Petit Fours

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cydytame054.jpgYesterday, I woke from a nap with a sex dream. In this one, as in almost all of my sex dreams, I was masturbating. Rarely does my unconscious gift me with dreams of extracurricular activity. It likes me to rely on my own devious devices. It’s a shame, really. I’d like a dream about being the final course in a Catherine Deneuve/Susan Sarandon The Hunger-era floaty white bed vampiric fantasy, but a girl can’t control her unconscious.

Yesterday, while in my nap my unconscious placed me in the center of a large Japanese room with tatami mats and shoji screens and yellow light like butterfat, like lemon ice, like béchamel.

I was seated on the mat, my feet in socks but not shoes, my legs bent like two “vee”s, the right heel curled up under my pussy. I rocked back and forth over my heel, grinding my clit into the voluptuous curve of my heel. I’m rocking back and forth, trying to find a surreptitious purchase on my heel, trying to get my groove on, and aware that I’m trying to do it without anyone seeing me do it.
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Sappho’s Poem of Jealousy

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cydytame066.jpgTo me it seems
that man has the fortune of gods,
whoever sits beside you, and close,
who listens to you sweetly speaking
and laughing temptingly;
my heart flutters in my breast,
whenever I look quickly, for a moment -
I say nothing, my tongue broken,
a delicate fire runs under my skin,
my eyes see nothing, my ears roar,
cold sweat rushes down me,
trembling seizes me,
I am greener than grass,
to myself I seem
needing but little to die.

But all must be endured, since . . .

Translated by Diane Rayor (1991)

Bureau of Public Secrets: Sappho: Poem of Jealousy (28 translations)
http://www.bopsecrets.org/gateway/passages/sappho.htm

It’s the metaphor near the end that really makes this poem for me, that simple declaration, “I am greener  than grass.” It’s one of those lines, short and intensely pithy, that I wish I had written myself. The line in one deft stroke paints its author as jealous, vulnerable, tender, lush, and naïve all at once. It’s just a solitary perfect image.

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No Words

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The two women who are most important to me both just went through nasty break-ups, within 24 hours of each other. This followed a week when, within my immediate circle, a friend’s friend died suddenly at 28; a wildfire threatened a home, a beloved parent had emergency surgery and was diagnosed with cancer; a beloved cat was killed.

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 these women 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.

On Prelapsarian Sex, or a Consideration of Al Fresco Fucking

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1dsc_7024.jpgFor 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.

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Little Miss X

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cydytame073.jpgTo be honest, I don’t remember her name. I have only the vaguest recollection of what she looked like. I remember that her hair was shortish and pixie-like, but given that it was 1984, that would hardly differentiate her from most chicks, myself included. We were almost all of us sporting asymmetrical choppy hairstyles that relied on generous applications of copious polymer-based hair products.

Her hair was slightly red; she was, I think, a strawberry blonde. Her skin was pale, and when we kissed, I had to bow slightly to meet her lips.

I don’t remember where we met. I do, however, remember our first date, which was a date that neither of us realized was a date, but this black dude at the bar recognized it for us. He turned to us, all of us sitting in a row at that heavy-wooded, nautical themed, low-ceilinged bar and said, “It’s nice to see two people who enjoy each other,” and he grinned, his eyes going all evil-twinkly.

He saw something in us that we didn’t quite recognize: we were hott for each other. Miss X and I sipped wine and slipped oysters, and the world fell away in this pleasantly buzzing fashion. Though it wasn’t until later, when in her tiny floor-flung bed and fumbling with each other’s bras, that we realized that it had.

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On How I Came To Come

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cydytame209.jpgI started masturbating at around twelve. As far as I can remember, my orgasms then were kind of like a box lunch: contained, satisfying, pleasurable, sometimes even surprisingly so, but nothing to write home about. I certainly enjoyed them enough to rub myself raw in the process of procuring them. I enjoyed them enough to learn how to masturbate in such a way as to orgasm undetected while sleeping in a bunk in a roomful of other sleeping girls at camp (face down, breathing huskily into my pillow, pelvis pressing on my finger that ran ragged circles on my clit).

But these orgasms pale in comparison to the orgasms I have now when I masturbate, and they whimper and cower in the face of the orgasms I have with my lover. These were fledgling comings, and inasmuch as I knew nothing else, they were fine.
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Their VaJayJay is paining me

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Google the word “va-jay-jay,� or its linguistic twin “vajajay,� and you’ll get around 114,000 hits. It’s a lot, especially when you consider that the word wasn’t even on the cultural radar until two years ago when it dropped like a fluffy little bomb from the mouth of Dr. Miranda Baily, a character on the television show Grey’s Anatomy.

The term, like so many other things—olive oil potato chips, Spanx undergarments and A Million Little Pieces, for example—achieved instant cultural legitimacy when Oprah uttered it. While dangling from a harness and swinging through space, the somewhat freaked-out-looking Oprah exclaimed, “My va-jay-jay’s paining me,� and a euphemism was born. If Oprah’s audience of 46 million wasn’t enough to give “va-jay-jay� a certain cultural heft, the 28 October 2007 New York Times’ piece titled “What Did You Call It?� tracing the term’s movement into mainstream culture pretty much sealed the deal.

The cover of this month’s Cosmopolitan boasts the headline “Your Va-Jay-Jay; Fascinating Facts About Your Lovely Lady Parts,� thus proving that the word is safe for shopping-line voyeuristic consumption. You can imagine Cosmo’s editorial board sitting around, discussing the cover, wanting desperately to catch the eye of all of us women who harbor a deep desire for information on our genitals (and look to Helen Gurley Brown et al for it). You can see them proposing terms in quick succession and dropping them like little verbal hot potatoes. Pussy? Too pornified. Vagina? Too medical. Cooter? Too Junior High. Muff? Too 70’s, plus there’s that Willie Nelson beard imagery. Whatever can a fun, fearless female call it? Eureka! Va-jay-jay.
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