Star Fuck
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I have fucked exactly one famous person. It’s not good form to name the people one has fucked on a blog, regardless of his or her fame. And I am always the soul of propriety.
But that doesn’t mean I won’t give some hints.
She is a tall, thin and not conventionally pretty woman comedian. She starred in a movie with an aging great comedy legend who played an aging great comedy legend. This early 80′s dark comedy was directed by a very renowned director, and its third star is a slightly unhinged New York actor who played a more than slightly unhinged New York actor. My starfuck, I’ll call her “S” for “Starfuck.”
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What’s wrong with being a Fucking Whore?
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It’s just a short exchange, but it got me thinking. What, indeed, is wrong with being a fucking whore?
In an episode entitled “Popping Cherry” of season one of Dexter, the Showtime series about a benign serial killer, Dexter’s sister Deborah visits the clutch of street prostitutes to query them about being witness to the abduction of the most recent victim in a string of serial killings. Deborah, who had been working undercover as a hooker in Vice, now approaches the group of girls she used to hang out with dressed as a cop-all conservative pants suit and graphite blue shirt and flashing badge-a far cry from her previous outfit, the “slut suit” she used to wear when undercover, of hot pants, high heels and halter top.
“Listen,” says Deborah, “I have a confession to make. I’m a cop.”
“You’re not a cop,” screams one woman dressed in black short-shorts and a cut-off hot pink t-shirt, “You’re a whore.”
“I’m not a fucking whore,” Deborah counters, pointing her finger in the face of the hot pink t-shirt chick and shooting the intensifying adverb “fucking” like a bullet.
“Hey,” interjects Shanda, “what’s wrong with being a fucking whore?” It’s a question that she repeats in the episode, and it’s the one that got me wondering. What, indeed, is wrong with being a fucking whore? And how has my thinking about whores, and whoring, changed?
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A Star-Spangled Booty
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There is not much better than sex on a national holiday. The national holiday hangs low, and the air itself feels heavy and quiet; lassitudinous and torpid is the feel of a national holiday. It lends itself to fucking, this weighty and still air; it seems to press itself upon you and force you into bed like the firm hand of a knowing lover. It gives you the tacit permission to fuck off and fuck. The banks are closed. Stores are shuttered. People stroll with nowhere to go, but bed. Fucking on a national holiday is almost an obligation like paying your taxes or voting.
The last national holiday, I went to my lover’s apartment late in the afternoon. I had taken the dog to the dog run, I had washed my floors and cleaned the cat’s box. I had showered and eaten and brushed my teeth, I had sent a few emails. I had done a bit of duty to others and to self, and then it was time for me to do my duty to my country and my cunt. It was time to fuck.
“What would you like?� my lover asked, naked in the orange light of the sun setting.
I want you to spank me, I said.
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On Prelapsarian Sex, or a Consideration of Al Fresco Fucking
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For sex to be truly al fresco it must take place in the unobstructed great outdoors. Inside a human-made structure, however penetrable to the peering eyes of willing-or hapless-voyeurs, doesn’t really count. This criterion of al fresco sex inherently needing to be unencumbered by human structure precludes allowing sex in a tent, or in a shed with an open door, or half in and half out of a car to count as genuinely “al fresco.” I suppose one could make a case for lean-tos. But if one were a purist-and who is these days?-one would absolutely say no to lean-tos.
I have definitely fucked the alfresco fuck, however austerely defined. I have been bent over roof-top carapaces and fucked from behind, the yellow glow of the undulating city rolling out beneath my gaze and my staccato popping hips. I have lain naked on the dark-warm tarmac of the top of a parking garage and had asphalt burns rubbed into the knobs of my shoulder blades and the knuckles of my spine from my long-ago boyfriend’s unwilling and furtive fucking. I had to whisper in his ear to urge him on. It was not his idea.
I have lain in flowering fields, drowsy bees clumsily bumbling by my ankles as they were raised into the blue summer air, my first longtime girlfriend tongue-fucking me from above. I have rolled in sand and felt it grate in my tender nethers on beaches in Cayman, Puerto Rico, Mexico and Cape Cod. I don’t know why it took me so long to learn the gritty lesson that while fucking on beaches may seem like a really good idea, it’s one best left to the movies. I have picked sand out of my pink mucous membranes too many times.
My Ode to Peggy Lee
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It all started with Peggy Lee. She was my first crush-my first female crush. My first boycrush was my uncle Fred, whom I was convinced I would marry until around the age of ten when the concept of incest was clearly explained to me by my mother.
Peggy Lee. The voice smoky as the bacon she could fry up in the pan and never, ever let you forget you’re a man. The big blonde pouf of a hairstyle. The cleavage so deep you could dive in and roll around in it. The mole. As I child I was fairly addicted to variety programs, and while my heroines were definitely the female comics-Lily Tomlin, Goldie Hawn, Carol Burnett and Cher-my unadulterated adoration was reserved for the vocalists.
Peggy Lee. I didn’t want to be her-I wanted to be Raquel Welch-I wanted to do her, even if my tiny little muffin brain couldn’t quite parse those naughty-sweaty stirrings in my girlfolds. Peggy Lee would eventually be replaced in fantasy with the never-aging Bernadette Peters, but Peggy Lee was my first, unrequited girlcrush, because I met her in real life, or a girl who resembled her so closely that I transferred all my Peggylust to her blonde, be-moled substitute self.
When I was six, my mom uprooted our tiny family and moved from Illinois, where we’d lived for two short years, to Vermont. I was desperately lonely. In my six years, we’d moved four times, and while this time we had moved closer to my grandparents, the only source of security I’d ever known, they were, after all, adults. Everyone around me was an adult, something I was accustomed to being the oldest kid, the only kid, in my family.
Even if I was used to it, it still sucked.
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While My Uterus Gently Weeps
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I resist making this confession because its inherent pinkness borders on the twee, but every month that I slouch closer toward menopause, the more forsaken is my uterus. It’s hard for me to interpret any somatic signal as pure text-for me there is always some subliminal message that cries out for interpretation-and my extreme period cramps are no exception. My womb, I find, weeps. It cramps and it keens and it sings this silent yawp of loss each time I bleed. This soundless yawp of loss grows louder.
There’s a scene near the beginning of Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander that has become in my overripe imagination the visual for my uterus’s ululations. Centered in the screen is a doorway of heavy wooden double doors, the two doors slid apart. Between them a woman paces in and out of frame. She is Fanny and Alexander’s mother, she has just lost her husband, and she is screaming. Deep animal wails rend the stillness of the heavy Victorian home; she carries on painfully, excessively, uncomfortably. In the deep purple rooms of my mind, this grieving woman is my womb.
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These things I cannot say…
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I myself am tongue tied. I can write filthy sweet nothings that make a grown woman keen inwardly. I can talk a tear of naughty shreds into a phone. I can, at innocuous moments, lean over, place my lips just thisclose to your ear and drop-whisper some dirty bomb mot into your ear that will make you slippery with lust in a wet hot second.
I cannot, however, do it in bed. In bed, my language leaves. My words fumble and falter. They can’t find purchase. In bed, or its desk/chair/bathroom/kitchen counter equivalent, my tongue trips and stumbles. I open my mouth and I am struck dumb.
Oh. Yes. I try to say. Your pussyfeels so…good.
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