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Blog
In Which Viviane Interviews Me
Questions from Viviane over at the Sex Carnival
When did you start blogging?
in 1998 I started the only feminist blog there was called Feminist Media Watch. it was collaborative, and got extremely popular, at one point we had about twenty-five authors and had very high traffic. I’ve had a personal blog here or there since about then too, which has moved around.
What do you like about blogging?
my most successful blog projects have always been deeply personal, semi-anonymous explorations of my relationships, sexuality, and personal dramas. I’ve met some fantasic and wonderful people through my blogs, many of which have stayed in my life for many years.
Is blogging a major or minor way of connecting to other people for you?
Both, I suppose; it is a major source of deep connection for me, in that I am often sharing serious and intimate information about myself, but I do a lot of socializing in my peer groups in person too. So though it is major, it is not my only source.
Where’s your blog? Do you use a free hosted service (Blogger,Wordpress, Livejournal, AOL, Google Pages, etc.) or do you have your own domain and web server?
Both; I have four domains, and accounts at blogger and wordpress. I primarily blog at a blogger account at the moment, the others are more stagnant.
What do you do to promote your blog or your writing (using tags in your post, blog roll, del.icio.us, Digg, Pingoat)?
very little, actually. I always visit my commenter’s websites and try to link to them, to encourage them to come back and comment/write more, and I go to their sites and comment on their writing too. so I guess I’m more into individual advertising than any sort of major site promotion. Every once in a while I get on a kick and try to make my profile on technorati or feedburner fancy, but it doesn’t seem to make a difference. I contribute to sugasm sometimes, that always enhances my traffic. Other than that? I try to write every day, so people will visit every day, but that’s about it.
naming, like eden
S. will now be known as Callie. I’m still going through the archives to change her name in all those different places (what a pain), but new posts will use Callie. Sorry for the confusion!
This post will self-destruct as soon as the archives are updated, or when it drops off the front page, whichever comes first.
burst(ing)
I am currently exploding in tiny nebulae (nebulaes? plural?) behind my eyes under my fingerprints inside my bones where the marrow makes blood. sometimes it is impossible to do anything but sit still.
has spring yet arrived? now that we are saving daylight things seem impossibly bright and warm. sun for many extra hours a day. illusions, all of it.
last night I dreamed I was walking, walking, wandering somewhere, all of that is so hazy and unclear, and then eventually I ran into that girl I’m dating and she reached up, took dark dark glasses off of my face, and everything was bright and clear. though I’m glad my subconscious thinks this makes sense, I feel little more than a vice-grip in my chest where my heart used to be.
what are you today? are you nebulae? are you full of marrow you cannot make into blood? are you loving, and loved?
"Queer butch" does not equal "lesbian"
I’ve mentioned this before, I think, but: I am a performance poet. I write, and perform around New York City usually a few times a month; I’m involved in a writing group and a book group. I take this pursuit very seriously.So, as such, I have a bio that I use to describe myself; the first line describes me as a “queer butch writer,” specifically.
A few weeks back, I was asked to be a judge for a state-wide performance poetry competition for high school students that is happening this Thursday. I’m not going into the details (not that you probably couldn’t find it, or that this won’t totally reveal myself) but that they are high school students is relevant, because the coordinators for this event asked me, after receiving my bio, to “tone down” the language so as not to be potentially misunderstood, potentially inviting problems from the “upstate and rural” New Yorkers who are “not as tolerant as we are down in the city.”
One woman actually said, I kid you not, “I mean, I don’t have a problem with it – I have LOTS of gay friends.” Which, though she was trying to comfort me, is a really horrible thing to say. Of course! It is never YOU who is oppressing ME specifically – it’s all those other people, ruining the fun for everyone.
Plus: she is implying that, if I called myself a queer butch, and IF someone was offended for whatever reason, there would be reason to be afraid. That that person would be RIGHT to be offended. That they could create a LEGITIMATE complaint that would potentially damage the organization.
If that’s not true, the organization would be strong enough to stand up and say, no, actually, this isn’t a problem, there is nothing wrong with someone calling themselves a queer butch, and if you have a problem, that’s your fucken problem.
But: I really want to participate in this. I really want to go, network, be a visible queer butch for these high school kids.So I agreed to change the word “queer” and emailed my revised bio back, leaving in the word “butch” – i.e. “self-defined butch lesbian writer” – explaining that gender identity and sexual orientation are two different things, that I’ve worked hard to claim this word and that I feel it is integral and important to my identity and my self-definition.
But, no go: “we are still really afraid that [the word butch] has the potential to be misinterpreted by some of the attendees. We completely understand that the word has significant and special meaning for you, but we’re afraid that it won’t mean the same thing to others and that it might have the potential for causing a backlash from a parent or teacher.”
I sat on it over the weekend, and toyed with ways I could be subversive and still participate in this competition. Wear a work shirt that says “butch” on the patch. Get “butch” tattooed on my foreheard. Include “marginalized freak lesbian writer” in my bio.
“Queer butch” does not equal “lesbian” — and that is exactly the point. Exactly one of the reasons why I call myself those words. POWER.
And? It’s a POETRY competition. This entire event is all about words, and they are asking (telling?) me to change mine. To choose words that are less scary so their homophobic uptight audience and participants don’t have to be shaken in their little privileged suburban worlds. That is the entire point of my poetry, of my artistic fucken mission even.
I suppose, under all the frustration and hurt cracking feeling in my chest, this is reminding me why I do this kind of work, why I want to be visibly queer, why I want to use words like butch and dyke and cunt and queer, words that have power. This is exactly why I need to go to that competition, to walk in and LOOK like a queer butch dyke and then talk and sound like an articulate, emotional, thoughtful POET.
Because I seek to be a bridge. I want to become suspended between worlds, create new pathways over which to travel.
And, actually? THAT – being a bridge – may even be my more powerful, stronger artistic mission than what I just mentioned about shaking things up. Those two things do go together, I think, despite seeming to contradict, and I seek to do them both.
I’m working on a formal letter, conceding the point because I want to participate but officially stating my position in protest, but meanwhile, I have agreed to let my bio be changed to describe myself as a “lesbian writer.”
