Notes to a Rockabilly Angel

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So I gave my phone number to this girl last night. She hasn’t called, but color my fingers deep and vibrant sanguine with optimistic crossing.

Last night, I went with a friend and his wife first out to dinner and then to The Slipper Room for some burly-cue. It was pretty standard burlesque fare, which is to say that it treaded between the painful and the sublime, and when it was truly empyrean, it was both. The best piece by far was one by Miss Julie Atlas Muz, who is apparently a very big deal in burlesque, though she’s a tiny thing on stage, all densely packed muscle and sinuous curves. Her skin lies so tight over her flanks it’s like her hips have hospital corners.

“Breaking the Law” by Judas Priest may not be the first song that pops into your head when you think about dancing naked for strangers while making social commentary, but Miss Julie worked it. In the song’s 2:33 span, I counted four, maybe five laws that Miss Julie broke as she slithered, pranced, jetéd and jiggled on the stage. Beginning dressed in a loosely interpreted convict’s uniform of broad black-and-white striped top and shorts, a juvie-center sneer planted on her face, Miss Julie took the stage, pulled a cigarette from her bodice and lit it. Then, cigarette in mouth and eyes narrowed, she defiantly shredded a dollar bill into pieces and flung them like confetti. Retreating to the back of the stage, she denuded her self to pasties and a black jock strap. After a few Trocadero-style ballet moves, she ripped off the pasties and the latex below, grinned, and dropped her jock strap and turned her back on the audience.

She then bent over and rhythmically spread her ass cheeks to the lyrics. “Bwa bwa-bwa ba-bwa,” her ass sang. One or two lines later, she turned to face us, slumped over her pelvis, put a finger or two on either side of her labia, and made her pussy sing the same tune, thereby bringing the house down while being in violation of the following laws: smoking in a New York City bar; performing topless in an unlicensed nightclub; performing naked in a nightclub that sells alcohol; and possibly lewd and lascivious behavior, depending on your interpretation. It was, in short, a performance brilliant, transgressive and hott.

I laughed hard at Miss Julie and clapped heartily, but I didn’t give her my full attention because sitting across from me was this rockabilly goddess with short-chopped bangs, milk-gleaming skin, and total tool for a boyfriend. This woman had been making eyes at me for the whole first few acts and then suddenly stopped because, I think, she noticed that my group had noticed her looking at me and smiling.

“That girl over there is devouring you with her eyes,” said my married friend.

I know, I said. It’s wicked cool, I said, and looked back at her. She had been flirting shamelessly, doing that thing where you make your eyes run the length of your object’s body like a lambent flame. She did that—ran her eyes up and down me and then she met mine, paused and smiled. I could have leapt over the stage and dived into the depths of her cool cleavage. I sat there smiling at her, trying not to be too self-conscious and creepy, and probably failing, as the acts went on. Her boyfriend pawed at her thighs and her hands, but she shrugged him off and angled her body away.

My heart jumped.

And she was young and fresh and had these pencil thin eyebrows and looked like she should be posed in leopard print and black thigh highs next to a hi-fi; she had that Betty Page thing going on, and that dumb-ass boyfriend stroking her, and she was looking at me and smiling so warmly that even my friend noticed.

And then she stopped. I sat there watching the show, distracted, divided, the image of this girl’s sweet white flesh lobbed into the forefront of my frontal lobe. I willed the boyfriend to leave.

Get up, get up, get up, I said to him in my head. Just. Get. Up. I watched a girl with fantastic tattoos and a pointy tongue and sweetly perverse perma-smile take off a corset to the song from…something, and I listened to the MC make fun of My Girl’s walking tool of a boyfriend, and I laughed, but I kept on willing him to leave, and then, suddenly, he did.

Joy. Numb and shaky with nerves, I took a piece of paper out of my purse and wrote my digits in purple pen and clear handwriting. I stood up, walked across the room, and put the note in her hand. Our eyes me, she took it. I turned and walked away, toward the bathroom, where the boyfriend was. I stood behind him. I considered complimenting him on her luminous and milky beauty. I didn’t.

When they left, her eyes lingered on mine. I watched her leave and regretted that I hadn’t written something else on the white slip of paper, this blog’s address, maybe. My blog could be my pimp, I thought. It would be the gift that kept on giving. I regretted not paying her some beatific compliment or giving her some curt command. I regretted not giving her another reason to call me, something to make her clit switch-twitch like fringe on a tassel. I regretted not being more forthright.
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A Cut Above - Meditations on being Shaved

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Our current culture puts a tremendous amount of emphasis on the women’s bush—how it should be kept, ways to maintain its topiary forms, manners for dressing it up. It is such a commonplace that women should be trimmed at the very least that waxing or shaving bare is almost the default setting for female pubic hair, and those women who do like their hair “down there” wild as the outback seem either defiant or apologetic about it.

