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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A Cut Above – Meditations on being Shaved
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Our current culture puts a tremendous amount of emphasis on the women’s bush—how it should be kept, ways to maintain its topiary forms, manners for dressing it up. It is such a commonplace that women should be trimmed at the very least that waxing or shaving bare is almost the default setting for female pubic hair, and those women who do like their hair “down there� wild as the outback seem either defiant or apologetic about it.
(I should note that this hirsute demand is not for women only. Men have been feeling an increasing pressure to manscape. Perhaps this trend was most hilariously captured by a recent web advert for the Phillips Bodygroom that features a smug, milquetoast man wearing a white terry-cloth robe, judiciously bleeped-out words, and well-timed images of fruit.)
There’s a lot to argue in favor of a more topiary bush. Being waxed or shaved has health benefits such as a lowered chance of urinary tract infections and other issues—in fact, epidemiologists have argued recent lower rates of pubic lice, aka crabs, stems from more people having less pubic hair; lice have nothing to nest in when you’re bare. Additionally, naked labia are more sensitive, and some people—myself included—just think it feels better to be licked or fucked when hairless. Finally, many people find it more pleasant to lick a hair-free or hair-reduced pussy.
But these benefits aren’t in and of themselves enough to argue for the trend of hairless genitals. Most women aren’t sitting down and making a checklist of pubic hair pros and cons before they make their appointment with their waxer or get into the shower with a new blade and copious shaving cream. Most women, we would argue facilely, choose to wax or shave their nethers because culturally we are pressured to do so, and that pressure has come from the media.
On its naked surface, we can look to two sources for the bare pudendum: porn and Sex in the City. Porn, one would assume, opts for the bare bush because optically it is just a better shot. You can, in short, see more. When labia have hair, it obscures all the pink-wet glory that is the female genitals, and heterosexual porn is all about female genitalia. We can expect that the visuals in porn have created an audience that wants to replicate what it can easily replicate, and all you need to reproduce the most visually shocking/titillating porn marker is a good razor and a steady hand.
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Dressing Room – A Story
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You call me and tell me that in one hour I must meet you in a dressing room at Macy’s on the designer suit floor; “Armani,” you tell me. You tell me to wear a short skirt with no panties and high heels. You tell me to ride the train, not take a taxi, and that I must do so while wearing the largest buttplug I have. You tell me I must not let my knees touch, regardless of whether I am sitting or standing, nor may I close my lips except to swallow. You tell me that I will enter the dressing room and I will kneel with my back to the door and wait patiently for you. If the dressing room is full, I will wait outside until it is empty and then enter it. I will not lock the door; it must be open.
I tell you I will, of course, do as you wish, even though it means that I must clear my schedule. I begin to ask a question. You tell me, “Do it.” And the phone goes dead.
I ride the train as you will me to do so. I am very aware of the brevity of my skirt and that one false move will show everyone on the train my pussy. I am afraid that if I sit I will leave my wetness on the seat, but I know that standing I am equally exposed.
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Nadia The Evil Great
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If Michelle exemplifies one type of woman to whom I feel an immediate attraction, the woman who serves for exemplar of my other type would have to be this stripper on whom I had a terrible, burning, yearning, puppy-dog completely unrequited crush, so unrequited in fact that I’m quite sure my existence barely registered. Her name was Nadia; she was Russian, and she was tongue-lollingly gorgeous.
Nadia serves as exemplar for a type of female beauty that infallibly slays me and of whose unquestionable slaying ability I am not proud. Nadia was stereotypically beautiful, though stereotypically in a somewhat razor-edged way. She was tall, about 5’9″, with long vodka legs-strong, high-proof and liquid-that flowed into the dual curves of her ass and then into her sinuous back. She had a narrow waist, strong, wide shoulders, and esculent breasts, big, ripe and mango-shaped. Her skin was white, her hair blunt-cut, her cheekbones predatory, her lips fulsomely red, her eyes calculating narrow almond slits.
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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.
Modifiers . . .
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“I want to fuck you violently,” My lover says in my ear as she rips off her belt and begins to unzip her jeans. I can’t see her; my face is buried in her doggy-scented couch, my ass up in the air, my knees parted, my pussy open as a ripe, burst mango.
Does “violently” modify your want or your fucking? I ask her.
“Both,” she says and laughs. She plunges her fingers deeply into me. “Take it,” she says.
We had been planning to take the dogs to the dog run. I was slipping on my boots when she leans down and she seals her mouth to mine. Prising my mouth wider with her hard and searching tongue, she swirls my tongue with her and then sucks my tongue into her mouth with painful force.
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No Words
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Today the woman who is most important to me just received the nastiest shock of her life. This followed a year when a friend’s friend died suddenly; a wildfire threatened a home, two beloved parents (one of them mine) and a grandmother died; a beloved cat was killed… I could go on but I won’t.
It has been, I think a can say , a Hell of a couple of weeks. And yet, in all this maelstorm of misfortune, I have no words — there is nothing I can usefully say. Because my relationship with this woman is not in any way physical, words are all I have to offer comfort and there are none, none that have the capacity to help.
This is odd to me. Words still can — and often do — hurt. They get thrown around carelessly, stupidly, ignorantly; verbal caltrops with which we litter our relationships. Less viciously, we damn with faint praise or gush over trivialities; larding our speech with superlatives until it becomes at best the mere noise of uninformed admiration; at worst a sacchrine flood that dilutes all meaning. As a result, when we really need to comfort, it seems they have no weight; they cannot pierce that miserable armor; they have been all spent on banalities and we have nothing left to say.
I do not think it was always this way; I think that once upon a time people believed in the power of words to heal, not just hurt. I think that somewhere in the ever increasing particularization of our society, that capacity was lost; I think that in the herd where so few bother to listen, all need to shout and we conduct ourselves always at the top of our range, so when true tragdy strikes we have no reserve on which to draw.
Or perhaps I am merely feeling a bit ovewhelmed. But in either case, I am now, when it matters, speechless and impotent. And I must say that I do not like it much.
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