I hope they won’t be disappointed when I, a queer butch, show up.
highest day so far
Jefferson, sweet man that he is, included my recent “guilty fantasies” post in his Valley of the Twenty-somethings Fleshbot sex blog roundup, and on Saturday, Sugarbutch had nearly 800 hits, which is more in a single day than I’ve had since I started keeping track.
So, welcome visitors! And thanks Jefferson. He & I were actually at the same party on Saturday night, and he got to meet Callie, but briefly.
written conversations
A conversation with Morgan. In print, it seems so long! It didn’t feel that long when we were chatting.I have more to say, especially on the subject of the New York poetry competition I am judging next week that asked me to edit my bio and omit the words ‘queer’ and ‘butch’. but that’ll have to wait until later.
Fill in the blank
my favorite way to come is: strapped on & fucking, missionary style, while she whispers in my earthe way I come the hardest is: when she goes down on me
what I think about to tip myself over the edge: easing my big cock into her mouth or cunt
what scenario I imagine when I’m alone: most often? a threesome; my position in it varies, and I’m kind of everybody. A is strapped on and standing, B is sucking her off. B is kneeling over C’s face. C is lying on her back, sucking B’s cunt and masturbating, until A stops the blow job and begins fucking C, sometimes in the ass. I read it in one of Nancy Friday’s ‘women’s erotic fantasies’ books when I was a teenager. (I suppose I should write out this story.)
what I crave: blow jobs, fucking her strapped on, feeling her come while I’m on top of her, hearing her cry out from pain & pleasure
… and you?
twenty five thousand
Sugarbutch Chronicles hit 25,000 hits just now.
Thank you, everyone, for reading my writing, for commenting, for sharing your ideas, for interacting with my ideas. It’s really a lovely process. I highly encourage (semi-)anonymous blogging.
things to brainstorm on the morning commute
Favorite scenario from yesterday: I’m a security guard, and I catch her stealing lingerie.
fluffer femme spy
I got my very own Fluffer Femme Spy this week, a good femme friend of mine in Seattle who has given me all sorts of useful tips & advice as we’ve been talking about my relationship. (I’d like to think my butch perspective is useful too, but who knows.)Really, I highly recommend every butch have one of these. She goes up there with my handkerchief and my boots as butch necessities. (And I mean that in the greatest way.)
As she put it:
Job duties include:
- Pumping up the egos of fragile, doubting butch friends
- Flirting, subtly, but just enough to get noticed and stroke said egos
- Giving helpful hints about where to get the good, cute, not too expensive, meaningful jewelry
- Providing advice about where/when/how to pop Important, Lifechanging Questions
- Offering Femme Insight during Relationship Crisis
- Giving guidance on effective apologies
- Reassurance before/after sending scary emails
- Other duties, as assigned
We were talking about Valentine’s Day when this all came up, well, among other things. And just for the record? There are some things I would really like to receive for Valentine’s Day (or any other holiday/present-receiving activity, really) – things that I wouldn’t really buy for myself, but that I would love to have. Such as:
- silver flask, very plain
- nice bottle of scotch that I’d bust out for (very) special occasions
- a men’s accessories case
- monogrammed handkerchiefs (yeah right, but hey, a butch can dream … )
Though some elaborate sex scene – a fantasy of mine brought to life? – would probably top everything. Although really, as long as I get laid I’m pretty satisfied. Wow, and now that I’m looking through Red Envelope online, there are a whole lot more of the men’s things that I’ve never seen. These hidden message collar stays are badass. And a monogrammed brander? That’s hardcore, and kind of makes me uncomfortably turned on.
When I asked Callie what it is she would want for Valentine’s Day, ideally (though I did mention that I’d already gotten her something and so it wouldn’t probably change what she was getting, I was just curious) she mentioned lingerie (“whatever would turn you on, ’cause that’s what it’s about, anyway”), and jewelry.
Speaking of lingerie … I gave Callie a copy of the story I wrote about our New Year’s Eve encounter. She … liked it, very much, to say the least. She said she’d forgotten about unbuttoning my shirt, and loved reading what the night was like for me. She’s never been with someone who was so into her femme role before, so that I am turned on by lingerie is kind of a novelty that she is really enjoying. So much, in fact, that she went out today and bought some new lingerie, that I am informed I will like, very much.
And, uh, hell, I’m enjoying it too.
Okay, one more thing, just in case I’m the butch spy for some of you femme readers: call me handsome, and I’ll seriously melt for you.
And speaking of you so-called femme readers: what would you just melt for, this Valentine’s Day? What do you always wish someone would’ve given you, but never have received?
it’s all about content, anyway
Did I mention that you can subscribe to Sugarbutch Chronicles via Feedburner? Well, you can. And in fact, it’d be awesome if you did (or if you are currently subscribed via some other feed, if you switched over to the feedburner version), ’cause then I could tell how many of you readers are out there. Which would give me a good sense of whether I should change over to a WordPress domain …
One of the reasons I ended up on blogger here is because lots of the folks that I admire are hosted through blogger, and I was seeking to become part of their circle. And I have, somewhat (even if they didn’t invite me to Madame X’s on Monday night ;).
There’s really nothing exactly wrong with blogger, it’s just not as fancy as WordPress …
This all started with my upgrade to the new fancy blogger features, where I have categories and widgets and such over on the side, which made me want to start designing and playing with the layout. And while that’s great and fun and all, really it’s unnecessary – it’s the difference between treating the writing of the blog as the hobby, and the designing of the blog as the hobby. And both of those things are hobbies & interests of mine, but it does seem to be that I will get distracted by the latter at the expense of the former, at times.
So maybe that’s a reason to keep Sugarbutch simple, hosted on blogger: it’s not about the design, it’s about the content.
… And as long as I’m writing a post that isn’t about sex, gender, or relationships (which is STRICTLY what I’d like to keep this blog to, and not just personal musings about whatever), I want to mention that I picked up the new Patty Griffin CD yesterday and it’s fucken brilliant.
(So, did you subscribe to Sugarbutch Chronicles via Feedburner yet?)
coveting
I have major WordPress envy today.
note to self
Dear Sinclair,When winter finally sets into New York City, and it’s precisely eight degrees outside NOT INCLUDING THE WIND CHILL, and you finally decide to get the hat out of your bag that you’ve been carrying around for months and hate to wear, and you put it on, and wear it all the way to work, then when you get to work, you MUST CHECK YOUR HAIR IN THE MIRROR before eleven am, because you look like a doofus.
