Showing posts with label Perversity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Perversity. Show all posts
Saturday, January 09, 2010
Clean up in aisle 69.
Standing in the express lane at the grocery store, I wonder if the cashier will realize that all my items are foods I intend to lick off of someone's penis.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Ode to Vulva
I remember very clearly one of my earliest classes in the psychology of sexuality because it consisted mainly of a 3-hour slide show of penises.
Penises, penises, penises. I'd certainly seen my share (perhaps even several shares) live and in person by that time, but to see them disembodied, out of context, in all their glorious shapes and sizes, in various states of arousal or flacidity, some straight and skinny like a fleshy misplaced bolo tie, others gently curving like a piece of mushy unappetizing fruit, it was simply too much.
Too much!
The next week I was bravely back in the lecture hall, pen in hand, optimistically thinking that I might actually be taught this time (although it's possible that the only note I took that entire semester was "Clitoris rhymes with Doris"), and that I probably wouldn't miss sausage all that much, now that I could no longer bring it to my lips when lo and behold, the unending penis slide show was followed by an equally lengthy one on vulvas!
This time, after bearing witness to literally hundreds of vulvas, I felt rather enlightened. Up until that time, the only vulva I'd spent any quality time with was my own, and I left with a heightened appreciation for just how goddamned cute mine was. Still, I went home to a hand mirror, a camcorder and some well-placed throw pillows that night just so I could admire her some more.
Mimi and I (that's her name) have had some very, very good times.
Very, very.
Well, I suppose that makes it sound like the good times happened just between me and Mimi, and that's not what I meant.
Though it is equally and absolutely true.
If I'm supposed to feel some measure of shame in admitting that, I don't.
Mimi is so pretty that you can't help but be drawn to her - such a luscious shade of pink that I'd gladly wear it on my lips if only Revlon could get their shit together and weren't so adverse to printing "Jay's Cunt" on the sides of their tubes. Personally, I think it has a nice ring to it.
Yes, I said cunt. Sometimes I think it's the only word really worthy of it: powerful, arresting. Cunt.
Penises, penises, penises. I'd certainly seen my share (perhaps even several shares) live and in person by that time, but to see them disembodied, out of context, in all their glorious shapes and sizes, in various states of arousal or flacidity, some straight and skinny like a fleshy misplaced bolo tie, others gently curving like a piece of mushy unappetizing fruit, it was simply too much.
Too much!
The next week I was bravely back in the lecture hall, pen in hand, optimistically thinking that I might actually be taught this time (although it's possible that the only note I took that entire semester was "Clitoris rhymes with Doris"), and that I probably wouldn't miss sausage all that much, now that I could no longer bring it to my lips when lo and behold, the unending penis slide show was followed by an equally lengthy one on vulvas!
This time, after bearing witness to literally hundreds of vulvas, I felt rather enlightened. Up until that time, the only vulva I'd spent any quality time with was my own, and I left with a heightened appreciation for just how goddamned cute mine was. Still, I went home to a hand mirror, a camcorder and some well-placed throw pillows that night just so I could admire her some more.
Mimi and I (that's her name) have had some very, very good times.
Very, very.
Well, I suppose that makes it sound like the good times happened just between me and Mimi, and that's not what I meant.
Though it is equally and absolutely true.
If I'm supposed to feel some measure of shame in admitting that, I don't.
Mimi is so pretty that you can't help but be drawn to her - such a luscious shade of pink that I'd gladly wear it on my lips if only Revlon could get their shit together and weren't so adverse to printing "Jay's Cunt" on the sides of their tubes. Personally, I think it has a nice ring to it.
Yes, I said cunt. Sometimes I think it's the only word really worthy of it: powerful, arresting. Cunt.
She's so affectionate it breaks my heart, always striving to be the best that she can be.
My vulva, myself.
I love her.Friday, September 26, 2008
Til Whoredom Come
You've politely sipped two martinis and said no, demurely, to a third. You ordered the angel hair pasta and left at least a third of it on your plate. You sat like a lady, with your legs crossed, you smiled at his jokes but resisted the urge to giggle, you let him open the doors even though your arms are perfectly capable of pushing and\or pulling. In short, you have spent the entire evening pretending to be exactly the kind of girl that you aren't.
But when his car pulls into your driveway, the jig is up. Three kisses and a hand under your shirt, and instead of pulling away, you're inviting him in.
So now you're sitting on the couch, each with a glass of wine from a stash of bottles you keep for exactly this purpose, both pretending to watch a movie that neither of you could identify if pressed, while his hand creeps up your thigh, the one you rubbed with lotion hours earlier thinking of exactly this moment.
I take his hand and put it right where we both want it anyway. He'll look a little shocked at first - I've just broken with the dating protocol - but then slowly, it will dawn on him that I've just saved us both 45 minutes of his hand's ascent, quarter-inch by quarter-inch. Now that the cards are on the table, the panties can hit the floor.
But wait.
Panties are last. Everyone knows that panties are last!
Shirts are first.
If you're a dirty girl, you've selected your date outfit not just for its level of hotness, but also its ease of removal. Your shirt should not be of the crazy-amounts-of-buttons variety (or god forbid the ornamental buttons - kiss that shirt goodbye if you were that stupid), and for heaven's sake stay away from the tricky hidden zipper on the side shirts (I mean, to be fair, those shirts are even hard on me!). If you like the guy you're about to have sex with, cut him some slack and go with a top that pulls off easily (and if you don't like the guy, reconsider the sex). No matter what, a dude will absolutely forget to be careful of your hair when he takes your top off, so don't be too attached to the style it took you 55 minutes to achieve. Be prepared to just shake it out, bat your lashes, and not think about it again until you're trying to comb out the sex tangles after he goes home.
Boy shirts aren't too difficult. There are basically only two varieties: the kind you pull over his head (if he's tall, remember to do this while you're still sitting on the couch) or the kind you unbutton. If he's wearing a button down, let him take your shirt off first. Then, reach up and sweetly work on his first couple of buttons. Look up at him from under your lashes, let him get a good look at the cups of your bra doing their good work, and he'll hurry the process up, either working on the buttons from below, or sacrificing the buttons entirely and forcing the shirt off one way or the other. Make sure that you let the shirt fall where you are, still outside the bedroom. The trail of clothing is of the utmost importance: more on this later.
He'll be pretty anxious to get your bra off at this point, but don't let him. The next part can be tricky, and girls, you definitely want the upper hand.
Boy belts can be hell, and I've found it's one of many tasks best performed on one's knees. There are many reasons for this, the least of which is the view he'll get, which will make him excited and get him thinking of other things you might be doing while you're down there. But you're also giving yourself the best angle to work at, and a good overview of the obstacle. Now, as the girl, you realize it's your job to be slow and teasing and his job to be crazed and efficient (without much emphasis on the efficient). A finger in the waist band of his jeans is a good way to start. If you discover something in there you don't like (say, panties that are prettier than yours) you can hit the brakes and kick him out only half naked. This is all the encouragement he really needs. He'll be unbuckling that belt faster than if his pants were on fire. Actually, as far as he's concerned, his pants pretty much are on fire. Stop him there, though. Leave the button and the fly for yourself. Say hello. Acquaint yourself, but only briefly, before standing back up, but don't be afraid to leave a little lipstick behind.
Now that you have access through the front of his pants, he now has plenty of motivation to make your bra melt right off you. Let him get the zipper of your skirt or the button of your pants, which will be done in a fumbly fashion if you're doing your job right and being a good host to the friend you made when you were on your knees. Stop before you enter the bedroom, and each shed your own bottoms. This is important because you'll want to take the opportunity to also take off your socks, because lord knows there is no graceful or sexy way for someone else to do this for you. Socks can be a real turn-off. The only exception to this rule is if you're wearing thigh-highs. Those you can leave on.
You should both still be wearing underwear when you get to the bed, but his should come off before getting in. If he's a little shy though, you can take them off for him once he's in, just be sure to throw them onto the floor, out of reach. Yours should always be left for last, because taking them off will leave him in a very opportunistic position for how you'll want things to go from there. A little upward tilt of the hips is a helpful way to let him know what's on the menu.
And the genius of it is, when it's all over, he'll have to get out of the bed to get his boxers. If he's not making the move quickly enough, just start hogging the sheets, he'll catch a draft and be inspired to find his underpants soon enough. And cleverly, retrieving the rest of his clothes leads him pretty much right up to the front door, where you first threw his shirt. At this point, it's easy to hand him his shoes as you open the door. While he's doing the hopping-on-one-leg-tying-his-laces thing, pat his bum, kiss his cheek and give him a rousing "Thanks, that was fun!"
