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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Cockworship is for Pussies
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This is what you do.
You have your female lover-your girlfriend, your partner, your friend, it matters not-lie on the bed, her legs bent, her thighs spread; like the twin columns of trees that line the road leading up to a French estate, her parted legs welcome you.
You take your time; you gaze at the vista; you appreciate the topiary; you stop and smell the metaphoric flowers. Perhaps you trail a finger or two up and down her vertical slit. Perhaps you part her labia, idly, like a dawdler eavesdropping at a tea party.
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Reading Fanny Hill Aloud in Gotham
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“This was really dirty!” exclaimed one student.
“I know!” another chimed in. “I felt naughty reading it!”
“I had no idea that people in the eighteenth century were so…” the student groped for a word. “Kinky!” she finished.
What part of “premiere work of eighteenth-century pornography” threw you off, I asked. Apparently it was the “pornography” part. They just didn’t believe me.
The text in question was, of course, John Clelend’s Fanny Hill. Published in two parts in 1739 and 1740, the book is a messy, chaotic romp in which genres are tangled as limbs; sexual metaphors run the gamut of the military, the mercantile and the scientific; and the petticoated, perfumed, periwigged characters enjoy lesbianism, voyeurism, group sex, homosexuality, and swinger parties, though not in that order and not without a host of fascinating complications.
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Return to the Valley of the Dolls
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I’ve been sick in bed (and sick out of bed too, quite a bit, actually, but I’ll forbear the bent-kneed yakking details) and so I’ve indulged in a bit of bad fiction. I reread Jacqueline Susann’s Valley of the Dolls; it was as delightfully awful as I remembered it to be.
I first read the book in my impressionable late teens most likely on a beach while wearing one of those tan-thru bikinis popular in the very early 80′s. Mine had tiger stripes. It didn’t really work, then in the pre-ozone hole summer, there in the weak Vermont sun. It did, however, give me the illusion that I could get the lovely toasted marshmallow all-over tan I coveted and still be seen in public, which was really the aim, if not the achieved affect. I remember reading the book in that bikini, reading with one eye out for someone to fuck and one hand on my baby oil.
This copy, the one I devoured in two nights in my ground-glass-bone fitfulness of the past couple of nights, was given to me for my birthday two years ago from my friend Daisy Duke. It’s an original 1966 hardcover, still all dressed up in its jacket confetti-strewn with candy-colored pills. It’s tough for an insomniac such as myself to read a book that does luscious nothing in such detail as sing paeans to Seconals, but I suppose we often want what we can’t have.
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