February 12, 2010
Notes to a Rockabilly Angel
So I gave my phone number to this girl last night. She hasn’t called, but color my fingers deep and vibrant sanguine with optimistic crossing.
Last night, I went with a friend and his wife first out to dinner and then to The Slipper Room for some burly-cue. It was pretty standard burlesque fare, which is to say that it treaded between the painful and the sublime, and when it was truly empyrean, it was both. The best piece by far was one by Miss Julie Atlas Muz, who is apparently a very big deal in burlesque, though she’s a tiny thing on stage, all densely packed muscle and sinuous curves. Her skin lies so tight over her flanks it’s like her hips have hospital corners.
“Breaking the Law� by Judas Priest may not be the first song that pops into your head when you think about dancing naked for strangers while making social commentary, but Miss Julie worked it. In the song’s 2:33 span, I counted four, maybe five laws that Miss Julie broke as she slithered, pranced, jetéd and jiggled on the stage. Beginning dressed in a loosely interpreted convict’s uniform of broad black-and-white striped top and shorts, a juvie-center sneer planted on her face, Miss Julie took the stage, pulled a cigarette from her bodice and lit it. Then, cigarette in mouth and eyes narrowed, she defiantly shredded a dollar bill into pieces and flung them like confetti. Retreating to the back of the stage, she denuded her self to pasties and a black jock strap. After a few Trocadero-style ballet moves, she ripped off the pasties and the latex below, grinned, and dropped her jock strap and turned her back on the audience.
She then bent over and rhythmically spread her ass cheeks to the lyrics. “Bwa bwa-bwa ba-bwa,� her ass sang. One or two lines later, she turned to face us, slumped over her pelvis, put a finger or two on either side of her labia, and made her pussy sing the same tune, thereby bringing the house down while being in violation of the following laws: smoking in a New York City bar; performing topless in an unlicensed nightclub; performing naked in a nightclub that sells alcohol; and possibly lewd and lascivious behavior, depending on your interpretation. It was, in short, a performance brilliant, transgressive and hott.
I laughed hard at Miss Julie and clapped heartily, but I didn’t give her my full attention because sitting across from me was this rockabilly goddess with short-chopped bangs, milk-gleaming skin, and total tool for a boyfriend. This woman had been making eyes at me for the whole first few acts and then suddenly stopped because, I think, she noticed that my group had noticed her looking at me and smiling.
“That girl over there is devouring you with her eyes,� said my married friend.
I know, I said. It’s wicked cool, I said, and looked back at her. She had been flirting shamelessly, doing that thing where you make your eyes run the length of your object’s body like a lambent flame. She did that—ran her eyes up and down me and then she met mine, paused and smiled. I could have leapt over the stage and dived into the depths of her cool cleavage. I sat there smiling at her, trying not to be too self-conscious and creepy, and probably failing, as the acts went on. Her boyfriend pawed at her thighs and her hands, but she shrugged him off and angled her body away.
My heart jumped.
And she was young and fresh and had these pencil thin eyebrows and looked like she should be posed in leopard print and black thigh highs next to a hi-fi; she had that Betty Page thing going on, and that dumb-ass boyfriend stroking her, and she was looking at me and smiling so warmly that even my friend noticed.
And then she stopped. I sat there watching the show, distracted, divided, the image of this girl’s sweet white flesh lobbed into the forefront of my frontal lobe. I willed the boyfriend to leave.
Get up, get up, get up, I said to him in my head. Just. Get. Up. I watched a girl with fantastic tattoos and a pointy tongue and sweetly perverse perma-smile take off a corset to the song from…something, and I listened to the MC make fun of My Girl’s walking tool of a boyfriend, and I laughed, but I kept on willing him to leave, and then, suddenly, he did.
Joy. Numb and shaky with nerves, I took a piece of paper out of my purse and wrote my digits in purple pen and clear handwriting. I stood up, walked across the room, and put the note in her hand. Our eyes me, she took it. I turned and walked away, toward the bathroom, where the boyfriend was. I stood behind him. I considered complimenting him on her luminous and milky beauty. I didn’t.
When they left, her eyes lingered on mine. I watched her leave and regretted that I hadn’t written something else on the white slip of paper, this blog’s address, maybe. My blog could be my pimp, I thought. It would be the gift that kept on giving. I regretted not paying her some beatific compliment or giving her some curt command. I regretted not giving her another reason to call me, something to make her clit switch-twitch like fringe on a tassel. I regretted not being more forthright.
Continue reading . . .
February 11, 2010
weekend, part two: dancing
I slid my cock inside her swiftly and she took it easily. Let out a little cry, lifted her ankles around my hips. I was hungry. I could feel her opening, could feel how she could be filled.
“Get up,” I said after a while. I lifted myself off the bed and began switching to my other cock, the bigger one. “Turn over.”
She started to, up on her hands and knees, and I reached my arm around her hips and pulled her off the side of the bed, her pussy at my cock’s height perfectly. I took a palmful of lube and fucked her, hard, deep.
Moans and cries from both of us as I pounded into her. Fucks like that I swear I can feel my cock thickening, getting harder, being restricted and pulled into her cunt by her tight rings of muscles. She’s discovered that she can lift her legs off the floor and wrap them around my waist when I fuck her bent over the edge of the bed if she has the right grip on her hands (because it’s just the right height), which gets my cock ever deeper.