Close and lock the door.
Flush condom.
Have a scoop of Ben & Jerry's.
And that's how a good girl has bad girl sex.
But when his car pulls into your driveway, the jig is up. Three kisses and a hand under your shirt, and instead of pulling away, you're inviting him in.
So now you're sitting on the couch, each with a glass of wine from a stash of bottles you keep for exactly this purpose, both pretending to watch a movie that neither of you could identify if pressed, while his hand creeps up your thigh, the one you rubbed with lotion hours earlier thinking of exactly this moment.
I take his hand and put it right where we both want it anyway. He'll look a little shocked at first - I've just broken with the dating protocol - but then slowly, it will dawn on him that I've just saved us both 45 minutes of his hand's ascent, quarter-inch by quarter-inch. Now that the cards are on the table, the panties can hit the floor.
But wait.
Panties are last. Everyone knows that panties are last!
Shirts are first.
If you're a dirty girl, you've selected your date outfit not just for its level of hotness, but also its ease of removal. Your shirt should not be of the crazy-amounts-of-buttons variety (or god forbid the ornamental buttons - kiss that shirt goodbye if you were that stupid), and for heaven's sake stay away from the tricky hidden zipper on the side shirts (I mean, to be fair, those shirts are even hard on me!). If you like the guy you're about to have sex with, cut him some slack and go with a top that pulls off easily (and if you don't like the guy, reconsider the sex). No matter what, a dude will absolutely forget to be careful of your hair when he takes your top off, so don't be too attached to the style it took you 55 minutes to achieve. Be prepared to just shake it out, bat your lashes, and not think about it again until you're trying to comb out the sex tangles after he goes home.
Boy shirts aren't too difficult. There are basically only two varieties: the kind you pull over his head (if he's tall, remember to do this while you're still sitting on the couch) or the kind you unbutton. If he's wearing a button down, let him take your shirt off first. Then, reach up and sweetly work on his first couple of buttons. Look up at him from under your lashes, let him get a good look at the cups of your bra doing their good work, and he'll hurry the process up, either working on the buttons from below, or sacrificing the buttons entirely and forcing the shirt off one way or the other. Make sure that you let the shirt fall where you are, still outside the bedroom. The trail of clothing is of the utmost importance: more on this later.
He'll be pretty anxious to get your bra off at this point, but don't let him. The next part can be tricky, and girls, you definitely want the upper hand.
Boy belts can be hell, and I've found it's one of many tasks best performed on one's knees. There are many reasons for this, the least of which is the view he'll get, which will make him excited and get him thinking of other things you might be doing while you're down there. But you're also giving yourself the best angle to work at, and a good overview of the obstacle. Now, as the girl, you realize it's your job to be slow and teasing and his job to be crazed and efficient (without much emphasis on the efficient). A finger in the waist band of his jeans is a good way to start. If you discover something in there you don't like (say, panties that are prettier than yours) you can hit the brakes and kick him out only half naked. This is all the encouragement he really needs. He'll be unbuckling that belt faster than if his pants were on fire. Actually, as far as he's concerned, his pants pretty much are on fire. Stop him there, though. Leave the button and the fly for yourself. Say hello. Acquaint yourself, but only briefly, before standing back up, but don't be afraid to leave a little lipstick behind.
Now that you have access through the front of his pants, he now has plenty of motivation to make your bra melt right off you. Let him get the zipper of your skirt or the button of your pants, which will be done in a fumbly fashion if you're doing your job right and being a good host to the friend you made when you were on your knees. Stop before you enter the bedroom, and each shed your own bottoms. This is important because you'll want to take the opportunity to also take off your socks, because lord knows there is no graceful or sexy way for someone else to do this for you. Socks can be a real turn-off. The only exception to this rule is if you're wearing thigh-highs. Those you can leave on.
You should both still be wearing underwear when you get to the bed, but his should come off before getting in. If he's a little shy though, you can take them off for him once he's in, just be sure to throw them onto the floor, out of reach. Yours should always be left for last, because taking them off will leave him in a very opportunistic position for how you'll want things to go from there. A little upward tilt of the hips is a helpful way to let him know what's on the menu.
And the genius of it is, when it's all over, he'll have to get out of the bed to get his boxers. If he's not making the move quickly enough, just start hogging the sheets, he'll catch a draft and be inspired to find his underpants soon enough. And cleverly, retrieving the rest of his clothes leads him pretty much right up to the front door, where you first threw his shirt. At this point, it's easy to hand him his shoes as you open the door. While he's doing the hopping-on-one-leg-tying-his-laces thing, pat his bum, kiss his cheek and give him a rousing "Thanks, that was fun!"
Close and lock the door.
Flush condom.
Have a scoop of Ben & Jerry's.
And that's how a good girl has bad girl sex.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Warm September Rain
We're sitting in a booth and our thighs are nearly touching. I'm very, very aware of the nearlyness.
It's early days for us, but what I know of him, I like: the penchant for argyle, the passion for his work, the way his eyes linger over me...
But then it hits: a huge wave of insecurity washes over the already tipsy vessel we call the U.S.S Second Date. He thinks he's being polite, making casual conversation. He has no idea he's just entered my danger zone. I'm doing my best impression of a blandly smiling mannequin but on the inside the red lights are flashing, the captain is screaming Jump ship! and I'm frantically casting about for a lifeboat, an inflatable vest, a bloated corpse, anything.
He's just asked me about my gym habits. The stupid fucking gym. Possibly I walked right into this line of questioning having just been making fun of the yuppie zombie lululame-os in my yoga class, but no matter who's to blame (and I'm still favouring him for this one), there's no squirming my way out of the subject matter.
And why do I not want to talk about the gym?
It's not the particular shade of tomato that I turn upon exertion. It's not the mickey's worth of gin that I sweat out my pores. It's not the way spandex makes my ass look like it should be zoned for its own area code.
It's that I'm slow.
Now, I am prepared to let this be the one thing he's better at than I am. But I'm not just slower than him, slower than men. I'm also slower than all women, most toddlers, obese senior citizens, three-legged turtles, and 7 year old Heinz ketchup. I'm extraordinarily unimpressive.
And right now he's looking at me like I'm the bee's knees, like he can't believe how brilliant my non sequiturs are, like he can't get over how lucky he is to be paying for my chicken parmigiano.
Of course it's an illusion. I don't normally reapply my lipgloss 17 times an hour, and he doesn't normally reshave before dinner, and neither of us usually exist on diets consisting solely of breath mints, and yet here we are. I know it, he knows it, but we're both enjoying it nonetheless. The thing about dating is: if you like the illusion well enough, then you might take the time to peak behind the scenes and get a glimpse of the creepy little wizard who's been running the whole show.
And right now, with the candles flickering between us, and his thumb rubbing my palm, it's not time to pop the bubble. I don't need him to know the boobs-squashed-in-a-sports-bra side of me, the struggling-to-bench-press-25lbs-if-I'm-lucky side of me, the couldn't-run-faster-if-a-bear-was-chasing-me side of me.
So I distract him the only way I know how (while keeping my top on): I put my hand on his chest, and I lean in real close and I whisper You know what? You haven't kissed me yet today and though it's not true in the slightest, I know damn well he won't call me on it.
Pretty soon we're in the alleyway behind the restaurant with my back pressed against the gritty brick wall. It's raining out, but it's a surprisingly warm September rain, and the luscious drops that fall on my bare shoulders just make for a slicker sensation when he runs his hands up and down my arms. He tastes like wine and looks handsome in the moonlight.
Screw the gym: distraction is my new favourite sport.
It's early days for us, but what I know of him, I like: the penchant for argyle, the passion for his work, the way his eyes linger over me...
But then it hits: a huge wave of insecurity washes over the already tipsy vessel we call the U.S.S Second Date. He thinks he's being polite, making casual conversation. He has no idea he's just entered my danger zone. I'm doing my best impression of a blandly smiling mannequin but on the inside the red lights are flashing, the captain is screaming Jump ship! and I'm frantically casting about for a lifeboat, an inflatable vest, a bloated corpse, anything.
He's just asked me about my gym habits. The stupid fucking gym. Possibly I walked right into this line of questioning having just been making fun of the yuppie zombie lululame-os in my yoga class, but no matter who's to blame (and I'm still favouring him for this one), there's no squirming my way out of the subject matter.
And why do I not want to talk about the gym?
