Happy New Year!

Filed Under Ruminations | 1 Comment

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 these Holidays in the arms of your Most Beautiful Woman in the World.

See you next year!

“A” is for Androgynous

Filed Under afterthoughts | 1 Comment

cydytame034.jpgShe had short brown hair like the boy who sat behind you in third grade: parted on the side, cut just above her ears, flopping slightly in her left eye. She, however, was no child. She was all woman, all five-feet something of her, all rangy length of arms and legs, all skinny-hot, milk-fleshed, tattooed beauty of her.

You’d see her at the gym because you were there and she was there and you seemed to have the same schedule. It happened once, twice, three times, and before you knew it, you were scanning the gym floor for her as you crossed to the locker room. You were disappointed if you didn’t see her. You tweaked your workout if you did.

The cardio could wait. You could do legs tomorrow. There was no reason why you couldn’t start chest with cable presses. There was no rule against it, and if there were, you were ready to say fuck it.

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Hot Curry Nights

Filed Under the art of seduction | Leave a Comment

The curry is particularly good at a certain little Thai restaurant south of Market. We pilgrimage there on a Friday night, past the shops and shows and leather crowds on Market Street, to stand in line with the rest of the curry and satay lovers. We must look quite a pair while we wait. I have planned this evening minutely, dressed with special care. You have obliged me in wearing your cotton sateen dress with the long petal skirt that goes so well with your short jacket and cordovan boots. My leather pants, black bomber jacket and hair in a tight braid are selected to accentuate your softness this evening. Only you know about the sleeveless shell of peach silk I’m wearing against my skin.
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My Michelle That Wasn’t

Filed Under afterthoughts | Leave a Comment

cydytame161.jpgCrushes weren’t unusual when I was stripping. Surrounded by so much female flesh gyrating and writhing, airfucking for cash during those everlasting, carnival-lit nights, crushes on girls flitted like butterflies. I had them; others had them on me. Sometimes the stripclub crush resulted in mercurial sex or longer-lasting relationships; more often, they came to nothing. Just those warm fuzzy feelings shooting warming the dark, the natural progeny of faking sex, hot bodies, casual conversation, and the us-against-them, foxhole mentality of strippers awash in a world of customers.

There was one crush I had that felt different from the fast-burn lusts I had for other girls. This crush remains, even now a decade plus later, to sit apart from my erotic memories of other girls. This crush felt special.

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Cream Dream

Filed Under how to turn me on | 6 Comments

ver_9692.jpgThe dream begins with a slim blonde woman kneeling over my face. My view is the elongated skyscraper of her body. Her thighs nestle around each of my shoulders, and I gaze up up up her body, the angle making her hips a foundation, her belly a tower, her breasts a parapet, her head a dome, her face smiling down at me, a giant and detailed caryatid.

Her pussy, then, perched on my sternum, becomes her grand entranceway.

She is not yet very excited. Her pussy is a closed slit. It warns a careful approach-it extends no wet welcome to my tongue or my fingers. I pull her hips toward me and slowly separate her slitty lips with my tongue. My nose nuzzles into her pudendum, and I inhale her; she is muskysweet ocean pale.
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Cold Ass Ice

Filed Under pushing the edges | 3 Comments

cydytame016.jpgStep outside and it feels as if you’ve entered a hot, wet oven. You’re the pat of butter on the baked potato that is Gotham. It’s hot, hot, hot heat, wet and hot, and it cleaves to you, sweat-pressing your skin and enervating you with its doughy-moist succubus embrace.

You need to go somewhere the sun don’t shine. You need to find your place in the shade. You need to embrace your inner arctic. You need to stick an ice cube up your ass.

Maybe you try it on your own the first time. Maybe you go out and you buy a bag of ice because the cubes in your fridge just seem like you’d be shoving a square peg in a round hole, which you would. So you go out to the delis and the bodegas, the grocery stores and the mini-marts, you search high and low for those cubes shaped more like a child’s cartoon smile than a shoe box. You find a bag, you plunk down the outrageous $2.50, and gleefully you bring them home.

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Words to Stitch on a Pillow

Filed Under afterthoughts | 3 Comments

cydypotd025.jpgI don’t have a family who passes much from generation to generation. There is a Hepplewhite table that used to hold our mail and telephone and now resides in my uncle’s log cabin in Wisconsin. There are some pieces of furniture and some sculpture that my grandfather crafted that are spread across three states and the respective homes of his four children. There are some Chinese vases and antique chopsticks and so forth that my great-grandfather brought back from China when he and his brothers taught English there.

And there are three pieces of matrilineal wisdom.

My great-grandmother said, “It hurts to be beautiful.”

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