Sunshine’s Kiss
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Her real name was Sunshine; I don’t recall her stripper name. It would be hard to top ‘Sunshine,” so she probably chose something banal like ‘Nancy,” or ‘Drew,” or ‘Amy.” Sunshine had the blue-black hair of Dita Von Teese, pale skin and a large tattoo of a sunflower on one of her deltoids. Her body had that kind of compact curviness that demanded visceral notice. Her breasts were fake, I think, but they had neither the aerodynamic nature of hard Swedish furniture that some fake boobs have, nor the undulating smushiness that other implants have. Sunshine’s boobs were at neither end of the fake boob spectrum; they might have been the only thing about her that defied polarity.
Sunshine carried herself with a kind of insouciant sensuality. She took your prurient interest in her for granted. It was less that she knew everyone wanted to fuck her and that she was proud of it; rather, it felt like your desire for her like a natural law, like gravity, like the conservation of mass. Things that were inherently inescapable and therefore had to be accepted, even if she spent private moments dreaming of flying, or pointing her finger at a solid object and seeing it shimmer and dissolve into nothingness, merely because she willed it.
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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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Little Miss X
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To 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.
On How I Came To Come
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I 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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Of Queens, Red & White
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On the other hand, fucking whilst menstruating is the deep primal bomb, baby. A point so crystal in its firm resolution that its contention is to me unfathomable.
Season two of Entourage’s episode entitled ” The Boys are Back in Town” opens with the boys return to L.A. and Vince’s manager E trying — unsuccessfully — to mate his girlfriend for the first time in three months. She puts him off by saying that she has her period, and E, ever the gentleman, demurs, only later to bring up the matter as a point of discussion for the boys.
“That’s disgusting,” says E as the four of them are walking into their agents’ office building, “you mean you guys have done it?”
“You should, alter boy,” replies Johnny Drama, “because it’s a known fact that a girl on her period is much hornier.”
From my experience, he is right. Of course, I have never been a girl other than myself, but having been this girl who has been menstruating for almost thirty-two years and fucking for nearly thirty, I can say that the period of the period is the period of the most unbridled lust.
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More Utopia: The No Where Woman
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A hotel room is utopia. It exists on a plane disconnected from the real world. It has the same things your own personal and real space has—a bed, a mirror, a chest of drawers or two, a television, a bathroom—but it is almost exactly unlike your real life.
A hotel room is nowhere. The many people who have passed through it, sleeping, fucking, weeping, laughing, sitting and staring at blank walls or blanker t.v. screens have left a kind of apparitional haze. The ghostiness is overwhelming and alluring.
My lavish fantasy takes place in a hotel room, because hotel rooms are fantasy spaces. They both don’t and do exist in equal measure. My lavish fantasy centers on my knowing woman obsession, a person who, like the hotel room, both exists and does not in equal proportions. I have made her up; I have not made her up. The room is somewhere; the room is nowhere.
In the end, it doesn’t matter because it exists in my mind, and if you read this, it will exist in yours too.
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Marilynity #2
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My identification with Marilyn Monroe, I have explained earlier, helped contain the dizzying, fizzying power of my vulnerable sexuality. But she is not the only Marilyn at whose altar I have pressed my fevered brow.
The other is this, lesser known, one; the other is Marilyn Munster.
As an American figure, Marilyn Munster is a D-grade icon at best. The Munsters may have had a better theme song and vehicle, but it was 98 Degrees to The Addams Family’s *NSYNC. Both shows debuted the same week in 1964—The Addams Family on ABC and The Munsters on CBS—but while The Addams Family was the legendary mordantly witty Charles Addams’s acknowledged child, The Munsters had a coat of arms with a bar sinister to show its place as the bastard offspring.
Marilyn, though, she was The Munster’s original creation. Herman, Lily et al were not merely knock-offs of Gomez and Morticia, but also strange amalgams of Frankenstein/Dracula/Werewolves and their wives and children, yet Marilyn in all her Sixties sorority glory ironically stood out in her uniqueness. Poor cousin Marilyn, she of the alabaster skin, Sandra Dee haircut, twinsets and eternal matriculation at Westmore College, was the abnormal one, the sport genetic freak in the breast of the Munsters’ family.
She was pitied for her paradoxical abnormal normality. She was, to them, the ugly one, the inconceivable offspring, the one who with some caring, loving tenderness could be gently shepherded back into the family fold, to eventually take her place, hanging upside down, sleeping in the coffin, wearing gossamer black, sprouting pointy fangs, just like everyone else, just as she should be.
I know how she felt, I think, for I have been the poor cousin Marilyn in the nest of the ostensible freaks, over and over again in my life.
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