It's not the particular shade of tomato that I turn upon exertion. It's not the mickey's worth of gin that I sweat out my pores. It's not the way spandex makes my ass look like it should be zoned for its own area code.
It's that I'm slow.
Now, I am prepared to let this be the one thing he's better at than I am. But I'm not just slower than him, slower than men. I'm also slower than all women, most toddlers, obese senior citizens, three-legged turtles, and 7 year old Heinz ketchup. I'm extraordinarily unimpressive.
And right now he's looking at me like I'm the bee's knees, like he can't believe how brilliant my non sequiturs are, like he can't get over how lucky he is to be paying for my chicken parmigiano.
Of course it's an illusion. I don't normally reapply my lipgloss 17 times an hour, and he doesn't normally reshave before dinner, and neither of us usually exist on diets consisting solely of breath mints, and yet here we are. I know it, he knows it, but we're both enjoying it nonetheless. The thing about dating is: if you like the illusion well enough, then you might take the time to peak behind the scenes and get a glimpse of the creepy little wizard who's been running the whole show.
And right now, with the candles flickering between us, and his thumb rubbing my palm, it's not time to pop the bubble. I don't need him to know the boobs-squashed-in-a-sports-bra side of me, the struggling-to-bench-press-25lbs-if-I'm-lucky side of me, the couldn't-run-faster-if-a-bear-was-chasing-me side of me.
So I distract him the only way I know how (while keeping my top on): I put my hand on his chest, and I lean in real close and I whisper You know what? You haven't kissed me yet today and though it's not true in the slightest, I know damn well he won't call me on it.
Pretty soon we're in the alleyway behind the restaurant with my back pressed against the gritty brick wall. It's raining out, but it's a surprisingly warm September rain, and the luscious drops that fall on my bare shoulders just make for a slicker sensation when he runs his hands up and down my arms. He tastes like wine and looks handsome in the moonlight.
Screw the gym: distraction is my new favourite sport.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Members Only
Before my hair appointment, I stop to buy three things: a diet pepsi, a pack of gum, and a trashy magazine.
There's no rule stating that you couldn't read, say, The New Yorker, or a well-worn copy of the works of Arthur Miller. It's just that a head full of foils and Cosmo go together like 5-inch heels and crotchless panties. Plus, I don't think it's coincidence that an issue of Cosmo can be read in about 3 hours, which is the average time it takes to cut, colour, highlight, and style a medium length of hair. The world works in mysterious ways.
So I'm sitting there under the big hair dryer wondering if it reads my thoughts as it warms my scalp and I'm trying not to blush over the token "guy with no shirt" and I come across a shocking how-to article: how to surreptitiously measure his package.
Really.
Because you'd hate to waste a 5-minute conversation on a guy who wasn't packing at least 6 inches. And now, through the magic of Cosmo, you don't have to!
Imagine talking to a guy, finding out that he's a great person, really smart, funny, kind, then accepting a date from him, letting him pay, basking in his compliments, walking through doors he holds open, dancing in is arms, realizing you have loads in common and that he's practically perfect....except for his average penis.
What a waste!
Now you can bypass all that nonsense, save yourself from getting to know those "great" catches, and skip right to what's important: how big he is in the pants.
Cosmo offers not one but TWO fail-proof methods of sizing up a potential mate:
1. The good old stare-straight-at-his-crotch method. Now, good girls that we are, we wouldn't want to actually get caught checking out his little buddy, so Cosmo coaches us in really great undercover tactics, such as gazing in the general direction of his groin as if you're thinking deeply about something, and tapping your forehead to make it look extra realistic, or using a prop, like a book, and holding it just under the line of sight to his goods so that it looks like you're an intellectual when actually you're a perv.
But wait. It gets better.
2. The tried and tested actually-reach-out-and-touch-it method. It seems to be unsaid but understood that in a perfect world, boys would just line up, perhaps behind a table, and whip them out for close inspection, but since they're a little less forthright than this, we have to help ourselves. Now, to just outright feel someone up is called "molestation" or something like that, but helpfully picking lint off his fly? Well, that's just good citizenry! There's about to be an epidemic of invisible dick-lint, so boys, beware: guard your junk!
This is the crap with which I filled my head that day, and normally I forget about it the minute my hair is looking like it's ready for its Vidal Sassoon moment, but this time I wasn't so lucky.
The very next day, riding the train home after work, I was seated while others were still crowding around, putting a random man's penis right in my eyeline. I tried to look away, I really did. I tried to be interested in the only other scenery available to me at the time: a woman was (ironically, I assume) wearing a track suit stretched precariously over her considerable behind that offered a very obvious VPL (visible panty line) of epic proportions. But I just couldn't help myself. This man actually had lint on his crotch!
Fate was tempting me and it was only a testament to my iron will that I did not succumb...and to the fact that in my experience, men who start out a bit on the smaller side often grow to be bigger than average once erect, which is what's important, after all. So the results of Cosmo's groping tactics were a bit dubious to me.
Plus, call me old-fashioned, but I'm the kind of girl who still thinks that finding out a guy's girth is more of a second-date activity.
There's no rule stating that you couldn't read, say, The New Yorker, or a well-worn copy of the works of Arthur Miller. It's just that a head full of foils and Cosmo go together like 5-inch heels and crotchless panties. Plus, I don't think it's coincidence that an issue of Cosmo can be read in about 3 hours, which is the average time it takes to cut, colour, highlight, and style a medium length of hair. The world works in mysterious ways.
So I'm sitting there under the big hair dryer wondering if it reads my thoughts as it warms my scalp and I'm trying not to blush over the token "guy with no shirt" and I come across a shocking how-to article: how to surreptitiously measure his package.
Really.
Because you'd hate to waste a 5-minute conversation on a guy who wasn't packing at least 6 inches. And now, through the magic of Cosmo, you don't have to!
Imagine talking to a guy, finding out that he's a great person, really smart, funny, kind, then accepting a date from him, letting him pay, basking in his compliments, walking through doors he holds open, dancing in is arms, realizing you have loads in common and that he's practically perfect....except for his average penis.
What a waste!
Now you can bypass all that nonsense, save yourself from getting to know those "great" catches, and skip right to what's important: how big he is in the pants.
Cosmo offers not one but TWO fail-proof methods of sizing up a potential mate:
1. The good old stare-straight-at-his-crotch method. Now, good girls that we are, we wouldn't want to actually get caught checking out his little buddy, so Cosmo coaches us in really great undercover tactics, such as gazing in the general direction of his groin as if you're thinking deeply about something, and tapping your forehead to make it look extra realistic, or using a prop, like a book, and holding it just under the line of sight to his goods so that it looks like you're an intellectual when actually you're a perv.
But wait. It gets better.
2. The tried and tested actually-reach-out-and-touch-it method. It seems to be unsaid but understood that in a perfect world, boys would just line up, perhaps behind a table, and whip them out for close inspection, but since they're a little less forthright than this, we have to help ourselves. Now, to just outright feel someone up is called "molestation" or something like that, but helpfully picking lint off his fly? Well, that's just good citizenry! There's about to be an epidemic of invisible dick-lint, so boys, beware: guard your junk!
This is the crap with which I filled my head that day, and normally I forget about it the minute my hair is looking like it's ready for its Vidal Sassoon moment, but this time I wasn't so lucky.
The very next day, riding the train home after work, I was seated while others were still crowding around, putting a random man's penis right in my eyeline. I tried to look away, I really did. I tried to be interested in the only other scenery available to me at the time: a woman was (ironically, I assume) wearing a track suit stretched precariously over her considerable behind that offered a very obvious VPL (visible panty line) of epic proportions. But I just couldn't help myself. This man actually had lint on his crotch!
Fate was tempting me and it was only a testament to my iron will that I did not succumb...and to the fact that in my experience, men who start out a bit on the smaller side often grow to be bigger than average once erect, which is what's important, after all. So the results of Cosmo's groping tactics were a bit dubious to me.
Plus, call me old-fashioned, but I'm the kind of girl who still thinks that finding out a guy's girth is more of a second-date activity.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Watching Him Sleep
Okay, bud, it's been 7 minutes.
Show some sign of life.
I mean, the sex was good, great actually, but if you leave me lying here much longer I'm going to start to wonder whether the scent on your sheets is from a sheet of Bounce in the dryer, or merely a spritz of Febreze before I came over.
Oh, please god let these be new sheets.
All right. Maybe if I clear my throat and sit up, he'll take the hint.
...
Shit. Nope.
...
Is he snoring?
Ohgodohgodohgod, please don't let this be a sleepover.
