July 16, 2011
The Incredible Edible Ava
One summer, a couple of years ago, I had this threesome. Clocking in at under forty minutes, it was quite possibly the fastest threesome in history. This threesome was with a totally forgettable man and Ava, this 23 year-old woman who is the postergirl for a new, uncharted, and busy sexuality. Ava, a petite, busty, exotically sloe-eyed brunette, is married; she also has a male lover, and she regularly has threesomes with both her husband and her lover, though with separate women. (I shudder to think about the cryptography of her Blackberry.) Moreover, she comes at the drop of a g-string and claims to spend most of her time at her desk at work with ben-wa balls inserted in her small, pink pussy, chatting with girls online.
Ava is a tiny powerbunny of sexual energy. She flounced into the hotel room of the world’s fastest threesome, exclaiming, “I came seven times this morning with my rabbit.” Then she took a fast slug of wine out of the open bottle resting on the laminate dresser and undressed so quickly I don’t recall she was ever even wearing clothes.
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 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 . . .
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