Sincerely,
Sinclair
ps: at least the rest of you looks goooood today. ;)
from the inside
This is how it went.
I wanted to say a red goodbye. A crystal goodbye. A goodbye hanging from the rafters of an old cabin in the woods, smelling of cedar and damn rainforest. A goodbye echoing off the silence of an underpass. Goodbyes the size of snowflakes, goodbyes the color of air on a hot day.
I wanted to say goodbye, and again, and again. You didn’t let me.
Instead, you fought. Brought me candles with flames, tall, and bright as the moon. Brought me mirrors in which to see myself. There are no goodbyes in moons and mirrors. Goodbyes in flames are flippant, final, but goodbyes in glass are generous. Giving.
This is how it went. But it didn’t have to go this way.
It could have been a brutal goodbye. The kind that tears up lungs and throats and insides and then wrecks your paper heart. The kind that tosses aside apologies like confetti. A party on your back. Chipping off bone from your spine like roots pushing up a sidewalk made of brick. From the inside.
That’s what you do. From the inside. A crystal goodbye echoing cedar smelling of rafters the color of someone leaving. Someone. Anyone. As if there is some definition of what that is: leaving. Left. Going. Gone. As if I can write these words and let you know what I mean when I say them. As if we have some sort of understood meaning between the times that my brain decides these words, my fingers tap these keys, your eyes scan these letters. There is no way to know what words are sparking what colors of goodbye inside of you. Only inside of me.
Only goodbyes are the color of goodbyes, and very few of us will ever know what it’s like to have the roots of a tree set us free.
you want inappropriate?
Sugarbutch got a bit of a facelift today. When I was attempting to take down the Google ads (I was asked to take them down, as have ‘inappropriate content’ – label: sex was cited), I broke my code somehow and couldn’t get the sidebar to be in the right place. While messing around with the Blogger control panel stuff, I upgraded my template (Blogger 2.0) and hey! there’s those cool drop-down archive links. I’ve been wondering how other bloggers were doing that. Never really liked the garamond font either. I’m not sure about the labels list in the sidebar though – seems silly to have all of those with only one post in them. Anybody know a way to only display lables with 1+ posts?
claiming wholeness
Today is Imbolc, Christianized as Candlemas and Americanized as Groundhog’s Day. It marks one of the turning points of the wheel of the year, this point being when the seed begins to sprout and become visible. “Imbolc is considered a traditional time for rededication and pledges for the coming year,” according to some wiccan practices.Naturally speaking, it is the time of year when the light is beginning to win. To gain control and power. From Summer Solstice to Winter Solstice, daylight fades and darkness takes over. Winter solstice marks the darkest time of year, and the time when each day becomes longer, brighter. And Imbolc, the first turning point of the wheel after the Winter Solstice, is the crescent, the baby sprout, the crack of light, time when hope abounds.
We tend to forget we are animals on a fragile planet. These turnings of the year, these celebrations of nature remind me.
[Brigid’s] association with fire also pertains to the creative life. Finding passion in our work is a major achievement. Handling our energies well requires maturity. It takes effort to find a balance where we have vitality without being consumed.Brigid is said to have invented the fervent Irish mourning wail called keening. Part of her presence resides in the faerie spirit whose keening can be heard at night in times of grief. This link reminds us to respect our losses. Experiences of renewal often include bereavement. We continually suffer losses, especially in the moments of passage. Claiming our wholeness includes valuing the sorrow for that which is no more.
via Imbolc folk story… emphasis added.
This article also says Guidance through life’s difficulties could be drawn from [myths] symbolism. Yeah, no kidding.
I will be lighting an orange candle tonight, and thanking the sun for its return.
ungrateful: a faery tale
I am not your
prince fucking charming
despite what you might
have heard. I can slay
blue fire breathing
dragons, save kingdoms
but princesses? I rescued
too many of those bitches
one after another
slinking off with my nemesis
to go to some rock concert
while my armor
smoulders. can’t they
at least
have gotten me
a glass of water?
waiting is my favorite part
If I had it my way, I would take back every time I said not I love you, but I adore you, my admiration palpable and thick as the silver tightrope between us. I would take back the times I needed you. Would take back the times you pried open my ribcage and I relaxed to let your fist close over my heart. Take back the revealing of my thin underbelly, every time I rolled over to show you how soft and small I was, a creature of defence, an animal with simple needs like adequacy. Not so hard really.
I would take back the times I launched myself into you like a pilgrimage, like an exhibition of discovery. Yes, I am an explorer. I seek to understand before I dominate.
Take back the love notes and red paper hearts sent special delivery. Take back the mornings I woke satisfied. Take back the days of shoving myself into a corner and letting you insert word after careful word onto my tongue like communion from a priest: the body of Christ. I took you as seriously.
If I had it my way, I would take back the longing, the pining, the days of anticipation. Really that was always my favorite part: waiting for you to arrive, because before you were there you would only be who I wanted you to be, which was exactly the problem, because while I woudl dream you one way and observe you another, you would rewrite my DNA to better match the way you dreamed me.
I would take back the times I let you rewrite me. As though you are the novelist (and not me). As though I am a character and you have a chart where you can fill in my attributes: likes. Dislikes. Coping mechanisms. Compulsions.
I would take back the times I told you what I want, because I should’ve known it wasn’t you and left it at that. But who knows that when you are a master at shapeshifting, at chameleoning to become what those around you need?
I am still waiting for your thin, soft underbelly, to see you roll onto your back, sit calmly and hold enough space still that I may walk right into it and unfurl my arms, uncurl my fiddlehead ferns. I am still waiting.
I am still waiting
for someone
who isn’t you –
no wonder the waiting was always
my favorite part.
vice grip
If she asked me the state of my heart, I would say: the barbed wire is built up thick, a little too tight in places, squeezing, prickling, where the blood escapes in trickles with every pump of the muscle.
I would do it differently, now, again, after this last time that I offered up my messy red heart on a shined silver platter, her name gleaming, freshly engraved. I would not go back to her apartment. I would not accept gifts of wings on a necklace chain when her heart leaps from her chest to my palm – involuntarily – and she forgets to ask for it back. I would keep our courtship in dark bars with indulgent mixed drinks, dance clubs where I stoop to knee-level and come on to every girl with heels higher than three inches.
