June 12, 2011
Lipstick …
… on my cock. Red, a mess of it, and on your mouth, wiped to your cheek where I smeared it hard with my fingers. My hand in your hair, pressing deeper into your throat. Under my desk maybe, or in the board room on that big oak table with huge windows that look over the shopping center. Black leather chairs with high backs that roll. Glass water pitcher in the corner. Ice cubes.
I bet the table height is just right. Bend you over it, push the mess of fabric out of the way to smack your bare ass, hard, leave a red imprint of my hand. Tease your lips, thrust my fingers in. Press your cheek down onto the smooth oak wood, hand tangled in your hair. I think the door is locked; there’s a conference call phone unit in the center of the table. Perhaps it’s on. Perhaps someone is listening in. They could be.
In the server room. Against a mess of wires and humming of machines, gasping, fast movements of desire. Your hands under my shirt. The thrill of your fingers. Mouths wet and hungry.
There’s an empty office down the hall. Still the desk is a mess of paperclips, a stapler, binding clips, an empty inbox. Lift you up to sit on the edge and pull myself close, between your legs, in an blue office chair with wheels. A letter opener rips through whatever thin fabric you might be wearing so I can taste you. Your hands on the back of my head, knees bent, head bent back. Shoulders against your thighs.
I can’t look at any of these flat surfaces without thinking of bending you over it, lowering you onto it, lifting my knee to it for leverage. Empty rooms, hidden corners, chairs all become enticing. Wracked with lust. Please, work me over till I’m spent, pull it from me, leave me empty instead of always bursting.
June 9, 2011
My Ode to Peggy Lee
It all started with Peggy Lee. She was my first crush-my first female crush. My first boycrush was my uncle Fred, whom I was convinced I would marry until around the age of ten when the concept of incest was clearly explained to me by my mother.
Peggy Lee. The voice smoky as the bacon she could fry up in the pan and never, ever let you forget you’re a man. The big blonde pouf of a hairstyle. The cleavage so deep you could dive in and roll around in it. The mole. As I child I was fairly addicted to variety programs, and while my heroines were definitely the female comics-Lily Tomlin, Goldie Hawn, Carol Burnett and Cher-my unadulterated adoration was reserved for the vocalists.
Peggy Lee. I didn’t want to be her-I wanted to be Raquel Welch-I wanted to do her, even if my tiny little muffin brain couldn’t quite parse those naughty-sweaty stirrings in my girlfolds. Peggy Lee would eventually be replaced in fantasy with the never-aging Bernadette Peters, but Peggy Lee was my first, unrequited girlcrush, because I met her in real life, or a girl who resembled her so closely that I transferred all my Peggylust to her blonde, be-moled substitute self.
When I was six, my mom uprooted our tiny family and moved from Illinois, where we’d lived for two short years, to Vermont. I was desperately lonely. In my six years, we’d moved four times, and while this time we had moved closer to my grandparents, the only source of security I’d ever known, they were, after all, adults. Everyone around me was an adult, something I was accustomed to being the oldest kid, the only kid, in my family.
Even if I was used to it, it still sucked.
Continue reading . . .
June 3, 2011
While My Uterus Gently Weeps
I resist making this confession because its inherent pinkness borders on the twee, but every month that I slouch closer toward menopause, the more forsaken is my uterus. It’s hard for me to interpret any somatic signal as pure text-for me there is always some subliminal message that cries out for interpretation-and my extreme period cramps are no exception. My womb, I find, weeps. It cramps and it keens and it sings this silent yawp of loss each time I bleed. This soundless yawp of loss grows louder.
There’s a scene near the beginning of Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander that has become in my overripe imagination the visual for my uterus’s ululations. Centered in the screen is a doorway of heavy wooden double doors, the two doors slid apart. Between them a woman paces in and out of frame. She is Fanny and Alexander’s mother, she has just lost her husband, and she is screaming. Deep animal wails rend the stillness of the heavy Victorian home; she carries on painfully, excessively, uncomfortably. In the deep purple rooms of my mind, this grieving woman is my womb.
