Archive for October, 2006
things I would like to do with you
dress up. take you to your favorite restaurant and order for you. share a fancy bottle of wine. talk all night and take our time with a long, lovely meal. order a decadent dessert and two forks.
hold you while you sleep. your body curved in my arm against me. breathing in your dreams.
fuck you, and make love. perhaps at the same time. perhaps sometimes one right after the other. more than once. more than three times. your back against the wall, on the table, bent over the bed. legs wrapped around me as I come inside you. your head back neck exposed mouth open body open. fingers clasping my shoulderblades. gasping, both of us gasping, breathing in sync, hearts beating in sync.
make you breakfast. watch you stumble downstairs sleepy-eyed in the morning light, skin still lucent and luminous from the moon through the window way past midnight. make you pancakes. eggs. fresh orange juice. coffee. watch you wake and greet the world.
laugh with you. meet your friends. play with your dog. push you on a swingset. watch you fall asleep on my lap while watching a late film. carry you to bed and pull the covers around you.
maybe you’ll hold me while I cry. is that too much? I am currently a tsunami beneath the surface of glass. I worry about breaking the facade for fear of the gush of rushed emotions that will come. it may happen with orgasm regardless. this may be why I won’t be taken so much as I will take.
Alright, I have a question: what sucks more than losing a mattress off the top of a truck while driving over the Williamsburg bridge from Manhattan to Brooklyn?’Cause honestly, at the moment, I can’t think of anything.
… And the fucken mattress wasn’t even mine. It was my sister’s friend’s, who has been subletting her apartment and was going to put it into storage, but instead gave it to Bee on loan while she’s still out of town. The mattress was brand new. King size. And very, very nice.And it just slipped right off the top of the truck.
Yes it was tied down! Yes it was bungeed to the truck in multiple places. The friend driving the truck said he’d moved mattresses dozens of times, maybe he just got cocky, but it just didn’t make any sense, it was the same way he always moved them. Same truck. Same tie-down method.
The mattress was on first, then the boxspring, the bottom of which we punctured to loop bungees around the beams inside of it. The mattress somehow slipped out from between the boxspring and the truck, and the boxspring, still tied to the truck, dragged behind us for a few hundred yards (I would guess). So, we did rescue the boxspring. And structurally, it’s sound. But the netting on the bottom is destroyed.
Before we saw the mangled mattress, when we still thought we’d stop on the bridge and stuff it into the back of the truck, I said, “well, this is a good New York story!” We were laughing. Shocked. He said, “Yeah, but let’s make sure it has a happy ending … otherwise it’ll be a bad New York story!”
We noticed almost right away, but it was too late. We had to turn around, go back over to the Manhattan side of the bridge, and come back over, only to discover the mattress was no longer a mattress at all and was only fabric at the side of the bridge.
I probably wouldn’t even believe it if I hadn’t have seen it.
We didn’t really know what to do. It would’ve been so dangerous to stop in the middle and try to retrieve it, so we left it. I feel a little bad about that, but it was no longer anything remotely close to a mattress.
I am so grateful nobody got hurt.
But I can’t believe I somehow – accidentally! – destroyed a beautiful, new fluffy mattress. I have no idea how much it was worth, but we’ll have to replace it. Bee’s friend was too poor to stay in New York City and was saving up money at home for a while, which is why she was subletting.
[Every time I write "subletting" my hands try to write "submitting" instead. And as much as I'd like to pretend that's all about sex it's probably actually about writing and submitting pieces to magazines and such ... ]
And I can’t believe New York just drives right on – it didn’t cause a traffic jam, didn’t cause an accident, the poor mattress just got caught under the wheels and eventually pushed to the side.
What a week, oh my god, what a fucken week I’ve had. I haven’t even told you about the people who found my cell phone inviting me in for scotch & chocolate cake, or how I spent Sunday at the emergency room with my sister, and I only barely touched on the poet who saved my life on Monday. And I’m going down south on Friday to visit a girl. Oh my my, what a life, how did this become the one I am living?
So, it reminded me of Madeline’s mattress fund. My sister and I – and the friend who was helping me transport the mattress – are all quite broke these days. We don’t really know what to do. Any suggestions on how to replace it, and how to get a bed for Bee rather quickly?
Thanks, Chelsea Girl and Viviane. And all you new folks, welcome. More sex posts:
I fantasize about kissing you
… it could have
Want (A poem in progress)
An excerpt from something upcoming (this is a good one)And, in case you like the dyke drama & sex that’s happening here: Subscribe to this blog’s RSS feed with Feedburner
One last thing about letting go: I don’t do it. Especially not with someone new.