If I call a cab and leave, he'll be mad. Also, I think that's my blouse under his ass.
Yeah, I'm going to have to make a dry-cleaner run this week. I wonder if they're still having that $3.99 special...
Christ on crutches! Great, now I'm trapped. How do I always end up with the cuddlers? Why can't I meet a nice aloof guy for once?
There's no way I'm sleeping here tonight. He doesn't even own curtains for crying out loud. Maybe if I just give him a quick jab in the ribs...
Crap. Apparently that's an invitation to grab my tit.
Jeez I wish my ass wasn't pressed up against the wall. It's cold! But if I scooch over, I'll be in the wet spot, and I don't like to brag, but that's a big fucking wet spot. Maybe I can just curl my knees around it...
Nope. That sure didn't work.
Don't panic.
Maybe I can at least roll him into it, and his body will act as a bridge which I can cross and at least go pee, and - yes! yes, it's working! - now I can just get to the bathroom, have a quick pee, maybe find an old t-shirt I can borrow to get home in, and then....wait.
What am I hearing?
Oh gawd.
Roommate.
I thought he wasn't supposed to be here tonight!
I can't very well run across the hallway naked.
Well, I suppose I could...maybe the roommate is cute. And maybe the roommate drives girls home after sex.
Oh stop it. You're not really that mean, are you?
Don't answer that.
Oh man, I need to get out of here like NOW.
Maybe you write a note, borrow a t-shirt and call a cab once you've made it outside.
If he's mad in the morning, you can tell him that he was saying his ex-girlfriend's name in his sleep again. That'll shut him up.
Now I just have to extricate myself without waking him up...
Okay, he's on my hair.
Not cool.
Then, if I can just wiggle south....
Abort! Abort!
The giant stirs!
"Hey, where do you think you're going?"
"Um....home."
"You can't go home."
"I can't?"
"Nope."
"But you were sleeping!"
"Well fuck, you take a lot out of a guy, you know. But now that I'm rested up a bit, I wasn't quite done with you. Think you can stay for a bit?"
:)
Show some sign of life.
I mean, the sex was good, great actually, but if you leave me lying here much longer I'm going to start to wonder whether the scent on your sheets is from a sheet of Bounce in the dryer, or merely a spritz of Febreze before I came over.
Oh, please god let these be new sheets.
All right. Maybe if I clear my throat and sit up, he'll take the hint.
...
Shit. Nope.
...
Is he snoring?
Ohgodohgodohgod, please don't let this be a sleepover.
If I call a cab and leave, he'll be mad. Also, I think that's my blouse under his ass.
Yeah, I'm going to have to make a dry-cleaner run this week. I wonder if they're still having that $3.99 special...
Christ on crutches! Great, now I'm trapped. How do I always end up with the cuddlers? Why can't I meet a nice aloof guy for once?
There's no way I'm sleeping here tonight. He doesn't even own curtains for crying out loud. Maybe if I just give him a quick jab in the ribs...
Crap. Apparently that's an invitation to grab my tit.
Jeez I wish my ass wasn't pressed up against the wall. It's cold! But if I scooch over, I'll be in the wet spot, and I don't like to brag, but that's a big fucking wet spot. Maybe I can just curl my knees around it...
Nope. That sure didn't work.
Don't panic.
Maybe I can at least roll him into it, and his body will act as a bridge which I can cross and at least go pee, and - yes! yes, it's working! - now I can just get to the bathroom, have a quick pee, maybe find an old t-shirt I can borrow to get home in, and then....wait.
What am I hearing?
Oh gawd.
Roommate.
I thought he wasn't supposed to be here tonight!
I can't very well run across the hallway naked.
Well, I suppose I could...maybe the roommate is cute. And maybe the roommate drives girls home after sex.
Oh stop it. You're not really that mean, are you?
Don't answer that.
Oh man, I need to get out of here like NOW.
Maybe you write a note, borrow a t-shirt and call a cab once you've made it outside.
If he's mad in the morning, you can tell him that he was saying his ex-girlfriend's name in his sleep again. That'll shut him up.
Now I just have to extricate myself without waking him up...
Okay, he's on my hair.
Not cool.
Then, if I can just wiggle south....
Abort! Abort!
The giant stirs!
"Hey, where do you think you're going?"
"Um....home."
"You can't go home."
"I can't?"
"Nope."
"But you were sleeping!"
"Well fuck, you take a lot out of a guy, you know. But now that I'm rested up a bit, I wasn't quite done with you. Think you can stay for a bit?"
:)
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Where My Mouth Is.
He kissed me on his front porch, stooping to fit his frame to mine, folding himself around me, taking my face in his hands, his huge and deliciously calloused hands, and he kissed me so gently even my socks were surprised. He softly kissed the corner of my mouth until I felt the berry juice start to run, and it may not have been my house but I asked him in anyway.
Oh, the hot tub.
Ooooohhhh, the hot tub. Oooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Oh, the naughty, slippery things we did underwater while the heat made me drunk, and weak in the knees, and properly aimed bubbles made me blush, and convulse, and strongly mixed margaritas made me brave, and his stubble made the places where grazed my skin with his lips tickle, and a big strong cowboy made me cumcumcum.
And just when I thought I barely had the energy to find where my panties were tossed hours ago, I somehow managed to find just a little bit more so we screwed up against the back of the house, with my legs wrapped tightly around his waist and the privacy hedges doing very little to block the sound of my moans from the poor guy barbecuing next door.
When I woke up, it was dark out, and I was already having a slow fuck in the soft grass, underneath stars that winked back at me, with a man who is at this moment walking around with my teeth marks in his shoulder.
And that's what life is all about.
He introduced me to his sexy shower, and the glories of making out fully clothed underneath a rain head, letting the warm droplets slither down into the sticky curves of my body, the heat of his hands sliding over every inch of me, fingers in the wet curls of my hair, my back against the blue tiled wall, his mouth crushing mine and his tongue proving that he wasn't always such a gentleman.
He stripped me of my sopping clothing, peeling each piece with aching precision, and when I was naked, he was suddenly shy until I grabbed him by his big belt buckle and freed him of his pants.
We never made it to the bed.
We did, however, make it to (make it on?) the rug in front of his bed (twice) (hello, carpet burns in funny places!), and on his kitchen counter with the blinds (and my legs) wide open, up against the hood of his truck in the garage (hood -ornament-shaped-bruise on my belly), and the hot tub.Oh, the hot tub.
Ooooohhhh, the hot tub. Oooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Oh, the naughty, slippery things we did underwater while the heat made me drunk, and weak in the knees, and properly aimed bubbles made me blush, and convulse, and strongly mixed margaritas made me brave, and his stubble made the places where grazed my skin with his lips tickle, and a big strong cowboy made me cumcumcum.
And just when I thought I barely had the energy to find where my panties were tossed hours ago, I somehow managed to find just a little bit more so we screwed up against the back of the house, with my legs wrapped tightly around his waist and the privacy hedges doing very little to block the sound of my moans from the poor guy barbecuing next door.
When I woke up, it was dark out, and I was already having a slow fuck in the soft grass, underneath stars that winked back at me, with a man who is at this moment walking around with my teeth marks in his shoulder.
And that's what life is all about.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Jay's Guide to Office Etiquette: How to give your man a boner on the company dime
When sitting at your desk, shoulders hunched toward the glow of your computer screen, papers piled in haphazard "organization" all around you, books propped open for easy reference (or at least to make it look good), it is surprisingly easy to appear to be working, even working quite hard, when in reality exchanging naughty text messages with a certain boy.
Not that I know this from experience.
I'm just throwing theories out there.
Of course, you then run the risk of blushing over these hypothetical dirty texts, and then your nosy (wonderfully nosy) coworker asks rather loudly what on earth could make "a girl like Jay" blush.
To which you could potentially respond: "I'm not blushing, I'm just flushed from the excitement of a job well done!" which is such a load of bullshit that you just blush all the redder.
And somehow your cell phone knows this is a bad time, and because your cell phone hates you (of course it hates you! didn't you just crush it in the crack of a recliner during a bout of random drunkenness? oh yes. yes you did)....because your cell phone hates you, it beeps loudly, louder than usual I'm sure, to alert the whole office that Jay's latest fling is inquiring as to the current state of her panties, should she actually be wearing any.
So all heads turn towards the sound of the incoming text, and in a fit of cleverness you can only attribute to all the aspartame you've consumed, you turn your head as well....toward the guy who sits beside you. That's right. When deflecting blame from yourself, never be afraid to pass it on to the innocent sucker sitting nearby. To really "sell it", you could do the "slight nod of disapproval", or even go so far as to cluck your tongue in disappointment at his utter disregard for those actually trying to work, goddammit.
