January 26, 2010
Marta, the Loved
The summer between high school and college, the first go at college, anyway, I spent as a counselor in an all-girl’s Catholic summer camp. I taught swimming, sailing, canoeing, and other water-related fun to a hundred or so really very good girls from around the world.
I also taught one twenty-two year-old half-Ecuadorian, half-El Salvadorian woman named Marta that she was, in fact, really a dyke.
I was seventeen. I had joined the proud legion of consenting adults about a year and a half previous, and I’d been diddling girls since around fifteen. So, yeah, basically I remember I landed at Camp VirginCrest, immediately surveyed the moldering 1920’s hotel that served as its bunkhouse, meetinghouse, and dining hall, and I thought: so where the boys at?
There was one. And he was, to his credit, pretty hot. Tall, athletic, lean and…blond.
I’ve never had an affinity for the blond man, and Mr. Tennis counselor wasn’t going to do it for me.
And then, as if almost to the sudden song of wicked angels, I saw Marta. Continue reading . . .
January 24, 2010
Modifiers . . .
“I want to fuck you violently,” My lover says in my ear as she rips off her belt and begins to unzip her jeans. I can’t see her; my face is buried in her doggy-scented couch, my ass up in the air, my knees parted, my pussy open as a ripe, burst mango.
Does “violently” modify your want or your fucking? I ask her.
“Both,” she says and laughs. She plunges her fingers deeply into me. “Take it,” she says.
We had been planning to take the dogs to the dog run. I was slipping on my boots when she leans down and she seals her mouth to mine. Prising my mouth wider with her hard and searching tongue, she swirls my tongue with her and then sucks my tongue into her mouth with painful force.
Continue reading . . .
January 19, 2010
On Sucking & Suckers
The act of sucking hardly gets fair linguistic treatment. When something is really awful, we say it “sucks,” however puerile it may be of us to do so; if it’s really bad, we might add a “dude,” as in the commiserative “Wow, that sucks, dude.” (Although, oddly, when something, really, really sucks, when it sucks beyond all comparable suckitude, we often says it “blows,” unless we just add an intensifying adverb and say that the thing in question “fucking sucks,” a phrase that does have a lovely assonant belly to it.)
When someone is currying favor, that person is “sucking up.” But when a person is gobbling food hurriedly and unmindfully, he or she is “sucking it down.” When person is inept, or when an event fails to live up to our expectation, we might say the person or the event in question “sucks ass.” P.T. Barnum famously said that a sucker is born every minute, less referring to babies, who do in fact literally suck, than those of us who are figurative gullible prats, ready and willing to fall victim to machinations of the wily and the brash, if also the somewhat amoral.
We might, after we’ve fallen prey to a scam, turn around and call the perpetrator of said scam a “cocksucker,” a term usually reserved for men, despite the fact that far more women suck cocks, just speaking on pure empirics. “Cocksucker” interests me not merely because of it’s often inaccurate hurling-I’m way more of a cocksucker than most of the men I’ve called a “cocksucker”-but also because the word embodies a grudging admiration, even if it also sometimes gestures to homophobia. Most cocksuckers don’t, for example, either suck up or suck ass. Most cocksuckers have a luster about them. I think I’d almost rather be a cocksucker than a bitch, and I actually like being a bitch.
Continue reading . . .
January 17, 2010
Go Bad Girls! Go!
The bad girl.. She’s generally inappropriately dressed, or dressed incompletely. She’s the one in the upskirt shots, playing all faux-surprise flashy-flashy with her panties or her naked nethers with the paparazzi. She might be the one who is admitting some truth a bit too titillating to be wholly healy to Oprah, or whomever. She poses in the nude. She admits to doing drugs. She steals other women’s boyfriends or husbands. She steals other women. She is not above neither saying “fuck” nor doing it. Gleefully.
She’s Lindsay Lohan. She’s not Mandy Moore. She’s Angelina Jolie. She is not Reese Witherspoon. She’s the old drinking short-short wearing Madonna. She is not the new world-hugging, duty-free accented, garden-mummy Madonna.
