Tamara & Tamara & . . .

Filed Under how to turn me on | 5 Comments

cydytame134.jpgEarlier today I got waxed. Unlike just about every other woman I’ve ever spoken to about this Brazilian matter-and every man too, actually-I like getting waxed. I like the whole de-furred enchilada: the exhibition of my naughty bits, the warmth of the wax, the laborious process, the prepubescent effect, and the pain.

I wanted to take a picture of my waxer, Tamara, with my camera phone. I considered it, but then thought maybe she wouldn’t like the exposure, if that’s possible. I like Tamara quite a bit. She’s of uncertain Eastern European origin and she calls me “my dear.”

She compliments my cootch. It’s nice. “You are lovely, my darling,” she says as she carefully separates my labia, paints a swatch of wax on the minoris, presses a gauze strip down with a matronly and comforting firmness, and then deftly rips the it off with surprising abandon.  She seems to have a vendetta against my pubic hair; it’s like she and my pubes have a grudge from the old neighborhood.

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The Question of Cocksucking

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I stood at the foot of the bed. Standing up made me realize that my jeans were still unzipped, belt unbuckled, falling around my hipbones. I hedged my bets: would my cock get sucked tonight? Is it presumptuous of me to keep my fly down? I decided: yes. I began to button the jeans.

“What are you doing?” she clearly didn’t agree with my decision. We started laughing.

We weren’t going to fuck, I knew it already. That was okay – I went to see her, to meet her, to hang out, with only the expectation of the company of a smart, pretty girl, and hopefully some flirting.

And oh I got that.
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Petit Fours

Filed Under Ruminations | 1 Comment

cydytame054.jpgYesterday, I woke from a nap with a sex dream. In this one, as in almost all of my sex dreams, I was masturbating. Rarely does my unconscious gift me with dreams of extracurricular activity. It likes me to rely on my own devious devices. It’s a shame, really. I’d like a dream about being the final course in a Catherine Deneuve/Susan Sarandon The Hunger-era floaty white bed vampiric fantasy, but a girl can’t control her unconscious.

Yesterday, while in my nap my unconscious placed me in the center of a large Japanese room with tatami mats and shoji screens and yellow light like butterfat, like lemon ice, like béchamel.

I was seated on the mat, my feet in socks but not shoes, my legs bent like two “vee”s, the right heel curled up under my pussy. I rocked back and forth over my heel, grinding my clit into the voluptuous curve of my heel. I’m rocking back and forth, trying to find a surreptitious purchase on my heel, trying to get my groove on, and aware that I’m trying to do it without anyone seeing me do it.
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Sappho’s Poem of Jealousy

Filed Under Ruminations | 2 Comments

cydytame066.jpgTo me it seems
that man has the fortune of gods,
whoever sits beside you, and close,
who listens to you sweetly speaking
and laughing temptingly;
my heart flutters in my breast,
whenever I look quickly, for a moment -
I say nothing, my tongue broken,
a delicate fire runs under my skin,
my eyes see nothing, my ears roar,
cold sweat rushes down me,
trembling seizes me,
I am greener than grass,
to myself I seem
needing but little to die.

But all must be endured, since . . .

Translated by Diane Rayor (1991)

Bureau of Public Secrets: Sappho: Poem of Jealousy (28 translations)
http://www.bopsecrets.org/gateway/passages/sappho.htm

It’s the metaphor near the end that really makes this poem for me, that simple declaration, “I am greener  than grass.” It’s one of those lines, short and intensely pithy, that I wish I had written myself. The line in one deft stroke paints its author as jealous, vulnerable, tender, lush, and naïve all at once. It’s just a solitary perfect image.

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The Incredible Edible Ava

Filed Under afterthoughts | 1 Comment

cydytame065.jpgOne summer, a couple of years ago, I had this threesome. Clocking in at under forty minutes, it was quite possibly the fastest threesome in history. This threesome was with a totally forgettable man and Ava, this 23 year-old woman who is the postergirl for a new, uncharted, and busy sexuality.  Ava, a petite, busty, exotically sloe-eyed brunette, is married; she also has a male lover, and she regularly has threesomes with both her husband and her lover, though with separate women. (I shudder to think about the cryptography of her Blackberry.) Moreover, she comes at the drop of a g-string and claims to spend most of her time at her desk at work with ben-wa balls inserted in her small, pink pussy, chatting with girls online.

Ava is a tiny powerbunny of sexual energy. She flounced into the hotel room of the world’s fastest threesome, exclaiming, “I came seven times this morning with my rabbit.” Then she took a fast slug of wine out of the open bottle resting on the laminate dresser and undressed so quickly I don’t recall she was ever even wearing clothes.

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Words So Leisured…

Filed Under afterglow | 1 Comment

cydytame143.jpgMarta was the first lover I wooed with words. I was eighteen, she was 22, we were both counselors at a Catholic girls’ camp. I kissed her within the first week, and separated as we were, as propriety necessitated, we would send our preteen charges back and forth between our tables at meals — all these little –  tanned, summer-stink cupids unwittingly bearing messages of our love.

I would spend the meal half minding my kids but mostly patiently tearing rough hewn letters out of cheap paper napkins. “T,” “E,” “A,” “M,” “O,” I would tear; it was shorter than the English equivalent and given Marta’s central American heritage, the Spanish was appropriate (I realize now that if you rearranged the letters you could spell “o meat” and “a tome,” both far less apropos).

We spent that summer crushed in the haze of our forbidden love. We would escape the nuns’ gaze whenever we could in Marta’s cocoa-colored mustang. We’d make out in fields, on the beach, in the shed next to the lawnmower. I was in love with her, and she with me. I was her first lover, male or female; she was just one in a litany of mine.

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The First Girl

Filed Under afterglow | 1 Comment

cydytame102.jpgThe First Girl had an apple-fresh name, like “Sue,” like “Annie,” like “Betty.” She looked like  a Holly Hobby doll, all shiny long russet hair and fair skin stippled with freckles. She was quiet and shy, so her self-assured pronouncements to me always came a kind of a shock, despite the fact that she made them rather regularly.

“Priscilla covers her insecurity with Sweet Honesty,” the First Girl said, linking a classmate and an Avon perfume that always smelled to me redolent of pineapples.

“Mr. O’Brien makes Elsinore seem like a medieval XHS,” she said, astutely joining the castle of Hamlet and the name of our high school.

“I think people aren’t heterosexual or gay. They’re just sexual,” she said, laying the foundation for our eventual hooking up.

“Hooking up” is, of course, an anachronism. In the late 1970’s, no one “hooked up,” at least not sexually. We “got together.” We “made out.” We even “got it on.” We only “hooked up” if we were buying drugs, which I never did. Drugs have never been my thing. My thing has been, of course, sex. Or ice cream. Sometimes it’s been exercise. But mostly, it’s been sex.

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