So now you slide your cell under your desk, where surely no one will notice you replying feverishly. Getting caught sending sexy texts is almost as bad as getting caught in your friend's bed mid-blowjob. Or something.
Not that I would know about that first-hand, either. I'm just guessing.
And when that seems like poor camouflage (because texting furtively under your desk looks a lot like wanking it from your coworkers' perspective), just go directly to the ladies' room, where the stalls are all occupied with women sending penis-themed messages to their hunnies. It kind of makes you wonder how the heck any work ever gets done, but then you remember that it's company policy to always employ at least 10% anti-social virgins (who eat their lunches at their desks, bring potted plants to work, knit in their free moments, and only wash their hair on special occasions), and you feel the relief of not being counted upon to be even remotely productive.
The day goes by amazingly quickly once you make the decision to stop actually working at work and just piss away the time by taunting boys and rendering them useless at their own places of employment (if you're texting well, the poor things won't even be able to stand up). All this lack of an honest day's hard work would normally have you feeling unsatisfied come 5 o'clock, but I have discovered an ingenious way of filling your chest with a real sense of accomplishment: expensing those naughty text messages!
Pity the fool that ever gave me a company credit card.
Not that I know this from experience.
I'm just throwing theories out there.
Of course, you then run the risk of blushing over these hypothetical dirty texts, and then your nosy (wonderfully nosy) coworker asks rather loudly what on earth could make "a girl like Jay" blush.
To which you could potentially respond: "I'm not blushing, I'm just flushed from the excitement of a job well done!" which is such a load of bullshit that you just blush all the redder.
And somehow your cell phone knows this is a bad time, and because your cell phone hates you (of course it hates you! didn't you just crush it in the crack of a recliner during a bout of random drunkenness? oh yes. yes you did)....because your cell phone hates you, it beeps loudly, louder than usual I'm sure, to alert the whole office that Jay's latest fling is inquiring as to the current state of her panties, should she actually be wearing any.
So all heads turn towards the sound of the incoming text, and in a fit of cleverness you can only attribute to all the aspartame you've consumed, you turn your head as well....toward the guy who sits beside you. That's right. When deflecting blame from yourself, never be afraid to pass it on to the innocent sucker sitting nearby. To really "sell it", you could do the "slight nod of disapproval", or even go so far as to cluck your tongue in disappointment at his utter disregard for those actually trying to work, goddammit.
So now you slide your cell under your desk, where surely no one will notice you replying feverishly. Getting caught sending sexy texts is almost as bad as getting caught in your friend's bed mid-blowjob. Or something.
Not that I would know about that first-hand, either. I'm just guessing.
And when that seems like poor camouflage (because texting furtively under your desk looks a lot like wanking it from your coworkers' perspective), just go directly to the ladies' room, where the stalls are all occupied with women sending penis-themed messages to their hunnies. It kind of makes you wonder how the heck any work ever gets done, but then you remember that it's company policy to always employ at least 10% anti-social virgins (who eat their lunches at their desks, bring potted plants to work, knit in their free moments, and only wash their hair on special occasions), and you feel the relief of not being counted upon to be even remotely productive.
The day goes by amazingly quickly once you make the decision to stop actually working at work and just piss away the time by taunting boys and rendering them useless at their own places of employment (if you're texting well, the poor things won't even be able to stand up). All this lack of an honest day's hard work would normally have you feeling unsatisfied come 5 o'clock, but I have discovered an ingenious way of filling your chest with a real sense of accomplishment: expensing those naughty text messages!
Pity the fool that ever gave me a company credit card.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Name That Boyfriend!
About 45 minutes into our date, he pretty much had me figured out. As he pleaded with me to have even one chicken wing, so as not to let them go to waste, he then pointed at my accidentally third rye and coke (to his half a Guinness) and mumbled something about it certainly not going to waste. And it didn't. I gave each and every one of them a good home, and still got off my bar stool in a practically-lady-like fashion (thank you jesus, I wasn't wearing a skirt).
About three hours, 2 drinks, and 1 joint later, we were lying in bed when I had my aha moment. I was being a little....handsy...when I made an unexpected discovery, prompting him into a quick confession.
Oh, by the way, he says. I only have one testicle.
He only has one testicle!
I mean, his testicles still outnumber my testicles, but by a much slimmer margin than I am accustomed to.
And mustn't it be lonely in there, swinging away all day without a twin? Does it throw him off balance? And how can I tactfully ask these questions? It's not exactly typical first-date fodder: where did you go to school? do you like your job? are your brothers hot? what happened to your other ball?
So, I'm trying to find something to say to that. Something one-testicle-positive. Something to put him at ease. Something to break the weird shroud of silence that fell immediately after the one-nut discovery. I mean, should I confess some medical mystery of my own? But somehow the scar that I acquired from a bad double-dutch-skipping accident pales in comparison to a testicle that's mia. How am I to compete with that?
Luckily, I managed to nonverbally communicate the fact that, oh! one ball! neat! doesn't bother me at all! see what we can still do! and from this angle! oh, that tickles! And by the time I got through nonverbally showing him how cool I think his one ball is, I was thinking to myself, I'd like to do that again.
Only not.
Because there's a problem.
A nontesticular problem.
He has a horrid first name.
Stop the presses! For the record, I DID know his name before all of this, thankyouverymuch. I just didn't realize it was going to be such a problem until I was saying the name out loud, over and over, kind of insistently, while being slapped in strange places by one hairy ball (what? who says you didn't need to know that?).
Why couldn't he be a Leonard, or a Wilbur, or a Harold, or a Thumbelina, if it came to that?
Why on earth did he have to be another Jason?
Because it's already getting a little messy. Anything I say, I have to qualify with New-Jason and Old-Jason, or Sane-Jason and Crazy-Jason, or The One I Don't Hate Yet (just kidding) (mostly). So I was thinking you might help me come up with a nickname for (New) Jason, one that does not contain the phrase "The One Nut Wonder", preferably.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Bet You Can't Have Just One.
Man on the street: Hey pretty lady, what are you so smiley about?
Me: I just had 15 orgasms.
Man on the street: Oh.
If I had known how quickly that shuts up men, I would have been using it years ago!
Me: I just had 15 orgasms.
Man on the street: Oh.
If I had known how quickly that shuts up men, I would have been using it years ago!
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Random Encouters of the Perverted Kind
I think by now it's well-documented that either my pheromones are putting forth a big stink or someone taped a sign to my back, but either way, I'm getting stopped on the street like crazy.
At first I thought it was just a fluke of my neighbourhood - either all the horndogs live on my block, or there was a blonde shortage, or they're all a bunch of lascivious drunks - but the truth is, as long as I'm alone, I will get stopped no matter where I am. Not just my flirty men, but primarily by flirty men.
Actually, on the weekend I was with Jason, walking up my street at night, when a cheerily drunken fellow us bid us good evening, and I wished him one back, which put Jason's panties in a bunch. "Don't encourage them!" he hissed, as if being polite is somehow a bad thing. But then he was distracted - the red blotches we were following were almost certainly blood, and we began to wonder where this trail would lead us. However, when the drips of blood ended, there was a very large pool of blood, which means it was the beginning, not the end. The shattered plate glass door seemed to be to blame. We had just missed a bar brawl, and whoever got cup up during the smashing had obviously fled the scene. Jason grabbed me tighter and insisted I not walk at night anymore (not that I ever listen).
At first I thought it was just a fluke of my neighbourhood - either all the horndogs live on my block, or there was a blonde shortage, or they're all a bunch of lascivious drunks - but the truth is, as long as I'm alone, I will get stopped no matter where I am. Not just my flirty men, but primarily by flirty men.
Actually, on the weekend I was with Jason, walking up my street at night, when a cheerily drunken fellow us bid us good evening, and I wished him one back, which put Jason's panties in a bunch. "Don't encourage them!" he hissed, as if being polite is somehow a bad thing. But then he was distracted - the red blotches we were following were almost certainly blood, and we began to wonder where this trail would lead us. However, when the drips of blood ended, there was a very large pool of blood, which means it was the beginning, not the end. The shattered plate glass door seemed to be to blame. We had just missed a bar brawl, and whoever got cup up during the smashing had obviously fled the scene. Jason grabbed me tighter and insisted I not walk at night anymore (not that I ever listen).
