Words So Leisured…
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Marta 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.
Beth the Little Bit
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I’d met Beth online because a mutual fuckbuddy of ours wanted to have a threesome. We both independently considered him a tool, but a fun sort of tool, like maybe a rhinestone setter. Perhaps you don’t need or want a rhinestone setter everyday, but when you have the sudden desire to bedazzle a garment, it’s a good thing to have.
Brad was a Bedazzler, though not a bedazzler.
And he wanted a threesome with us. So we met, just li’l Beth and I, one evening at a bar near my house. It was a beautiful summer evening, and we sat outside. Beth, who crests 5’0″ in her stocking feet, was wearing this Mae West parody of a Ladies Who Lunch suit-all big hot pink and black herringbone with a skirt just barely long enough to tuck under her ass when she sat.
Our mutual Bedazzler Brad had a predilection for women with big breasts. I have big breasts. Li’l Beth has enormous breasts. She also has a little Jewish kewpie doll face with blue eyes and curly blonde hair. So when she perched on the chair, her tan legs tucked demurely side by side, sipping her Diet Coke, she looked like a 40′s pin-up, like something that a fighter plane would have had painted on its side.
Let go, just let go
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I adore the sounds a girl makes when she’s being fisted. Gutteral, that’s why that word was invented, to describe the sounds from her mouth, her throat, her chest, her belly, her cunt. Such deep noises coming from the center of her.
It didn’t start as fisting. It started as me, strapped on, fucking her, her on her back, me above her, her knees bent, pulled back, held to her chest, calf on my shoulder. But there was some place in her I wasn’t reaching, she kept pressing against me to make my cock hit just the spot, my cock which was really her cock, her strap-on, because I did not come prepared. Her cock wasn’t very large. Slim and decent, sure, but nothing I would call thick.
I turned her onto her stomach. Hips bent over the edge of the bed, toes on the floor. Spread her open with one hand pressed her hips up into that perfect little spiral curve and slipped a finger inside. Two fingers. Just to find the angle, the placement, the mark where my cock would be going. Instead I found her open, so open, opening wider as my fingers moved deeper, three fingers, four, slid in so easily and still hadn’t filled her. I didn’t ask for her permission, didn’t tell her what I was doing, I assumed she could feel it and I tucked my thumb under, pushed inside. Easily. Slid in to my wrist.
And she was filled. With me, my fingers, my palm, my thumb, my wrist.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt a girl’s cunt open like that before. Lock-and-key open. Dark clouds parting to reveal blue sky open. There is a certain point in the … orgasm arc that they do tend to open deeper, pull my hand cock tongue in even further, but oh so rarely do I feel a girl making a space for my fist inside her.
What a feeling: my whole hand inside her body. This hand, the one I’m using to type. Such connection happens when I can feel every ripple of her body from inside. How her hips gyrate and buck. How her stomach contracts. The noises from her mouth that begin where my knuckles touch muscle and press.
I took her clit in my left hand and attempted, tried, cajoled, but I don’t think she came. She certainly had a release, of some sort, but I think she may have been generally too overstimulated. That’s just a theory. An observation.
Slid out of her slow. I didn’t want to let go of her for a long time after.
That was definitely my favorite part of Saturday night, though the caning, the candle wax, the rope binding, the orgasm that nearly made me cry, and the pigeon family nested on the balcony were also very notable.
I can still hear her whisper, in my ear next to my cheek, her skin so fucking smooth, “Let go. just let go.”
Happy Holidays
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We are going take a few days off from posting to celebrate, and we hope you all will take a few days off from surfing the internet to being with people you can touch in the flesh and not just over an IP connection. Posting will resume on Boxing Day.
See you then. . .
Letters From First Light
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It’s early. Grey dawn light sneaking around the drawn shades. You are lying against me, quite possibly asleep, your sweet perfect mouth near my nipple. The pillows have been jettisoned during the night — they almost always are — and the sheet has been kicked into a cotton crumple about our hips. Your leg emerges below, capturing mine at knee and ankle. The ghost light lies along your torso, just a bit paler than you are, lifting you away from me, denying your warm sweet weight. The air is close about us — close and personal — entwining our scent with that of the night-blooming cirrus beneath the window. I can’t make out your face, lost in shadow and the dark cloud of your hair, but I can feel your expression; there is a touch of a secret smile.
When I write the history of my heart, it will in large part be the history of that smile. Like you, it is full of sweet and earnest contradiction — a softness that hides a startling angularity; after all this time, I am still ignorant of its full dimensions. Like you, it is still new, still surprising. (Of course, you breed surprises the way a light rain breeds rainbows — have I ever mentioned that?) Like you, it grows faster than I can learn it — I have given my life over to be the student of a smile. This is not a waste to anyone who knows you.
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Marta, the Loved
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The summer between high school and college, the first go at college, anyway, I spent as a counselor in an all-girl’s Catholic summer camp. I taught swimming, sailing, canoeing, and other water-related fun to a hundred or so really very good girls from around the world.
I also taught one twenty-two year-old half-Ecuadorian, half-El Salvadorian woman named Marta that she was, in fact, really a dyke.
I was seventeen. I had joined the proud legion of consenting adults about a year and a half previous, and I’d been diddling girls since around fifteen. So, yeah, basically I remember I landed at Camp VirginCrest, immediately surveyed the moldering 1920′s hotel that served as its bunkhouse, meetinghouse, and dining hall, and I thought: so where the boys at?
There was one. And he was, to his credit, pretty hot. Tall, athletic, lean and…blond.
I’ve never had an affinity for the blond man, and Mr. Tennis counselor wasn’t going to do it for me.
And then, as if almost to the sudden song of wicked angels, I saw Marta. Read more
The First Girl
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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.
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