The First Girl
Filed Under afterglow | 1 Comment
The 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.
Lend Me a Hand…
Filed Under how to turn me on | 1 Comment
Lend 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.
In Praise of Bathhouse Fornication
Filed Under how to turn me on | 2 Comments
In our culture, we place a great emphasis on sex as part of a loving and stable relationship. In fact, we so privilege sex with someone we love over sex with someone we do not, or don’t as much, or don’t conventionally, or exclusively, or whatever, that it’s pretty much an accepted idea that sex with your beloved is/was/will be always inherently vastly superior to sex with the one you love less, if at all.
Moreover, the notion that sex with someone you love, and love exclusively and have sex with exclusively, is superior to sex with someone you don’t has such acceptance in this culture that we tend to consider other kinds of sex as not merely inferior, but somehow, well, wrong.
Morally wrong, sometimes. But also immature, unhealthy, a possible misstep on the way to the beautiful fullness of monogamous adult sexual health.
Bollucks.
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