July 9, 2011
The Prettiest Girl in the Bar
“You,� I said, lips right next to her ear, the gardenia scent on her neck more tangible at such close range, “are the most beautiful girl in this whole place.�
The music thumped, colors from the lights fluttered. I’d been watching her for half an hour, since I got here, and had danced next to her for the last two songs. I couldn’t hear my own words but trusted she could.
She could. She flushed, bowing her head a little, looking up at me through her lashes. Tossed her thin, long blonde hair.
“Can I buy you a drink?� I asked.
She nodded, still shy, eyes flashing. Interested. “Vodka cranberry?�
July 7, 2011
What’s wrong with being a Fucking Whore?
It’s just a short exchange, but it got me thinking. What, indeed, is wrong with being a fucking whore?
In an episode entitled “Popping Cherry” of season one of Dexter, the Showtime series about a benign serial killer, Dexter’s sister Deborah visits the clutch of street prostitutes to query them about being witness to the abduction of the most recent victim in a string of serial killings. Deborah, who had been working undercover as a hooker in Vice, now approaches the group of girls she used to hang out with dressed as a cop-all conservative pants suit and graphite blue shirt and flashing badge-a far cry from her previous outfit, the “slut suit” she used to wear when undercover, of hot pants, high heels and halter top.
“Listen,” says Deborah, “I have a confession to make. I’m a cop.”
“You’re not a cop,” screams one woman dressed in black short-shorts and a cut-off hot pink t-shirt, “You’re a whore.”
“I’m not a fucking whore,” Deborah counters, pointing her finger in the face of the hot pink t-shirt chick and shooting the intensifying adverb “fucking” like a bullet.
“Hey,” interjects Shanda, “what’s wrong with being a fucking whore?” It’s a question that she repeats in the episode, and it’s the one that got me wondering. What, indeed, is wrong with being a fucking whore? And how has my thinking about whores, and whoring, changed?
Continue reading . . .
July 4, 2011
A Star-Spangled Booty
There is not much better than sex on a national holiday. The national holiday hangs low, and the air itself feels heavy and quiet; lassitudinous and torpid is the feel of a national holiday. It lends itself to fucking, this weighty and still air; it seems to press itself upon you and force you into bed like the firm hand of a knowing lover. It gives you the tacit permission to fuck off and fuck. The banks are closed. Stores are shuttered. People stroll with nowhere to go, but bed. Fucking on a national holiday is almost an obligation like paying your taxes or voting.
The last national holiday, I went to my lover’s apartment late in the afternoon. I had taken the dog to the dog run, I had washed my floors and cleaned the cat’s box. I had showered and eaten and brushed my teeth, I had sent a few emails. I had done a bit of duty to others and to self, and then it was time for me to do my duty to my country and my cunt. It was time to fuck.
“What would you like?� my lover asked, naked in the orange light of the sun setting.
I want you to spank me, I said.
Continue reading . . .
July 1, 2011
Beth the Little Bit
I’d met Beth online because a mutual fuckbuddy of ours wanted to have a threesome. We both independently considered him a tool, but a fun sort of tool, like maybe a rhinestone setter. Perhaps you don’t need or want a rhinestone setter everyday, but when you have the sudden desire to bedazzle a garment, it’s a good thing to have.
Brad was a Bedazzler, though not a bedazzler.
And he wanted a threesome with us. So we met, just li’l Beth and I, one evening at a bar near my house. It was a beautiful summer evening, and we sat outside. Beth, who crests 5’0″ in her stocking feet, was wearing this Mae West parody of a Ladies Who Lunch suit-all big hot pink and black herringbone with a skirt just barely long enough to tuck under her ass when she sat.
Our mutual Bedazzler Brad had a predilection for women with big breasts. I have big breasts. Li’l Beth has enormous breasts. She also has a little Jewish kewpie doll face with blue eyes and curly blonde hair. So when she perched on the chair, her tan legs tucked demurely side by side, sipping her Diet Coke, she looked like a 40′s pin-up, like something that a fighter plane would have had painted on its side.
June 28, 2011
On Prelapsarian Sex, or a Consideration of Al Fresco Fucking
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.
June 21, 2011
Executive Assist – A Story
The secretary was bent over the desk with her skirt bunched up over her back and her panties pooled by her feet. Her breathing was strained and she tried to look at the wall clock by her left side, praying that her lateness wouldn’t be noticed. Her cheap rayon H&M blouse was pushed carelessly up her chest, exposing her breasts, which had been pulled out and over the top of her beige bra.
Binder clips were cruelly pinching her nipples.
“Keep facing forward,” she heard from behind her, and then the soft whoosh of the rolling chair’s wheels on the industrial carpet. She flinched in blind preparation; she knew something painful was going to happen, but she wasn’t sure what.
There was the clank and rustle of something to the right and behind her. The metal cup and rack that held her office tools. She knew the sound well.
The scratch of the open stapler. The bite of the staple remover. The relentless nip of the binder clips. The smack of the ruler. The poke and scrape of the letter opener. The smooth hardness of the “Received” stamp in her asshole. She knew them all, knew them well, wore the memory of the perverted use of these quotidian implements on her flesh like shameful, naughty undergarments.
“Lift your ass toward me,” said the voice behind her. Not angry, not passionate. Not anything. Its tone could be requesting her to pass the salt.
Continue reading . . .
June 17, 2011
Hot Curry Nights
The curry is particularly good at a certain little Thai restaurant south of Market. We pilgrimage there on a Friday night, past the shops and shows and leather crowds on Market Street, to stand in line with the rest of the curry and satay lovers. We must look quite a pair while we wait. I have planned this evening minutely, dressed with special care. You have obliged me in wearing your cotton sateen dress with the long petal skirt that goes so well with your short jacket and cordovan boots. My leather pants, black bomber jacket and hair in a tight braid are selected to accentuate your softness this evening. Only you know about the sleeveless shell of peach silk I’m wearing against my skin.
Continue reading . . .
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