- A man stopped me on Davenport to ask me where my dog was. Apparently the only reason anyone ever walks in Toronto is to let their pet crap.
- Walking down Ellesmere a guy wearing a wife beater looked me up and down, licked his lips (this happens in real life!?!?!) and said Why don't you take me home with you? , except with way worse grammar that I will not stoop to copy.
- Waiting for a bus on Dundas, the little old lady who was waiting beside me noticed a hand-written sign saying we should head "2 poles north" for a detour bus. Crossing the intersection, a man walking by said "You look very beautiful this morning" to which the little old lady replied "WHAT?!?!?!", and he repeated "Um, she looks very beautiful this morning." And the lady turned to me and said, "You really do." And then we saw a really big plush horse, discarded in the middle of the sidewalk.
- Catching a street car on St. Clair, this really old couple came over to me and told me all of their problems - they haven't been in this end of the city in 40 years, and they're very lost, and they just want to get back on the Yonge-University line. I assured them that I could get them there, and they stood flanking me, so encroached upon my personal space that anyone walking by would assume that I was a beloved granddaughter, and not a complete stranger with a rudimentary knowledge of the subway system.
- Last week I walked to Dufferin Mall on a day it was supposed to rain - I figured the rain would alleviate the heat and make the walk more bearable. But it never did rain. So when I got to my destination I made a beeline for the vending machine, where some dude bought his beverage and then offered to buy mine so gallantly that you'd swear he'd just offered me a bottle of Dom instead of flat Pepsi.
- On the walk back, a guy dismounted from his bike, panting, and sheepishly admitted how hot it was. He walked his bike beside me for several blocks, asking me all the standard pre-asking-out-on-a-date questions, and while I felt somewhat relieved (because he was cute, and my age, whereas a good many of the flirters are not), I mostly felt grossed out, because what the hell is he doing picking me up when I look like this? (note: "like this"= walking "shorts" that used to be ugly pants that I shortened myself, a shirt the colour of cantaloupe flesh, which usually only attracts bees, unwashed hair in a scrappy ponytail, nothing on my face except sunscreen and sweat. Not hot.
- A man with white chest hair peaking out from between the strained buttons of his denim shirt tapped me on the shoulder to tell me that I was a classy and refined kind of woman. "Know how I can tell?" he asked, and I wrinkled my nose instead of answering, but he told me anyway: "It's because you have such delicate ankles. You can tell a lot from a woman's ankles." I'm not sure if this line used to work in 1957, but I wasn't buying it. In fact, I do not even have particularly delicate ankles. Get a clue.
- Not two blocks later another man came running up behind me, and I moved over so he could run by, but instead he slowed down and said "Whew, I caught you" which I pretended not to hear. "You look like you could use some company" he said, which I pretended not to hear. "Do you maybe want to sit and talk" which I also ignored. And then I made yet another last-minute, unplanned turned down an unknown street to ditch a guy I don't know.
- I was sitting on a park bench reading Death of the Heart, and a guy in a suit sat down beside me, close. And he bumped my leg with his leg. And then he did it again. And then he kind of rubbed them together, which prompted me to say "Don't touch me", which I thought was clear. Until he rubbed some more. So I said "If you do that again, I'm going to yell PERVERT!", and I kind of yelled it then a bit too, so he got up and left.
- I was having a little stroll around the neighbourhood after the sun went down, and an older woman in a shawl was waiting for the light to change. "I like to walk at night time" she told me. "Me too", I said "it's so much less hot." "Oh yes, the heat, all day I take ice baths. But me, I walk at night because it's quiet and too many people make me wobble. I wear the special pantyhose, but still I wobble on the swelled ankles. I eat many apples a day but it never stops." We passed by a house that lots of birdcages hanging from the porch, and she said "Some people are so strange."
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Kiss Your Past Goodbye
He wasn't my Pacey, or even my Dawson, he was just a guy I fucked around with.
Well, that might be selling him short a bit.
The attraction is still pretty much a mystery to me. I mean, he was blond, and a hockey player, and he had a tattoo of a snake on his bicep, heaven help me. Not my type at all. And we were together during a time in my life when I thought looking good meant wearing my corduroy overalls. True story.
We had no pretense of friendship. We probably wouldn't have liked each other very much, if we had bothered to get to know the slightest thing about one another, but ignorance is bliss, or so they say, and my god were we blissful.
I was probably 16 or 17, and I didn't believe in dating. Well, I believed it existed, but I believed it existed only for evil. As far as I could see, it turned reasonable girls into mindless dolts, and prohibited you from ever seeing the ending to the movies you'd paid to see.
While I didn't have boyfriends, I did have lovers, though I suspect that word is a bit too gracious for some of the eager yet inexperienced fumblings that some boys called sex (it's no wonder that I quickly acquired a taste for older men). And for the most part, this worked out well for me.
Not to say that Trevor was an exception, because he wasn't. Just that our "relationship" consisted solely of sex, with an occasional pre-bed drink or snack. The only time we spent out of bed, we watched a videotape of Eddie Murphy doing stand-up...and frankly, I'm still trying to figure that one out. Luckily, we filled in the awkward silences with mind-blowing sex, practicing feats of strength, endurance, and acrobatics that still give me shivers to think about almost 10 years later. Afterward we were too tired and sated to chat, so we'd doze on our separate corners of bed, until it was time for him to drive me home. In the car, I'd turn on the radio just loud enough to make attempts at conversation a foregone impossibility.
Eventually I stopped answering his phone calls, and we parted without saying so because break-ups aren't necessary when you were never together.
Why, then, when I was admiring the crisp redness of some sweet peppers at a local veggie stand and looked up to see him, did I feel an immediate need to duck into the shop and not be seen?
Hiding wasn't necessary, in the end, because he was walking on the other side of the street, and in fact, from that distance I couldn't even be sure that it was him. Just that it sure looked like him. But why hadn't I wanted to say hello?
The closest I could come to a good guess was that since we hadn't had anything to talk about while we were fucking 10 years ago, we'd probably have even less to say to each other now. And I hate the artifice of small talk, I hate being forced to ask How've you been doing? when the truth is, in all this time, I have seldom wondered what or how he'd been doing.
I was quite happy to leave Trevor in the past.
But it got me thinking, because a friend of mine has badgered me into joining Facebook, and even after 6 months of pestering, I'm still not sure why I opened the account. Maybe there are a lot of people out there thinking about lost connections, old flames, and friends who have faded away, but I'm not one of them. For the most part, I've kept in touch with all the people I've cared about keeping in touch with. I don't believe that all friendships are meant to last the ages. I think some are designed for a specific time in your life, and trying to rekindle them later on is almost always a mistake. People change, circumstances change. If you stopped talking to a friend, whether due to falling out, or neglect, they can't have been a great friend to begin with. And as for all the forgotten acquaintances - people who shared the halls of my high school, colleagues who used the copier after me, friends of old boyfriends whom I never should have dated in the first place...well, I have very little curiosity. The past is past, and I'd like it to stay that way.
But now it seems that either Facebook will drag these people back into my present, or, even more alarmingly, they might just move into my neighbourhood and catch me feeling up my vegetables.
So what's a girl who hasn't a nostalgic bone in her body to do when the past catches up with her? Invite it back to her place for cocktails?
Wear dark glasses and stop answering to her own name?
Pull up the pegs and run?
I mean, it's not that I don't love my life. I'm proud of who I am and what I've done. I've got a few twisted stories, but I'm sure I could boil it down to a saccharine story suitable to be divulged within the hallowed halls of Horton's. I guess it's mostly that I don't want to. Sorry Trevor, I guess my horny-meathead days are over.
Well, that might be selling him short a bit.
The attraction is still pretty much a mystery to me. I mean, he was blond, and a hockey player, and he had a tattoo of a snake on his bicep, heaven help me. Not my type at all. And we were together during a time in my life when I thought looking good meant wearing my corduroy overalls. True story.
We had no pretense of friendship. We probably wouldn't have liked each other very much, if we had bothered to get to know the slightest thing about one another, but ignorance is bliss, or so they say, and my god were we blissful.
I was probably 16 or 17, and I didn't believe in dating. Well, I believed it existed, but I believed it existed only for evil. As far as I could see, it turned reasonable girls into mindless dolts, and prohibited you from ever seeing the ending to the movies you'd paid to see.
While I didn't have boyfriends, I did have lovers, though I suspect that word is a bit too gracious for some of the eager yet inexperienced fumblings that some boys called sex (it's no wonder that I quickly acquired a taste for older men). And for the most part, this worked out well for me.