I would not say ‘I love you’, not eagerly, would not hold the words on my soft palette like a marble, a pearl made from sand, from too much grinding. I got me a mouth guard. A machine to stop the optimism from forming sentences beginning with ‘I have never felt’ and ‘you are so’ and ‘I can’t believe’ and ‘I love.’
If she asked me the state of my heart, I would lie and tell her it is crushed in a vice-grip of regret. Of longing. But really, it is rebounding like a glacial valley, too long crushed by thousands of tons of frozen water, and she was the vice-grip all along.
standing up
I went to see therapist for the second week in a row last night. I relayed the story of this weekend, which I’m not going to get in to here because … it’s long, and personal, and seems like it would require a lot of backstory which I don’t have the time or energy to go through.
She said, and I quote: you need to stand up for yourself.
And, see, this is what I’m not comprehending about myself right now. This relationship has brought me a very different view of my own self than I’ve ever had before. For example, I would have said that I was articulate, good at communicating, appreciated conflict and dealt with it well. That I was extremely loving and doting and caring. I’ve never had anyone tell me otherwise.
I hate to shift the blame to her – it takes two people to have a relationship, all that, I know. But she has something happening deeply in her that I can’t reach, can’t heal.
And it isn’t my responsibility to do so anyway. Is this really what I want in a relationship?
sunday scribblings: fantasy
She is the fantasy, and I am the dreamer. Or perhaps it is she who is the dreamer: she is the one who is always creating meaning from metaphors and analyzing the superstitions that are coming between us: bread and butter. Knocking the tree spirits awake and away we beg for forgiveness for being so presumptuous that we would know what is to come ahead of us. What nausea will pass and what we will be doing to ring in the next new year. How much of this will we weather? I already know how and where our great downfalls will come: flattery. Consumption. The great flaw of sunshine on a winter’s day.She is the fantasy, and I am the dreamer. She is the dreamer, and I am the magician with the magic hat who watches from the edge of the room after she cries herself back to sleep, never knowing which magic spell will bring her back into herself.
I have created a swirling romance around her. Sweltering inside a coil of smoke, a glass wall such that I cannot reach her. But that I did not place around her. Did not choose to erect such a barrier between us. She did, when she chose to dream me. I did, when I discovered the fantasy of her was more real than the real skin touch of her hand, her thigh, her kiss.
Is it only the dreamer who comes up with such fantasies? Perhaps I would rather be a writer than a dreamer, so I can write myself into something as solid as stones.
dark scribblings
I’m afraid of the dark. Surely I’ve told you this. In the city really this doesn’t matter so much, the constant illumination of even the smallest streets and most insignificant buildings brightens the dark enough that it isn’t dark any more. But at home, in the little town where the mountains meet the sea, where there are forty miles of roads and one hundred thirty miles of hiking trails, the dark looms around lamppost corners, in arched doorways, under decrepit metals staircases, ready to slither and seep into all my open wounds, those unsealed places in me that still welcome the dark, still wish for the solitude out there in the black.
Maybe it’s because my name never had a home, a culture, a story in which to rest, that I seek out narratives like I seek black-inked fine-tipped pens: compulsively. Maybe my dark places just need their own language in which to confess the simmer and scratch of nibs on parchment, on velum, on cotton, on wood.
This is how my body sought to become paper, this is how blades sought to become pens. There is no canvas greater than the back. No skin or hide or substance that seeks pigment, marking, branding, scarring like the epidermis, layered, regenerating so often one must lay the ink deep for it to stick.
Like the dark, the ink runs deep in me. The doom of the millennium is nothing compared to what lies within, those secrets of shame and pain and homelessness we all refuse to share, or even see.
fashion crisis
Update on the mini-clothes crisis: no problem. All is under control.I went to H&M over lunch and all feels so much better. Maybe that was my problem, I just had nothing to wear.
Trying on some of their clothes really made me realize how ratty mine are (this green shirt I’m wearing must be retired. MUST.) So I ended up buying two shirts & a sweater (oh I love H&M). The sweater is very simple, black, zip-up with a slight collar. I’ll be wearing it tonight for the reading.
One of the button-downs is a very bright red-orange color, a little more bold than I usually wear but it looked goooood. I’ll be wearing that at the queer women’s reading thing I’m doing tomorrow night. The other shirt is a bit more dressy, black with silver pinstripes, paired with a silver tie for the party on Friday. Aww yeah.
Now, if only my suit fits. I think it might be a bit too small. I used to be smaller. I suppose if the suit doesn’t fit I’ll go with black slacks and a black suitcoat … but with a black shirt, that’s three different shades of black and they might not be the same. Fashion crisis!
I love that I’m a men’s size small. After all these years of having to go to multiple stores to find my size, of searching for clothing lines that even create my size, I was just looking clothes for the wrong type of body. Someone really shoulda told me that sooner.
naked on the internet interviews
Public Service Announcement:Hey you! Are you female? Do you look at porn or sex writing or sex blogs online? Audacia Ray wants to interview you for her upcoming book Naked on the Internet.
She needs: Women who use webcams for fun and/or profit, especially as part of one-on-one chat with friends and lovers, as a member of a cam network, or as a supplement to a website. Women who have researched health topics on the internet or participated in online communities about health, especially with regards to the topics of abortion, transgender/transsexuality issues, and disability. Women who have used internet-enabled sex toys (call em cyberdildonics or teledildonics if you like) – stuff you can operate from a distance over the internet.
I know a couple of you regular readers who would qualify here … (Kimi, and Maddie, that means you).
We now return you to your regularly scheduled Sugarbutch Chronicles.
sugasm #57
Thanks to the Sugasm editors for picking a Sugarbutch Chronicles entry as the editors’ choice. This is my second top Sugasm feature! I am in some good company, too, I tell ya.