(I should note that this hirsute demand is not for women only. Men have been feeling an increasing pressure to manscape. Perhaps this trend was most hilariously captured by a recent web advert for the Phillips Bodygroom that features a smug, milquetoast man wearing a white terry-cloth robe, judiciously bleeped-out words, and well-timed images of fruit.)

There’s a lot to argue in favor of a more topiary bush. Being waxed or shaved has health benefits such as a lowered chance of urinary tract infections and other issues—in fact, epidemiologists have argued recent lower rates of pubic lice, aka crabs, stems from more people having less pubic hair; lice have nothing to nest in when you’re bare. Additionally, naked labia are more sensitive, and some people—myself included—just think it feels better to be licked or fucked when hairless. Finally, many people find it more pleasant to lick a hair-free or hair-reduced pussy.

But these benefits aren’t in and of themselves enough to argue for the trend of hairless genitals. Most women aren’t sitting down and making a checklist of pubic hair pros and cons before they make their appointment with their waxer or get into the shower with a new blade and copious shaving cream. Most women, we would argue facilely, choose to wax or shave their nethers because culturally we are pressured to do so, and that pressure has come from the media.

On its naked surface, we can look to two sources for the bare pudendum: porn and Sex in the City. Porn, one would assume, opts for the bare bush because optically it is just a better shot. You can, in short, see more. When labia have hair, it obscures all the pink-wet glory that is the female genitals, and heterosexual porn is all about female genitalia. We can expect that the visuals in porn have created an audience that wants to replicate what it can easily replicate, and all you need to reproduce the most visually shocking/titillating porn marker is a good razor and a steady hand.
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Lend Me a Hand…

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cydypotd072.jpgLend me a hand. Not, however, just any hand. A hand blank and devoid of nuance, a hand blunt-cut as a cheap cigar, a hand without delicacy simply will not do. Nor will one too effete, too wan, too limpid and limp with lack of use. This lines of this hand cannot belie the power of its touch.

Give me this hand, a hand clean and manicured, but not too well-manicured. A hand that neither has the anxious red-ragged cuticles of the recently audited nor the great scooping nails of a Long Island goomah.  Give me this hand with its sensitive touch and tensile strength and knowing fingers. Give me this hand. Perhaps it’s attached to you, perhaps it’s not. Perhaps you just want to watch.

What I want from this hand is quite simple: Finger me. Ply my pussy lips apart like  the stuck together pages of a Maxim at Riker’s Island. Run a fingertip down my slit and cleave me like liquid rosy sand. Let those digits linger like a party guest. Tug on my labia like a shade. Pinch and roll them like a hand-rolled cigarette. Spread my pussy open like a peach.

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The Key of G

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cydytame027.jpgI don’t know about you, but it has taken me years to make friends with my g-spot. Decades, even. My clit and I had that magical connection you feel with that weird-pretty girl you’ve seen around, you know because you go to the same clubs and bookstores and used clothing shops, and then something happens, some strange serendipitous act throws you together like perfect salad ingredients-like dried cranberries and crumbled gorgonzola, say-and you both realize in a blinding white epiphany that you were best friends just waiting to happen.

My clit and I were like that: fast friends on first acquaintance. My g-spot and I, not so much.

It might be because it’s so reclusive, like Greta Garbo, shrouded in the obscuring silk scarf of my vaginal walls. All tucked up inside, under, and away, the g-spot hides behind the stony prominence of the pubic bone, like a star cowering under a paparazzi siege. The g-spot is a small thing, easy to overlook in fumbling explorations. It doesn’t stick out or pop up or do much of anything to announce its presence. Wearing latex gloves, you’d miss the slight cat-tongue roughness of the g-spot.

I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that more than its mere reclusivity, the g-spot is also like fine wine: it takes time to mature. I don’t have any hard evidence on this hypothesis, no scientific studies, no empiric substantiation, nothing more than a long and searching self-analysis, nothing but my own experience upon which to reflect and wonder how the exact and precise hell I missed this seat of pleasure for so many years.

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My Lover’s Absolute Devotions

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My lover has fallen in love with my pussy. By stating this, my lover’s in-loveness, I don’t mean to suggest that there was a time when she didn’t like my pussy, if not love it. I mean rather to suggest that what she feels now seems to have turned a more scarlet shade of passion, a richer hue of devotion, a more singular tone of monomania. My lover is seriously in love with my pussy.

She kneels, she kowtows, she pays deep, wet, and oral obeisance to my cunt. She seems unable to help herself; she loses control; she stampedes toward my pussy. There is only the sweetest, too brief interlude at my mouth, the quicksilver flash of her tongue rolling in my mouth like a piece of sashimi, the gum-rubber slickness of her lips. There is a cursory stay at my neck; she pulls my head back and she pauses like Rousseau’s lion at my gypsy throat. She bites, but all too fleetingly. She takes a detour—the swiftest pit-stop—at my breasts. She sucks one nipple, she bites it as if she were nipping a berry from a bush. She suckles, summarily. She then descends, rapidly, single-mindedly, thrillingly, to my hoary depths so that she may worship at the altar of my cunt.
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