Continue reading . . .
May 24, 2011
Key Chains
You were playing with the key at breakfast — an early breakfast, surprisingly so, and I was doubly surprised to see you at the table fully dressed so soon after the smell of coffee woke me. You were wearing one of your better-than-usual suits and sipping your black coffee while you turned the key over and over in your fingers. It was a small key, smaller than a normal padlock key and attached to a slim chain. I sat down, gathering my old rough bathrobe about my knees, and asked, “What’s up?”
You coiled the key and chain into your palm and put your closed fist in your wool-suited lap. “Court appearance,” you answered, knowing that wasn’t what I’d asked about. “If I don’t get Tindal an updated brief before I leave, she’ll scalp me.”
I allowed the misdirection and leaned across the table, robe opening across my bare heavy breasts, to tousle your short, mink-rich hair. “I’d never let her do that.”
You responded with a rude snort. “You don’t know her like I know her.”
I got up to get my own coffee, to be denatured with a ton of cream (one of several reasons I’ll never match your feline tautness) and as I reached on tiptoe for a mug on the second shelf, you asked suddenly, “Jen, have you ever thought about being tied up?”
The question made a tremor scamper across my shoulders like a tiny animal. “No.” It came out sharper than I intended. As I filled my cup I could hear you rolling the key chain in your hand. “Well I do,” you said unexpectedly.
Continue reading . . .
May 17, 2011
Let go, just let go
I adore the sounds a girl makes when she’s being fisted. Gutteral, that’s why that word was invented, to describe the sounds from her mouth, her throat, her chest, her belly, her cunt. Such deep noises coming from the center of her.
It didn’t start as fisting. It started as me, strapped on, fucking her, her on her back, me above her, her knees bent, pulled back, held to her chest, calf on my shoulder. But there was some place in her I wasn’t reaching, she kept pressing against me to make my cock hit just the spot, my cock which was really her cock, her strap-on, because I did not come prepared. Her cock wasn’t very large. Slim and decent, sure, but nothing I would call thick.
I turned her onto her stomach. Hips bent over the edge of the bed, toes on the floor. Spread her open with one hand pressed her hips up into that perfect little spiral curve and slipped a finger inside. Two fingers. Just to find the angle, the placement, the mark where my cock would be going. Instead I found her open, so open, opening wider as my fingers moved deeper, three fingers, four, slid in so easily and still hadn’t filled her. I didn’t ask for her permission, didn’t tell her what I was doing, I assumed she could feel it and I tucked my thumb under, pushed inside. Easily. Slid in to my wrist.
And she was filled. With me, my fingers, my palm, my thumb, my wrist.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt a girl’s cunt open like that before. Lock-and-key open. Dark clouds parting to reveal blue sky open. There is a certain point in the … orgasm arc that they do tend to open deeper, pull my hand cock tongue in even further, but oh so rarely do I feel a girl making a space for my fist inside her.
What a feeling: my whole hand inside her body. This hand, the one I’m using to type. Such connection happens when I can feel every ripple of her body from inside. How her hips gyrate and buck. How her stomach contracts. The noises from her mouth that begin where my knuckles touch muscle and press.
I took her clit in my left hand and attempted, tried, cajoled, but I don’t think she came. She certainly had a release, of some sort, but I think she may have been generally too overstimulated. That’s just a theory. An observation.
Slid out of her slow. I didn’t want to let go of her for a long time after.
That was definitely my favorite part of Saturday night, though the caning, the candle wax, the rope binding, the orgasm that nearly made me cry, and the pigeon family nested on the balcony were also very notable.
I can still hear her whisper, in my ear next to my cheek, her skin so fucking smooth, “Let go. just let go.”
May 13, 2011
These things I cannot say…
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.
Continue reading . . .
May 11, 2011
Sunshine’s Kiss
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.
Continue reading . . .
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