This Week’s Picks
The Other Side of Hotwifery (http://junohenry.wordpress.com/)
The Blender (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)
Meeting in a Car – part one (http://emergingontheotherside.blogspot.com/)
Welcome to Googlestan! Google Purges Adult Content from Search Results
(http://sugarbank.com/)Editors’ Choice
Desire so overwhelming I could do anything (http://sugarbutch.blogspot.com)
More Sugasm — Join the Sugasm
thirteen and a half times
in the last hour
I only thought about you
thirteen
and a half
timestwice I thought of your legs your thighs clad in jeans or skirted fabric swirling or stockings (god) the way your knees touch when you’re driving the way your ankles curl when you walk – but then I stopped thinking of your legs your thighs the curve of the back of your knee ’cause my attention slips quickly quietly to the s of your spine down your backside – and I get easily distracted there, so I try not to think of your lovely, long legs
three times I thought of your luminous smile, the way your cheek feels like silk, like velvet, like ice cream melting when you’ve just come in from the cold night air
once I thought about twirling you on the dancefloor, leading you in inside-turns and outside-turns, in the sugarpush and the skid-pass and the charleston, circling around each other until we come back into a closed basic and I can kiss you as I hold you close and dip you low
twice I thought about the curve of your hips, the bone of your pelvis and how it fits next to mine like puzzle pieces like the cap of a pen clicks onto the barrel
once I thought of that look you gave me across the room, from the couch, which said, take me and i’m yours and i love you and i wish you were inside me right now and i still feel you everywhere (or maybe that’s what my look said) and I wanted to jump, dive, claw, climb out of my chair over to you, push everyone out of the way so I could taste you, put my hands on your skin, hear to you gasp, breathe into my ear, hold you close
once I thought of the way your fingertips feel on my neck, casual, the way you leave them there while we sit in a circle of friends
twice I thought of that way you laugh when you’re nervous, gentle and slow, while your eyes dance, searching for recognition, searching for someone to see you
once I visualized you in a rocking chair, homemade hippie afgan wrapped around your shoulders, cradling a baby, looking up at me with a look that said, look what we did, or we should do this too, or I’m an aunt, or isn’t this amazing, or awe – I’m not sure what it was, but you looked at me and saw me and I wanted to lasso the moon for you, wanted to sing buffalo gals won’t you come out tonight, I want to see that look again & again, what could I possibly do to get you to look at me like that, I would do anything
then I thought of all the things I’ve said to you, all the ways I want to tell you I adore you, I desire you, I want to know you, want to hold you, want to watch you grow and hold my hands like a stirrup you can step into, hands on my shoulders, so you’ll be able to reach the windowsill two floors up – and that was maybe more about me but half about you too, cause you’re holding your own and you’re holding me and we match blend mix together like a potent chemical combination, combustible, barely contained
thirteen
and a half
times
isn’t very many
considering how many hours
your magic
your trilling, smoky voice
your sweet smile
your raw insights
have taken flight, making nests
inside my canopies
settling in
hour after hour
after hour
Inspired by the Sunday Scribblings prompt “in the last hour.”Update: featured on the Fleshbot Sex Blog Roundup 08 December. (Thanks Jefferson!)
sex blog roundup: eat it up
thanks, Chelsea Girl! Sugarbutch Chronicles was featured at fleshbot for the 2nd time, with the post craving something sweet:
After minute after exquisite minute of my lips crushed against hers, sometimes desperately crawling into each other’s mouths, bones and muscles meeting, sometimes the gentlest paintbrush touch of only the top most layer of skin, we detangled. I let my arms rise from her body as if they were steam. Felt the echo of her touches. Her fingertips everywhere. Body against mine pressing at every angle. Her leg stretched out, knee over my lap.
what i mean is
when i say i feel the
echo
of you
what i mean is
i feel you
in my skin
in my mouth
for hours
after
echo
of you
what i mean is
i feel you
in my skin
in my mouth
for hours
after
reverberating
when i say you are my
favorite
lover
what i mean is
i have never felt this
electricity
elasticity
strings of energy
between us
pulsing
when i say i’m
already
yours
what i mean is
i don’t want anyone else
i don’t want you
to want anyone else
i want to leave
my mark on you
suck on your skin
a little too long
bite your
tender
shoulder
a little too hard
when i say i
love
you
what i mean is
my heart is the bird’s nest
in which i live
and i am ready
to take flight
i am ready
to give my heart away
i believe deeply
in the tools
of relationships
and i want to use
everything i have
to figure out
everything you have
to watch your heart soar
to hold you up sometimes
to let you in
what i mean is
i want to help you
be the very best you
you can be
because i feel
more like myself
my best, highest self
around you
because i make
so much more sense
when i am with you
everything i am
has built to this moment
to this connection
everything i’ve learned
is so i can survive
thrive
succeed
in this
with you
for as long
as we possibly can
together
together
four questions
- What’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done for someone else?
- What’s the most romantic thing someone else ever did for you?
- What’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever done for someone else?
- What’s the sexiest thing someone else ever did for you?
Bonus: I’m updating my sexmix cd/playlist. What are the sexiest songs to which to seduce, make out, and have sex?
what I haven’t told you I believe about love
that I love freely and with dangerous abandonthat I fall in love at least twelve times a day – sometimes with the same person, sometimes each one is different
that love is a choice and must continue to be chosen in order to sustain
that love and sex are not for procreation or recreation, but for concentration – because there are just too many people in the world*
that divinity is within us, and accessed through practices of loving
that I am at my best when I am naked laughing with you
that I am trusting, sometimes to a fault
that I am fiercely loyal
that I believe in romance like a religion and will gladly offer prayer every time I see the edges of you blur a little bit
that sex play is always of the highest priority, and I will always be late, sleep in, and skip obligations for it
that I have never seen anything more gorgeous than you are right now**
that I live in my heart, nestled down into each chamber with a different story to tell and a different wisdom to hear
that I love too hard too fast too soon, but that is the only way I know how to fall
that most of us have unlearned the innate impulse of how to let the soft animals of our bodies love what they love***
that nothing is forever, but if we can bend together to time’s winds, we can weather anything
that I don’t really know what I’m doing or how any of this works, but I think I’m pretty neat, and I trust my strengths and virtues and vices to carry me through all of these paths that I am walking
that love is never permanent, but it changes me every single fucking beautiful time
references/quotes:
* the film “opposite of sex”
** poet andrea gibson
*** poet mary oliver
a note to her I have yet to send
Did you see the sunset tonight?