Not to say that Trevor was an exception, because he wasn't. Just that our "relationship" consisted solely of sex, with an occasional pre-bed drink or snack. The only time we spent out of bed, we watched a videotape of Eddie Murphy doing stand-up...and frankly, I'm still trying to figure that one out. Luckily, we filled in the awkward silences with mind-blowing sex, practicing feats of strength, endurance, and acrobatics that still give me shivers to think about almost 10 years later. Afterward we were too tired and sated to chat, so we'd doze on our separate corners of bed, until it was time for him to drive me home. In the car, I'd turn on the radio just loud enough to make attempts at conversation a foregone impossibility.
Eventually I stopped answering his phone calls, and we parted without saying so because break-ups aren't necessary when you were never together.
Why, then, when I was admiring the crisp redness of some sweet peppers at a local veggie stand and looked up to see him, did I feel an immediate need to duck into the shop and not be seen?
Hiding wasn't necessary, in the end, because he was walking on the other side of the street, and in fact, from that distance I couldn't even be sure that it was him. Just that it sure looked like him. But why hadn't I wanted to say hello?
The closest I could come to a good guess was that since we hadn't had anything to talk about while we were fucking 10 years ago, we'd probably have even less to say to each other now. And I hate the artifice of small talk, I hate being forced to ask How've you been doing? when the truth is, in all this time, I have seldom wondered what or how he'd been doing.
I was quite happy to leave Trevor in the past.
But it got me thinking, because a friend of mine has badgered me into joining Facebook, and even after 6 months of pestering, I'm still not sure why I opened the account. Maybe there are a lot of people out there thinking about lost connections, old flames, and friends who have faded away, but I'm not one of them. For the most part, I've kept in touch with all the people I've cared about keeping in touch with. I don't believe that all friendships are meant to last the ages. I think some are designed for a specific time in your life, and trying to rekindle them later on is almost always a mistake. People change, circumstances change. If you stopped talking to a friend, whether due to falling out, or neglect, they can't have been a great friend to begin with. And as for all the forgotten acquaintances - people who shared the halls of my high school, colleagues who used the copier after me, friends of old boyfriends whom I never should have dated in the first place...well, I have very little curiosity. The past is past, and I'd like it to stay that way.
But now it seems that either Facebook will drag these people back into my present, or, even more alarmingly, they might just move into my neighbourhood and catch me feeling up my vegetables.
So what's a girl who hasn't a nostalgic bone in her body to do when the past catches up with her? Invite it back to her place for cocktails?
Wear dark glasses and stop answering to her own name?
Pull up the pegs and run?
I mean, it's not that I don't love my life. I'm proud of who I am and what I've done. I've got a few twisted stories, but I'm sure I could boil it down to a saccharine story suitable to be divulged within the hallowed halls of Horton's. I guess it's mostly that I don't want to. Sorry Trevor, I guess my horny-meathead days are over.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
Pillow Talk
Jamie: Wow, you were really good. Like, wow.
Jason: Go team!
And high fives all around.
It's not just us, right?
Jason: Go team!
And high fives all around.
It's not just us, right?
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
The Freckle.
You taste like nothing in this waking world
Your lips paint a dreamscape I'd gladly melt into
Until you take me by the wrist a little roughly
Lead me to the room where you've made a nest
Out of old familiar satin sheets
And then you cover me to uncover me,
Discover me and rediscover me,
Reacquaint yourself with curves you've not forgotten.
Eyelashes on my stomach; hot breath at my nape
In what's left of dying light
I see your irises iridescent with greedy intent
Your body bathed in shadows
That hide in all your hallowed hollows.
Your mouth, already swollen from crushing kisses,
Brushes my ear as you hold yourself against me
Remember when I moved in you, I hear,
And I shiver savagely at the memory
The fire licks between my legs and I combust.
But though I ache with all the wanting,
Though the very marrow of my bones sings for you,
You take time for adulation
At the chapel of my chest
The Centre of the Universe, you call it
While the rest of the world calls it freckle.
As you slide across my skin again
I lose myself in a swoon of surrender
I wrap my legs around you
I keep you close, and closer
I part my lips to taste forever
You trace them with responsive fingertips
And like waves breaking on the sandy beach of my soul
You slip inside against my molten current.
You reach inside of me, so deep inside
And when I gasp you know you're golden
And silver in the moonlight
I sway my hips as if I'm dancing
We dance together in the dusk.
Only my shoulders still touch the bed
As you slam into my senses
I am punch-drunk with your lust and my lust
But when your fingers find my sweetest spot
I am sobered by the stimulation.
And then we shout into the darkness
Together, two frantic voices, two arching bodies
We collapse and lay panting like satiated animals
In the bed where we've embraced for years
Where we sleep and suck and screw
Where you pray to The Centre of the Universe.
Your lips paint a dreamscape I'd gladly melt into
Until you take me by the wrist a little roughly
Lead me to the room where you've made a nest
Out of old familiar satin sheets
And then you cover me to uncover me,
Discover me and rediscover me,
Reacquaint yourself with curves you've not forgotten.
Eyelashes on my stomach; hot breath at my nape
In what's left of dying light
I see your irises iridescent with greedy intent
Your body bathed in shadows
That hide in all your hallowed hollows.
Your mouth, already swollen from crushing kisses,
Brushes my ear as you hold yourself against me
Remember when I moved in you, I hear,
And I shiver savagely at the memory
The fire licks between my legs and I combust.
But though I ache with all the wanting,
Though the very marrow of my bones sings for you,
You take time for adulation
At the chapel of my chest
The Centre of the Universe, you call it
While the rest of the world calls it freckle.
As you slide across my skin again
I lose myself in a swoon of surrender
I wrap my legs around you
I keep you close, and closer
I part my lips to taste forever
You trace them with responsive fingertips
And like waves breaking on the sandy beach of my soul
You slip inside against my molten current.
You reach inside of me, so deep inside
And when I gasp you know you're golden
And silver in the moonlight
I sway my hips as if I'm dancing
We dance together in the dusk.
Only my shoulders still touch the bed
As you slam into my senses
I am punch-drunk with your lust and my lust
But when your fingers find my sweetest spot
I am sobered by the stimulation.
And then we shout into the darkness
Together, two frantic voices, two arching bodies
We collapse and lay panting like satiated animals
In the bed where we've embraced for years
Where we sleep and suck and screw
Where you pray to The Centre of the Universe.
Friday, January 06, 2006
Morning Erection
I wake up in the morning, and it's already there, waiting for me. It doesn't bother being subtle; it's like the proverbial pink elephant, except this pink elephant is doing a sexy belly dance while licking its lips suggestively at me. In other words, there's no ignoring it.
I think it prudent to get up and do a few stretches first. I practically have to step over it in order to leave the room, and it's not easy. It seems bigger in the morning light, bigger than it did last night, but maybe that's because this morning I am tired and instead of thinking of it as a fun challenge, it's beginning to feel like my Everest. I look around for my Tenzing Norgay, but there's no one here but Jason and I.
There's no use putting it off, so I grab hold, and dive right in.
There's nothing like screwing in the morning, I always say. And so we do. There's just something irresistible about starting off the day trying to fit one part into another, and then enjoying the thrill of success when they join.
There's a reason why they call it a labour of love. Jason and I work together in such a way that in no longer feels like work. We sync up. We break out in identical sweats. He is the hammer, and I hold still.
And in the end, we've made something very special; we've made a bookcase. And we didn't even need the instructions.
I think it prudent to get up and do a few stretches first. I practically have to step over it in order to leave the room, and it's not easy. It seems bigger in the morning light, bigger than it did last night, but maybe that's because this morning I am tired and instead of thinking of it as a fun challenge, it's beginning to feel like my Everest. I look around for my Tenzing Norgay, but there's no one here but Jason and I.
There's no use putting it off, so I grab hold, and dive right in.
There's nothing like screwing in the morning, I always say. And so we do. There's just something irresistible about starting off the day trying to fit one part into another, and then enjoying the thrill of success when they join.
There's a reason why they call it a labour of love. Jason and I work together in such a way that in no longer feels like work. We sync up. We break out in identical sweats. He is the hammer, and I hold still.
And in the end, we've made something very special; we've made a bookcase. And we didn't even need the instructions.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Sex is Damn Funny
The incident: So, Sunday morning we were having a little sumfin sumfin that turned out to be a memorably funny episode. I managed to contain myself for only a few seconds, and then collapsed into a fit of giggles. Jason collapsed soon after, pinning me face-down between him and the mattress. With every giggle I risked aspirating more mattress, but it was impossible to stop.
