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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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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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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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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