It cried your name. Or perhaps that was me. Or perhaps that was the book that I’m reading, which seems to make references to you every couple paragraphs. Or perhaps that’s just me, again, because I can’t seem to quite get the timbre, the resonance of your voice off of my fingertips – though the smell of your skin does seem to be fading from my black tee shirt which I don’t want to remove.
distracting myself III
Her mouth is warm, wet, tightly closed around this penis that is increasingly feeling like part of me. I know the ridges of the roof of her mouth, I know the way her inner lips and tongue are the texture of avocado, so creamy and smooth, not sweet but succulent, smelting. I know the edges of her teeth, the one on the top that is not quite perfectly aligned but makes her smile extra cute. I can almost feel these details through the cyberskin of my cock. The ridge of her mouth on the ridge of the head. Her teeth covered or barely grazing the edge. Sucking. Pulling liquid from deep inside me with the pull of her mouth. Swallowing me.She’s making little noises in her throat as though she’s famished and eating a gourmet meal bite by bite. Strawberries and champagne. Brie and havarti and muenster and gorgonzola. Olives.
I could let this go on, really. Her mouth on my cock. My cock in her mouth. Her hand still on the shaft. She’s kneeling now, feet under her, heel pressed against her own cunt and rocking back and forth as I slide insider her, in and out, in and out. This could go on, just like this, but it won’t. Not tonight.
I tear at her hair, hard, throwing her off balance. I pull her skull back with my fist and push with my hips, guiding her movement. She scrambles, hands reaching, eyes wide, not quite able to get a grip on the floor with her stockinged feet, sliding, until her back hits the wall and I press my hips to her face again. Bring one hand to the wall above her and begin thrusting. She squirms, gasps, cries out a little when my cock goes too deep, pressing her body against the wall and twisting her legs into some sort of half-sitting position after they get caught beneath her body.
Her other hand finds her slit between her legs, wet and slick, clit hard, muscles inside already pulsing. She looks to see if I notice. I do, but my only movement is coming hard from my hips and I let her continue for now. I am glad she enjoys this. She may as well be comfortable now.
And she is, almost. Not quite comfortable, because I’m still inside her mouth on top of her in this vulnerable pose that gives her no room for movement. She can only take my cock however deep I give it to her.
This is when things for me can get dangerous. I will get off from a good blowjob, and she knows it. As desire builds and my brain clears of all clutter, such power mounts in my body that my cock could be steel, the thrust of my hips could be powered by a generator. I can get scared here. I find my eyes rolling back, my body opening, my energy so pointed: I fear I will do something harmful. Want overrides thought and I could hurt her, accidentally, by giving in to this desire, by letting go.
She knows this happens for me. We’ve spoken of it. She has come to expect it at times when my passion builds strong and intense. She’s looking up at me trying to catch my eyes. Holds eye contact for a moment, urging me. Go on. Do it.
distracting myself II
She does. Tenderly, her lips on the pink silicone. Tenderly, her mouth sucking her teeth, keeping her lips closed. Looking up at me under her eyelashes, movement restricted by my hand in her hair, breasts thrust forward, nipples peaked. Kissing the edges of it gratefully, moist cock against her mouth. Her lips brush its ridges, the head of it, the veins running down the shaft.“Please,” she says, “please.” Whispering, barely.
My hand is still in her hair. Her head is beginning to do that blow-job bob movement and my hips are responding accordingly, straining at being held back. My ass is flexing which makes my hips begin to thrust. She is parting her lips, but barely, touching only the tip of her tongue to my cock.
I try to keep my eyes open, to watch this creature before me and the way her mouth moves, the way her eyes look, remembering the way her lips pinch cylindrical with my dick deep in her throat.
“Please what?” I say. Oh I’m mean sometimes. I want to hear her say it.
“Please,” she says again, softening, hearing the growl in my voice. She swallows, placing her lips back onto just the tip, circling, touching it with the point of her tongue. “Please, may I use my hands?”
That’s not what I wanted her to say, but she’s got those big eyes staring up at me, and she asked so nicely. “Yes,” I say. Breathe out. Go ahead.
She does. Shakes her hands and shoulders free from the locked position behind her and readjusts herself on her knees. Circles the base of my cock near my pubic bone and presses into my clit the way she knows I like to feel it. She’s an expert here. She invented this game. It’s hard for me to stay ahead.
“Ohh, that’s good,” I say, involuntarily, groaning and leaning back into her fingers sliding up and down the shaft.
“Yeah?” she manages to mumble, still kissing, not opening her mouth more than a clit’s width.
“Ohh yeah.” I say.
“I want to drink you in,” she says between kisses, fingers still supple and circling me, “take you onto my tongue. Swallow you, just like this.”
Fuck. I tighten my grip on the back of her head, on her hair, and press her lips apart with my strapon. I can feel her jaw open as I press inside; she moans in surprise, and closes her eyes.
distracting myself
Embraced, one hand on the small of her back, fingertips gently on the skin between her shirt and skirt, one hand under her hair, at the back of her neck, touching, wispy, softly. My mouth at her neck. Her jawline. My lips to her earlobe.I whisper: “Get on your knees.”
Her body shudders. Softens, supple against me. She sinks to her knees – willingly, eagerly. Looks up at me with her wide eyes. Lips already parted.
I touch my waistband with my fingers and begin to unbutton, unzip. She moves her hands to assist. I hit them away, almost gently.
“Behind your back,” I say, tone low, consonants hard and deep.
Her chest moves as she breathes in. Moves her arms behind her. Grasps one wrist with the other hand. Keeps looking up at me, her chin level.
My belt clinks as I unbuckle it, metal against metal. I shift my hips to pull the split in my jeans apart. Push down the navy blue briefs and pull out my pink packing strapon, cyberskin, bendable. I wrap my fingers around it and flex it into its long, slightly curved shape. Squeeze gently, feeling the give of the material, the lip under the head of it, the ridges on the shaft. I let my head dip back, eyes closed, pressing the cock against my pubic bone, against my clit.
She’s watching me. Mouth parted, lips full and red. Eyes shifting from my fingers on the tip of my cock to my face.
She is three inches away from me. Two. I put my right hand out, palm up, next to her mouth. “Lube,” I say.
She looks at me like she doesn’t know what I mean, then lowers her eyes to my hand, presses her lips together, and spits saliva onto my fingers. I rub my four fingers with my thumb, spreading and evening the viscus liquid, and take my cock in my hand again, sliding smoothly up and down the shaft of it, my thumb swirling against the head.
She is amused. Watching me, smiling. As though she knows that isn’t enough. She’s gathering saliva, pooling at the bottom of her mouth, feeling it with her tongue and waiting. She knows she’ll get her chance.