And then we had "one of those days":
Scene 1: the grocery store
Context: sale on Pepsi; limit 12 per customer
Jason is quickly burrowing into the cart, trying to make room for the 12 2L bottles of Pepsi that are impossible to pass up. He hears an indistinct thud, but keeps on task clearing space. When he turns around, he finds his wife with a pained look on her face. Her right leg is buried knee-high under Pepsi.
Jamie: Didn't you hear the bang?
Jason: I heard a bang, but I didn't imagine that it was you!
Jamie: I'm ALWAYS involved when there's banging!
Of course we dissolved into laughter all over again at that. A fellow shopper not only shot me a very dirty look, but she actually placed her hands over her daughter's ears. Sheesh. Now my foot is bruised and throbbing, and I can't help but remember how look it took to heal from an eerily similar Perrier episode earlier this summer.
Scene 2: our bathroom
Context: mounting a rack on the back of the door for towels and such
Jamie: I hate screwing! I'm so sore from screwing I'll never screw again.
Jason: (on the phone, unbeknownst to Jamie), Um, yes Mom, that's Jay...she says hi.
For some reason, Jason has a real knack for calling people right before I say something very incriminating.
Scene 3: a little store that sells old records, movies, etc
Context: Jason has just flipped to a DVD he thinks I'll get a kick out of, The Pickle
The Pickle just makes me frown. It reminds me of a month ago, when we were in this new city looking to rent a new apartment, and we drove by a mall that mysteriously advertised The Pickle Barrel. For the next week, I dreamed of the barrels filled with pickles, dreamed even of sample pickles on sticks, adored this little pickle store...until we actually moved, and to my chagrin, discovered that The Pickle Barrel was just a restaurant and nothing special at all.
Jamie: I'm not impressed, considering the recent episode I had with a disappointing pickle.
Ohmigod, how did that one even come out of my mouth? We laughed so hard I'm surprised we weren't kicked out.
Scene D: Yorkdale
Context: aggressive salesman darts out of nowhere with sample moisturizer
Jamie: (emphatically) No thanks.
Jason: Oof. Shut down.
Jamie: Well you know I don't like it when random men squirt their stuff on me.
...
And then we had "one of those days":
Scene 1: the grocery store
Context: sale on Pepsi; limit 12 per customer
Jason is quickly burrowing into the cart, trying to make room for the 12 2L bottles of Pepsi that are impossible to pass up. He hears an indistinct thud, but keeps on task clearing space. When he turns around, he finds his wife with a pained look on her face. Her right leg is buried knee-high under Pepsi.
Jamie: Didn't you hear the bang?
Jason: I heard a bang, but I didn't imagine that it was you!
Jamie: I'm ALWAYS involved when there's banging!
Of course we dissolved into laughter all over again at that. A fellow shopper not only shot me a very dirty look, but she actually placed her hands over her daughter's ears. Sheesh. Now my foot is bruised and throbbing, and I can't help but remember how look it took to heal from an eerily similar Perrier episode earlier this summer.
Scene 2: our bathroom
Context: mounting a rack on the back of the door for towels and such
Jamie: I hate screwing! I'm so sore from screwing I'll never screw again.
Jason: (on the phone, unbeknownst to Jamie), Um, yes Mom, that's Jay...she says hi.
For some reason, Jason has a real knack for calling people right before I say something very incriminating.
Scene 3: a little store that sells old records, movies, etc
Context: Jason has just flipped to a DVD he thinks I'll get a kick out of, The Pickle
The Pickle just makes me frown. It reminds me of a month ago, when we were in this new city looking to rent a new apartment, and we drove by a mall that mysteriously advertised The Pickle Barrel. For the next week, I dreamed of the barrels filled with pickles, dreamed even of sample pickles on sticks, adored this little pickle store...until we actually moved, and to my chagrin, discovered that The Pickle Barrel was just a restaurant and nothing special at all.
Jamie: I'm not impressed, considering the recent episode I had with a disappointing pickle.
Ohmigod, how did that one even come out of my mouth? We laughed so hard I'm surprised we weren't kicked out.
Scene D: Yorkdale
Context: aggressive salesman darts out of nowhere with sample moisturizer
Jamie: (emphatically) No thanks.
Jason: Oof. Shut down.
Jamie: Well you know I don't like it when random men squirt their stuff on me.
...
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
"If they give you ruled paper, write the other way" - Juan Ramon Jimenez
Wednesday: a Micro-Story
He lays with the sheet twisted about his waist, palms pressed against his naked chest as it gently rises and falls, long lashes resting peacefully on his cheeks. I adore him in dark silence. My 4am indulgence makes for a golden day.
He lays with the sheet twisted about his waist, palms pressed against his naked chest as it gently rises and falls, long lashes resting peacefully on his cheeks. I adore him in dark silence. My 4am indulgence makes for a golden day.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
The Post That Had No Title
It was like fire. I went up in a woosh like a fallow, thirsty field. I crackled with flames as they engulfed the bed. My fingers, clenching white linen sheets, and my toes, curled in the sweet agony of "almost", shot sparks into the darkness of the room.
My back arched, and I levitated off the mattress. My body strained against its own limits, like a cherry not yet plucked from a tree. A hum filled the air like electricity before a storm; the hairs on my arms stood up in static arousal. Mmm, they hummed; Mmm, I hummed.
Hair matted on the pillow; yellow if you could see it, yellow even if you can't. Sweat traces a path down the burning of my body, between my breasts, on the back of my neck, sliding down the scorching places where your kisses turned affection into lust.
You whisper dirty secrets to my body; you promise with your tongue. Desire is delirium, and your fingers are my fix. I moan and thrash and buck against you so you'll know the depth of my need.
I'm standing on the edge of the highest elevation. My breath comes in hot, sultry gasps and my head is both cloudy and clear at once. I reach up to the tips of my toes; I teeter there, holding on just barely to the ledge, teasing and testing with my endurance. Higher and higher I go, climbing greedily, hungrily, like a carnal predator that's been deprived. I claw upwards until I can no longer bear it, until I've reached the utmost summit, the very apex, the ultimate climax of my journey. I would stay there forever just to feel the coursing power in my veins, but my body can't support it. My thighs start to quiver in anticipation of the fall. Every muscle clenches, and waits for that push, that tiny push that sends me toppling over the edge. I let go; I plunge into the infinite abyss where every single cell of me untenses, becomes undone.
It's like cymbals crashing together for the grand finale. Passion erupts and I flail about to the last strains of my own personal orchestra. I am a volcano filled with craving, and I spill forth my contents: Red. Pink. Hot. Steam. These are the fireworks of my ravenous appetite.
The blaze has burned itself out. The sheets lay crumpled but still; the ashy remains of intense heat. But the embers continue to glow, and they wait to reignite.
My back arched, and I levitated off the mattress. My body strained against its own limits, like a cherry not yet plucked from a tree. A hum filled the air like electricity before a storm; the hairs on my arms stood up in static arousal. Mmm, they hummed; Mmm, I hummed.
Hair matted on the pillow; yellow if you could see it, yellow even if you can't. Sweat traces a path down the burning of my body, between my breasts, on the back of my neck, sliding down the scorching places where your kisses turned affection into lust.
You whisper dirty secrets to my body; you promise with your tongue. Desire is delirium, and your fingers are my fix. I moan and thrash and buck against you so you'll know the depth of my need.
I'm standing on the edge of the highest elevation. My breath comes in hot, sultry gasps and my head is both cloudy and clear at once. I reach up to the tips of my toes; I teeter there, holding on just barely to the ledge, teasing and testing with my endurance. Higher and higher I go, climbing greedily, hungrily, like a carnal predator that's been deprived. I claw upwards until I can no longer bear it, until I've reached the utmost summit, the very apex, the ultimate climax of my journey. I would stay there forever just to feel the coursing power in my veins, but my body can't support it. My thighs start to quiver in anticipation of the fall. Every muscle clenches, and waits for that push, that tiny push that sends me toppling over the edge. I let go; I plunge into the infinite abyss where every single cell of me untenses, becomes undone.
It's like cymbals crashing together for the grand finale. Passion erupts and I flail about to the last strains of my own personal orchestra. I am a volcano filled with craving, and I spill forth my contents: Red. Pink. Hot. Steam. These are the fireworks of my ravenous appetite.
The blaze has burned itself out. The sheets lay crumpled but still; the ashy remains of intense heat. But the embers continue to glow, and they wait to reignite.
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