Continue reading . . .
February 9, 2010
weekend, part one: flogging
Part two will come next.
Friday night. My roommate was gone over the holiday weekend.
Penny wanted to be flogged.
I stripped her bare and shoved her against the brick wall in my bedroom. She’s smaller than me such that I can place my thigh against the bend of her hips so she can lean against me as I hit her. Not necessarily hard or solid, but subtle, so she feels supported.
I hit her with my hand a while first, bringing the skin on her ass to a nice baby pink color. I kept the flogger draped over my shoulder and let the leather brush her skin a while before taking grip on it and beginning to swing.
She’s been letting me hit her harder lately. Less afraid and more breathing into it, ever since that night of the sex party where I shoved her up against the wall, pushed her dress up, and used my bare hand.
Continue reading . . .
February 7, 2010
The Key of G
I don’t know about you, but it has taken me years to make friends with my g-spot. Decades, even. My clit and I had that magical connection you feel with that weird-pretty girl you’ve seen around, you know because you go to the same clubs and bookstores and used clothing shops, and then something happens, some strange serendipitous act throws you together like perfect salad ingredients-like dried cranberries and crumbled gorgonzola, say-and you both realize in a blinding white epiphany that you were best friends just waiting to happen.
My clit and I were like that: fast friends on first acquaintance. My g-spot and I, not so much.
It might be because it’s so reclusive, like Greta Garbo, shrouded in the obscuring silk scarf of my vaginal walls. All tucked up inside, under, and away, the g-spot hides behind the stony prominence of the pubic bone, like a star cowering under a paparazzi siege. The g-spot is a small thing, easy to overlook in fumbling explorations. It doesn’t stick out or pop up or do much of anything to announce its presence. Wearing latex gloves, you’d miss the slight cat-tongue roughness of the g-spot.
I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that more than its mere reclusivity, the g-spot is also like fine wine: it takes time to mature. I don’t have any hard evidence on this hypothesis, no scientific studies, no empiric substantiation, nothing more than a long and searching self-analysis, nothing but my own experience upon which to reflect and wonder how the exact and precise hell I missed this seat of pleasure for so many years.
February 1, 2010
My Lover’s Absolute Devotions
My lover has fallen in love with my pussy. By stating this, my lover’s in-loveness, I don’t mean to suggest that there was a time when she didn’t like my pussy, if not love it. I mean rather to suggest that what she feels now seems to have turned a more scarlet shade of passion, a richer hue of devotion, a more singular tone of monomania. My lover is seriously in love with my pussy.
She kneels, she kowtows, she pays deep, wet, and oral obeisance to my cunt. She seems unable to help herself; she loses control; she stampedes toward my pussy. There is only the sweetest, too brief interlude at my mouth, the quicksilver flash of her tongue rolling in my mouth like a piece of sashimi, the gum-rubber slickness of her lips. There is a cursory stay at my neck; she pulls my head back and she pauses like Rousseau’s lion at my gypsy throat. She bites, but all too fleetingly. She takes a detour—the swiftest pit-stop—at my breasts. She sucks one nipple, she bites it as if she were nipping a berry from a bush. She suckles, summarily. She then descends, rapidly, single-mindedly, thrillingly, to my hoary depths so that she may worship at the altar of my cunt.
Continue reading . . .
January 31, 2010
Oooh… Mami
There are five components to a human’s sense of taste: salty, sweet, sour, bitter and umami. Salty and sweet are fairly straightforward-salt and sugar, basically. Sour and bitter are a bit more ambiguous-a lemon is sour, but its seeds are bitter, and often these two sensations are intermingled making it difficult to conceive of sourness and bitterness as distinct. But the most free-floating of the five is the most recent addition to our Western understanding of taste: umami.
Umami is that bass note of soy sauce, parmesan cheese, mushrooms and MSG.
It is also the taste of pussy.
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January 28, 2010
A Cup of Jo
She doesn’t know I exist. Sure, she takes my two clammy dollars and single quarter for my medium half-caf and she punches my card, and she puts the .13¢ in the ceramic jug that is labeled “Tips!� and adorned with jaunty daisies, but she doesn’t see me. I am reduced to my faceless caffeine addiction in the face of her casual neglect of my existence. I nothing but a cup of joe.
But her, she is a being of extraordinary beauty, and she knows it. She wears her beauty like a dress she found in a bargain bin at a church sale. It cost her little and therefore merits just that much regard. Her hair is defiantly highlighted in great swarthy swatches of blonde that stride strident against her natural oak brown. Her almond skin is bare of make-up, but for two level lines that march across her eyelids, just above her lashes, and streak out toward her temples. Sometimes her lips bear the lightest brunt of berry-hued gloss, but most usually not.
People already stop and stare, so why court their attention, or so I’d guess her thinking goes, for I’ve never spoken to her other than to order, obsequiously, my cup of coffee. What would I say? I quell and quake before her. She and her beauty and her disregard of it and her inescapable pulse of cool render me speechless. I am stuck dumb.
Continue reading . . .
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