh please please let me, please oh please, I say.

She stops. She pulls out of me. I moan with longing.

“Are you begging me?”

Yes, I say and my voice breaks. I am begging you.

“Who are you to me?” She asks.

I am your whore.

“You are,” she says. “You are my whore,” she says. “You are my whore.”

She slips inside me like she belongs in my cunt, which she does.

“Come for me, my whore.” She says.

And I do. I come for her, my nowhere woman, here in my bed and there in your mind.


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