I take her head in my left hand, cup the back of her skull like a grip on ball, a game piece. I take a tiny step toward her, my feet barely moving, slightly apart, hips forward. I let the pink dick rub against her cheek briefly, just a feather, and say, “Kiss it.”
Her eyes show a little fear, a little nervousness, but mostly excitement. Turned on and wanting. She makes a move to open her mouth wide and turn her head slightly, but I catch her by the hair and she can’t.
“No. Just your lips. Kiss it.”
Sugasm #50
My post Let go, just let go is the editor’s choice for this week’s Sugasm, “the best of the sex blogs this week by the bloggers who blog them.” Thanks!
This Week’s Picks
Dear Diary – Part One (http://wetbeyondbelief.blogspot.com)
The Lure of Darkness (http://www.easilyaroused.co.uk)
Flash (http://gentlygently.blogspot.com)Mr. Sugasm Himself
50 Simultaneous Bloggasms… (http://sugarbank.com)Editors’ Choice
Let go, just let go (http://sugarbutch.blogspot.com)
birds or boxing
Lately, I’ve been obsessed with birds. Flight patterns. Migration. Wings. Traveling by air. The topography of a bird like the wrist, the bard of the wing, the crown, the mandible, the tarsus, the axillers.Everywhere I go bird references occur. I sat next to a girl wearing the same shoes as me and she says “we’ve inherited our sorting habits from a flock of birds.” I bought a journal made from a 1941 copy of A Field Guide to Western Birds. One night I was out, there was a pigeon family nested on the terrace. My best friend sent me a starling necklace. I very much want a small flock of birds tattooed on my shoulder. I have a ‘flight mix’ full of songs about flying, wings, birds, butterflies, the sky, clouds, rising, flying.
I’ve been flying high for miles. Months. Examining the ground below me for a pattern, a map, direction.But it’s no longer time for flight.
It’s time to fight.
keeping my desire in check
She and I spoke last night. Not Callie, not the ex girlfriend, but the girl I’ve known for eight years whom I went to visit this past weekend. As we talked she was lying on her couch, one arm over her head, one leg over the back of the couch, and I know exactly how that looks. Exactly how her living room is configured.“I can’t stop thinking about your skin,” I said. “About you, naked on your couch.”
“You want me naked on my couch?” she asked.
“Yes.”
And then she was. She said, “You’ve got my hands and my mind wandering.”
We talked about the things we didn’t get to do. Her mouth on my cock. (Why didn’t we do that?!) I wanted to have her in every room in her house, though that would’ve taken some coordinating. I wanted to get my cock out more, and she wanted to ask me to get my cock out more, but got shy and didn’t. I wish she would have. She wishes she would have. Why didn’t we do that? I wish I would’ve been more bold about it.
I guess I still get that twinge of “reproducing the gender/sexual binary,” “women fucking women isn’t about a cock, that’s exactly the point,” and “there’s plenty to do without it” …
Well, lesson learned. I know what I want. At least fifty percent of the time. Maybe seventy percent.
You would think I am pretty good at getting what I want. At asking for what I want, or setting it up. And I knew she wanted to feel my cock inside her, feel my weight on top of her. We’ve talked about this for years, literally. I remember calling her after I bought my very first strap-on. What year was that? 2000? So small, in retrospect, with a vinyl harness. Tsk tsk. I was so young back then. Now, I have half a dozen beautiful cocks of different sizes & shapes and three harnesses, though the one I usually use is a thin O-ring harness because it is very small, and therefore the easiest with which to pack. Plus, the jock-strap style of the thin straps hits my clit perfectly and can actually get me off while fucking, which is incredible. Incredible.
I get hard just thinking about it.
“I like that you know what my cocks look like,” I said. “Now when I tell you I’m putting on my red one, squeezing lube onto my fingers, and taking my cock in my hand, you know what that looks like.”
“Wouldn’t it have been nice,” she said, “if, when we’d gotten home from the battlefield, instead of just fingering me in the kitchen, you’d bent me over the counter and fucked me?”
“Um … yes.” Fuck.
“I’m getting up, I’m moving into the kitchen. ‘Cause now, you know what that looks like. And I can bend over the counter and imagine you fucking me.”
Oh god, this girl.
I cleared my throat. I will keep my desire in check. I will not lose control. “The counter seems a little high. Is it comfortable?”
“Not really. I’m on my tiptoes.”
“The kitchen table might be a better height. It’s glass though, it might be kind of chilly, or sharp on the edges.” I assessed every surface in her house for its fuckability.
She moved to the kitchen doorway. Told me she wants to remember how it felt when I lifted her hands over her head, pressed my hips into her into the door so she couldn’t move.
I told her, if I was there now, I wouldn’t let her linger in the doorway. I would push her onto the table a little too roughly.
She gasped as she laid herself on the tabletop. Her torso was bare, nipples against the cold glass.
“Is it the right height?” I asked. (It is. I already know it is.)
“Yes. Cold.” She whispered into the phone.
“Remember my mouth next to your ear?” I started. “Remember my fist in your hair? Remember how it feels to have me standing behind you, my hand pressing between your shoulderblades?”
I whispered, “I’m going to slide inside you … ”
Tangle my fingers in your hair and grab a fistful. Crane your neck just a little. Watch your mouth open and gasp and your breath fogs the glass, feeling the tip of my red cock against your pink pussy. I’d move the dick to curve down instead of up so it would hit still your clit from inside. Your cheek against the cold, smooth surface. Pushing your legs apart, hand between your thighs, pulling on your flesh, fingers on your outer labia so I can hold you open. Slide inside you slow. Gripping your hip with my right hand. Sliding my arm under you to cradle your waist as I keep sliding in and out, in and out, harder, a little harder, a little faster.I will lose myself in this position. I will lose control. I will not keep my desire in check, I will begin to slide inside faster, hips bucking against you in a rhythm and pattern coming from inside me, a fierceness I never remember I have. After a while it stops becoming even an in-out motion and just becomes me vibrating, grinding hard at every angle, every circular motion, feeling your muscles pull on my cock which pulls on the strap between my legs, rubs against my clit.
Like that. Yes.
And my thighs pressed together, clit straining to be touched, to be pressed against the base of my cock thrusting into you.
Yes, like that. Like that. Oh god.