Sometimes I can lose myself in a good fuck, sliding inside a girl like there is some sort of salvation inside, if I could just get deep enough, but I don’t allow myself to be entered, not that deeply, not enough to give someone else salvation. Perhaps I’m not built that way. It too often feels like invasion.
So when fingers inside me found a place lodged thickly, took my cervix between swirls of fingerprints … I wasn’t really sure what to do with myself.
And she said let go … just let go.
And her voice sent me soaring, like a kite who let go of the string. I discovered what the blue sky felt like on my tail. Wrapped it around me.
Let go … just let go.
And my body bowed, enough to feel pulled tight, bone against muscles against skin. I often use the phrase “to the edge of my body” to describe what my consciousness does when I’m fucking. Like any physical activity – running, yoga – what I mean is that I am no longer balled up in the back of my mind but rather am just as conscious in my little toe as I am in my lips and my chest.
I get so lost in my head sometimes. Reuniting with my body feels heavenly. Holy. And through sex it feels sacred. To quote a favorite poet of mine, “this is the sweet glory reason for a body in the first place.”
It takes a lot of work for me to get off. Don’t get me wrong, I love it when someone goes down on me – in fact that is my favorite way to come. Well. That, and having a blow job. And while fucking a girl with a strap-on, which sometimes, I can actually do, if I get the angle right. But most of the time, I get tired of trying so hard and whomever is between my legs gets tired and I let it go before I actually get off.
When I am patient enough to let it happen, the intensity of orgasm is unparalleled. So unlike anything I can do for myself. Though I – like many of us, I imagine – am fairly skilled at getting myself off quickly, I have yet to master getting myself off thoroughly. Or thickly.
I don’t have the right phrase for it. It’s the difference between a single pulse-and-release of an orgasm and having my spine shudder and tear open, like I can feel every drop of water that made me, every molecule buzzing and humming and spinning around singing, opening …
Okay, without waxing poetic here, I’m not sure how to describe these two orgasms in my body.
One: A single pulse, sometimes lasting for a few seconds. Most often, a contraction and release that happens once, a tightening of my muscles originating in my cunt, a tensing throughout my body. Then it’s over, and my cunt is sensitive, clit so sensitive she doesn’t want to be touched. This is what happens when I lay down, read some erotica, jack off. Or when I don’t get much forplay. Or when I just don’t care.
Two: A slower build. Lots of mini-peaks of pleasure on my way up to The Big One. Like earthquake tremors. And when it finally happens I’m clenching everything: fists teeth thighs, not realizing I’m strangling this lovely person going down on me. Tightening and trying to remember to breathe, for ages, minutes even, my entire body coiled tight and pressing so hard against anything I can find – the headboard wall pillows mattress, pressing my arm over my eyes (I always do this, not sure why, I think it must be an impulse to be blindfolded, block out the light). And there is a plateau here where I could stay for moments, full minutes, as though my body was a string and the tongue on my clit is plucking it softly back and forth, vibrating. And I’m just shimmering.
This is the place I wish I could stay. Sometimes, I can.
My mouth is inevitably open here. Open in an OH, eyes squeezed shut, or not, trying frantically to watch, gain eye contact, see lips tongue electricity sparking from between my legs.
But then it all breaks, and I scream with the intensity, often yelling, crying out, noises bursting from me accidentally. What happens in that moment? I think there’s one more muscular contraction/vibration before the tension breaks and sometimes, there’s such release that I cry.
This is not to say that there aren’t orgasms in between, certainly there are.
This is not what happened on Saturday night, but it could have. I wasn’t really going to allow myself to get taken in that deeply that night. But this was the first time in years – four years, maybe five – that I have felt on the verge of one of those orgasms. Felt the possibility of that orgasm existing in my body again.
(Thank you for that.)
I am still getting used to feeling sexy again. I have always, since before I can remember, been so sexual, so experimental, that to have that absent in my life was like losing my life-force, losing my creative drive, losing my pulse.
Last night I saw a poet who reminded me why I am alive. Why I am here. Why I am interested in voices that bounce off of ceilings, in microphones, in ink scrawled on paper or backs of hands or napkins or any available surface.
Today, I am broken. Hit square in the chest with a rubber mallet, bruised plum-purple and crackling at the edges. Sore in my joints and stomach and neck. As though I ran a marathon yesterday. As though I had marathon sex all night.
But really, my heart is opening. Peeking out into the world again. And I’m so, so sad today, seeping a little, soggy and sore.
Because one of the things I realized at that party, making skin-to-skin connections, is that my life is interesting. I do interesting things with my time. And I really want to share that with someone – with people, with friends.
And that, even moreso perhaps than the number two orgasm, is what has been missing from my life and from this relationship that is still ending every day.
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.”