January 16, 2010
Desert Dreams
or Tall Women with Short Dark Hair
Living in the desert motivates you to get up early. Just on the edge of darkness is best. Get up, start the coffee and shuffle through the beat-up screen door onto the porch — the front porch in my case, because it faces east. Naked. That’s important. No one will see you naked on your porch at dawn and if they did they wouldn’t care. Desert dwellers are like that. You can feel the air, softer and cooler than any sheets, enclose you. Desert air feels very personal when the sun is just about to wink over the mountains, when the sky is stained with peach-amber fading to luminous gray and gray to royal blue. The last few stars who have not yet called it a night palely gleam and in the absolute stillness of dawn their winking carries its own music. So sit down on the porch step and put your arms over your head. Open your legs. Wide. Nothing should be closed against air as sensitive as this. And most important of all, don’t wake up.
Dawn in the desert is for dreaming. Holding onto dreams that teased you just on the edge of perception. Out here you can grab those dreams and take them onto the porch with you and savor them while you wait for the coffee and masturbate.
At least that’s what I do. I lie back on the night-cooled boards of the front porch and do the old finger dance for the Sun — the ancient eye of the voyeur gods. Orgasm flows out of me like syrup at that hour, slow and sweet, and the desert soaks it up. The air thickens with my wetness and as I breath in the honey and musk, I often say Thank you, I’l take two — with cream. If the morning’s especially greedy I’ll have three; the desert needs all the help it can get. When I’m done, so is the coffee and it’s safe let it pull me into consciousness. I’ve got the dreams safely stowed, ready to take out and finger when it gets too hot to be outside.
That won’t take long. By 9:00 AM it’ll be hot enough that just standing raises a sweat, and by 11:00 the heat will have fried the new crop of pancaked road rabbits onto the main highway hard enough that the crows can’t scrape off anything more, although nothing will stop them from trying. At noon, it goes right through you, so hot and clean it hollows you right out.
By then, I’ve usually finished my errands and have my elbows down in the Ivory suds, doing last night’s — or last week’s — dishes, depending. That’s when I take out the dreams again. This morning they’re dreams of tall women with short dark hair.
Continue reading . . .
January 14, 2010
This Unknown Mistress
I have a fantasy that centers on a woman who knows my body better than I do myself. In my fantasy, her voice tells me to touch myself, how to touch and where.
“Use your left hand,” she says, “and peel back your labia like the pages of a book. Let your right finger tease with a gentle pain the tip of your clit.”
I hear her voice, a sweet rosé of a voice, purrs in my ear.
“It feels good, doesn’t it.” Less a question than a statement. She knows what feels good. She always knows.
In my fantasy, she watches.
In my fantasy she tells me when to arch my back so that the finger, the toy or the cock – my fantasies are liquid and swirling with possibility – rubs against my g-spot. Or so that it doesn’t.
She can be cruel, my fantasy woman. Her voice, her knowledge, make me impossibly wet, improbably swollen; she makes my cunt flower forth like a Georgia O’Keefe lily.
January 8, 2010
Lend Me a Hand…
Lend me a hand. Not, however, just any hand. A hand blank and devoid of nuance, a hand blunt-cut as a cheap cigar, a hand without delicacy simply will not do. Nor will one too effete, too wan, too limpid and limp with lack of use. This lines of this hand cannot belie the power of its touch.
Give me this hand, a hand clean and manicured, but not too well-manicured. A hand that neither has the anxious red-ragged cuticles of the recently audited nor the great scooping nails of a Long Island goomah. Give me this hand with its sensitive touch and tensile strength and knowing fingers. Give me this hand. Perhaps it’s attached to you, perhaps it’s not. Perhaps you just want to watch.
What I want from this hand is quite simple: Finger me. Ply my pussy lips apart like the stuck together pages of a Maxim at Riker’s Island. Run a fingertip down my slit and cleave me like liquid rosy sand. Let those digits linger like a party guest. Tug on my labia like a shade. Pinch and roll them like a hand-rolled cigarette. Spread my pussy open like a peach.
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