“Are you touching your clit?” I asked. “While I fuck you? Remember what it felt like to have my cock inside you?”
She groaned. Gasped. Made all those little noises that I knew, that I’d heard next to my ear, whispered into my neck, that I’d pressed out from inside of her.
God I loved making her come. Every fucking time. Surprising, and so beautiful.
One of my favorite moments was at dinner, at her favorite Italian restaurant where I drank too much wine and got her to talk about theatre, about the show she did recently, about what she’s going to do next. She was so animated. Luminous. I just watched her from across the table, her eyes shining, skin glowing, hair tussled from all the sex.
She had excellent after-sex hair. All curvy and full of waves and body. Mine was horrible: typical boycut-number-four which goes flat and gets cowlicks if it isn’t carefully sculpted.
She said one of her favorite moments of the weekend was when we were at the rock show on Saturday night. It was hot inside, though cold outside, and she carried her thin jacket until I took it from her, folded it gently and draped it over my arm. Held it for her all night.
Later, back outside, I held it for her while she slid her arms into it. She said felt taken care of. Like a girl.
And I felt butch. Tough and indestructible and oh-so-honored that this beautiful creature would even consider letting me hold her jacket (let alone all the things that I was to do to her later that night). I wanted everyone to see that I had taken it from her, that I was holding it for her. I kept one hand on the small of her back, kept touching the hem of her shirt, feeling the knitted fabric between my fingers. Remembering how the folds of her labia felt just as soft.
She also said there was an alley outside that building that would’ve been a perfect place in which to fuck. Damn, if only I’d known.
It’s been hard to separate from her since I’ve returned home. But she knows I am in no place to give my heart away. She knows my limitations.
She’s reading this right now.
southern hospitality – part one
The first time, she said no one ever made her come from inside before. Over the next fourty hours, I did it somewhere between nine and thirteen more times, inside and out; we lost count, the nights melted together.Desire pooled between us and the contours of our bodies were gutters, runoffs, ditches in which it collected and flowed: the line where her thighs touch. In between her breasts. The undersides of my wrists. The place where my pink and red cocks (which are my favorites) press against my pubic bone.
I didn’t get to fuck her strapped on as much as I’d have liked to (which would have been every time). I get shy about my cock sometimes. So much wanting. It’s embarassing to want something so much. Plus, there’s that moment, if I haven’t pre-planned by packing, that I have to get up, disrobe, pull on the harness, slip on the dildo, suit her up in a condom, and then come back to the open wanting girl watching me, waiting. And when I get back to bed I feel like I have to start all over again with foreplay instead of just stickin it in, which is my impulse.
On Saturday, I did pre-plan, and packed after my morning shower. We walked the dog walked around a civil war battleground while I hid my pink packing cock. The tourists stared at me (so obvious) and I stared at her. Watched her body move. Left my hands in my pockets most of the time to conceal the bulge. Did she know I was packing all day? Did she know when we walked off the path into the woods onto the rocks that we could have fucked right there, that I was envisioning her on her knees, sucking my cock through the zipper of my jeans?
I’m not sure when she discovered I was packing. After the walk I slid my fingers into her in the kitchen up against the counter and I think she felt it with her hands. Yes, I know she did. That was the third time I made her come and I knew then what she would do, how her body would fold and buckle, how her fingers on my wrist meant stop – but don’t pull out yet.
She just kept letting me take her, whenever I wanted, where ever I wanted, so I did. I wouldn’t usually be so bold as to push her skirt up to her hips and finger her in the kitchen. I wouldn’t usually assume it was okay to fuck her in the middle of the day, twice, three times – I would think about it, I would wish I could, but she would give me a look that meant stop you’re being inappropriate and I would shirk off to my corner, obedient.
But we didn’t have much time. Barely over fourty hours together, and I wanted every minute to count.
And she didn’t do that. She didn’t turn me away. In fact, she just wanted me more every time I put my hands on her electric body. Conducted her like a gold-plated wire. Completed the circuit and she flowed into me every time I touched her.
Every time I kissed her: forget it. At first it would just be a kiss, just good morning or okay I’m going to take a shower now or thanks for making me that delicious pesto-tomato grilled cheese sandwich but then it became oh god and please do that more, again and if you don’t stop I’m going to take you right here right now. And of course she didn’t stop. So I did take her. When I wanted. Where I wanted. How I wanted.
I told her I would try to restrain myself. She said don’t.
I did fuck her with my strapon that day. I lose myself when I’m fucking that way, different than when I am using fingers or lips. I forget about her pleasure and concentrate on mine. Concentrate on the tight ring of her cunt around the ridge of my cock, how her muscles pull and press. I make noises I wouldn’t usually; instead of listening to what her body wants and the sounds her mouth makes, I’m only feeling the thrust into her. Groaning with the pressure building in my cunt. The way it feels when she squeezes.
Later, I had her from behind bent over the bed, fingers inside her – again my fingers inside, always I was slipping my fingers inside her, searching for something, for life, for that clitoral ridge, for her soft spot, pulling rubies from her cervix – left hand on the back of her head, in her hair, pushing her into the bedspread. Yeah. A little bit harder.
That may have been my favorite part of the day.
That, and later, when I went down on her for hours. That, and when I pressed her up against the door in the kitchen, kicked her legs apart, held her hands above her head. We were expecting guests but she said, memorize. Memorize this right now.
That was Saturday. I was only getting started.
in no particular order
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.
"a terrible New York story"
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.
Holy crap.
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?
the day after the explosion
Thanks, Chelsea Girl and Viviane. And all you new folks, welcome. More sex posts:
I fantasize about kissing you
… it could have
Break-up Aura
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
a kite who let go of the string
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.
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.”
postscript: about the apartment
ps, my new apartment is amazing. Bee and J. spent the last two days (while I was at work) building a loft for the smaller bedroom – the ceilings are so tall, it turned that room into three rooms. They discovered yesterday that we have a pretty amazing view of the Manhattan skyline from our roof, and since we’re on the top floor pretty much only we have access to it. Bee has great taste in furniture and appliances and such, she loves to eat good food (she is studying to be a nutritionist, after all) and we’re slowly getting things together. She’s really fun and excellent to be around, and even though we’ve never really known each other as adults, and haven’t lived together for 10 years, I think this is going to be a really wonderful place – for both of us.