March 27, 2011
Break-up Aura
I could have taken her home. She asked me to. Said her name was Drea. She didn’t like the whole thing, Andrea, it was too common. Drea was edgier. It clearly fit her better.
She ordered a gin and tonic at the bar, making eye contact with the bar tender, flirting; the bartender was providing extra-strong gin and tonics, Drea was kind and grateful and seemed genuine, and already a little flushed from the alcohol.
She was sitting with friends, but before returning to them she noticed me nursing an already half-empty Jameson on the rocks, and said, “So did she leave you, or did you leave her?”
I smiled into my drink, thought about this. Tipped my glass enough to knock a piece of ice into my mouth and sucked it. “Not exactly either,” I said. “This is my usual drink.”
“Oh it’s not the drink, it’s the — well, forgive my hippie moment, but it’s the aura. Break-up aura.” I considered this and looked at her.
She, like the rest of the fashionably-conscious girls in Manhattan, had pulled her spring fashion out from her storage locker. Her legs were encircled in a flowy skirt with many layers, maybe a wrap-around, with a big flowery pastel pattern, aquamarine and salmon and honeydew and peach and beige, petals askew and overlapping, and she wore a white tank top, silver glitter and sparkles at the neck, tight and round over her breasts. Her cornsilk light-brown hair was layered just past her shoulders; she kept tossing her head to keep it out of her face, but gently as to not disturb its positioning. Not so edgy, maybe; but she had an energy to her, a way of slicing through things, a sharpness that made her more than just an uptown Andrea.
She took my silence for recoil. “Your heart looks broken, that’s all,â€? she said, and shrugged, making to pick up her drinks and turn back to her table, but giving me one more chance to respond, attempting eye contact, searching my face for – something – what? – and waiting.
“You’re not far off,” I said. “That’s one way to say it. But it’s been a very slow separation, not the shatter-crunch I’m used to. This was like a buttonhook needle in the sternum, an unraveling, fiber by fiber.” I’ve been reading too much Sarah Waters. She nodded, as if understanding, sympathetic. Touched my hand as we chatted. Flirted. Gave me the eyes.
It didn’t take long for her to take me to the back, to our own booth in the shadowy corner, tongues damp with another round. Her hand playfully pushed my shoulder and made an excuse to feel the muscles of my arms and wrap her fingers around my wrist, as if checking its girth.
“You have beautiful hands,” she said, and took one hand in both of hers, pulling my fingers back, exposing my palm. “Long fingers.”
Her hand moved to my thigh without any fanfare. My hand tangled in her hair at the back of her neck and her tongue was tangy, sweet and strong with gin.
She would have taken me home with her. Wouldn’t have hesitated to have me follow her into the restroom and let me finger her, fuck her. But as she attempted trick after trick to get me off, get me interested, I could only think that her mouth wasn’t as supple as yours, wasn’t as soft, and that she tasted nothing like you.
March 19, 2011
More Utopia: The No Where Woman
A hotel room is utopia. It exists on a plane disconnected from the real world. It has the same things your own personal and real space has—a bed, a mirror, a chest of drawers or two, a television, a bathroom—but it is almost exactly unlike your real life.
A hotel room is nowhere. The many people who have passed through it, sleeping, fucking, weeping, laughing, sitting and staring at blank walls or blanker t.v. screens have left a kind of apparitional haze. The ghostiness is overwhelming and alluring.
My lavish fantasy takes place in a hotel room, because hotel rooms are fantasy spaces. They both don’t and do exist in equal measure. My lavish fantasy centers on my knowing woman obsession, a person who, like the hotel room, both exists and does not in equal proportions. I have made her up; I have not made her up. The room is somewhere; the room is nowhere.
In the end, it doesn’t matter because it exists in my mind, and if you read this, it will exist in yours too.
Continue reading . . .
March 15, 2011
learn to use that safeword, honey
Wear a short skirt or dress, the shortest you have. Nothing underneath. Bare legs. Bare feet.
The extent of force will be up to you. If you want me to enter unannounced, unlock the door to your apartment at 9:28. I’ll be arriving at 9:30.
If you want to let me in, keep the door locked, and I will knock. But we won’t speak. No small talk, no chit-chat. You can say things in character — however much you like. You don’t have to pretend you don’t know me, you can still ask what are you doing and you can say no. You can struggle.
But I won’t stop.
You have a safeword now. You’re going to have to use it.
March 8, 2011
Words to Stitch on a Pillow
I don’t have a family who passes much from generation to generation. There is a Hepplewhite table that used to hold our mail and telephone and now resides in my uncle’s log cabin in Wisconsin. There are some pieces of furniture and some sculpture that my grandfather crafted that are spread across three states and the respective homes of his four children. There are some Chinese vases and antique chopsticks and so forth that my great-grandfather brought back from China when he and his brothers taught English there.
And there are three pieces of matrilineal wisdom.
My great-grandmother said, “It hurts to be beautiful.”
March 5, 2011
Marilynity #2
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.
Continue reading . . .
February 24, 2011
The Question of Cocksucking
I stood at the foot of the bed. Standing up made me realize that my jeans were still unzipped, belt unbuckled, falling around my hipbones. I hedged my bets: would my cock get sucked tonight? Is it presumptuous of me to keep my fly down? I decided: yes. I began to button the jeans.
“What are you doing?” she clearly didn’t agree with my decision. We started laughing.
We weren’t going to fuck, I knew it already. That was okay – I went to see her, to meet her, to hang out, with only the expectation of the company of a smart, pretty girl, and hopefully some flirting.
And oh I got that.
Continue reading . . .
February 15, 2011
Cockworship is for Pussies
This is what you do.
You have your female lover-your girlfriend, your partner, your friend, it matters not-lie on the bed, her legs bent, her thighs spread; like the twin columns of trees that line the road leading up to a French estate, her parted legs welcome you.
You take your time; you gaze at the vista; you appreciate the topiary; you stop and smell the metaphoric flowers. Perhaps you trail a finger or two up and down her vertical slit. Perhaps you part her labia, idly, like a dawdler eavesdropping at a tea party.
Continue reading . . .
« go back — keep looking »
-
Our Sites
- CyberDyke - The only erotic entertainment network for women bi women on the Web
- CyDy Blog - Views and news about everything queer & dear to us!
- DarkPlay - Radically different from other internet porn! RL Lesbians sharing their love of Kink with you
- Girl Tools - Testing all manner of sexual tools! We put our satisfaction on the line so you don’t have to!
- Minx Addiction - Sexy dark Erotica
- Miss Amanda - Young wholesome girl-loving girl with a very special obsession!
- Story Mistress - Erotica that does not shy away from any taboos. Created just for the open-minded lesbian or bisexual woman
- All the Rest - Over a dozen sites in all are waiting to please you!
-
Our Favorite Reads
- Chelsea
