pretty dumb things

fucking with the Internet

I've a new post on Filthy Gorgeous Things as part of their June issue, Modern Love. It's the tale of my time spent in the throes of SlutFest 2004, snippets of which have made cameo appearances here on my pretty dumb things. You know how it goes. You spend a summer having indiscriminate sex and one day you find yourself squatting on the very clean bathroom floor of some former tennis pro, fingers spelunking your vaginal depths, chasing an elusive and escapist condom. And you think to yourself, Just what the hell am I doing here?

We've all had that moment. And even if we haven't, we can enjoy mine.

Here's the first paragraph of my piece:

Five years ago, I spent my summer in the throes of something I've come to call SlutFest 2004. For that brief, tawdry and occasionally halcyon period, I gave myself a virtual blank check to indulge unto surfeit any and all of my sexual appetites. I fucked women and men, sometimes together and sometimes separately. I had sex anonymously, and I had sex with names. I had twosomes and I had threesomes (sadly, I didn't have moresomes; I'm not certain why I didn't push that particular erotic envelope). I had phone sex, kinky sex, vanilla sex, banal sex, anal sex and hotel room sex. I had pity sex. I had passionate, even emo, sex. I had a lot of sex that summer, and all the sex I had, every last sweat-stained thrust, spent condom, and ululating orgasm was brought to me courtesy of the World Wide Web.

Now go here and read the rest. Then return here and tell me what you think, because I so want to know.

kissykiss,
chelsea g.

my new body of smut, now conveniently located othewhere

It began as just a default setting, but as with so many decisions that wear the cloak of circumstance, it has become a clear and conscious choice. I’m not writing about sex here on my pretty dumb things. Or, I should clarify, I’m not writing about the sex I’m having, the sex I’m not having, the sex I had, the sex I want to have, or the sex I dream of having. I do reserve the right to write pretty dumb things about sex as a generalized or ambient concept, a sex divorced from my specific genitals at a specific moment in a specific time with a specific human, machine, or implement. I further reserve the right to write about my sexual history in less KA-BOOM! POW! BLAMO! graphic terms. I reserve the right to break my own rules, in short. I am a despot in the land of my narrative.

This not-choice to not-write about sex seems to have started when I stopped having sex, but in truth, it began well before I started living the lover-free life. It started, really, when I began to realize that I loved my ex-almost-fiance Donny deeply. To trot out the intricacies of our intimacies, however displayed in the laciest of poetic language, felt at odds with my love for him. It began to take on a patina of betrayal, and to pour out to a faceless public the liquid details felt like I was making a product out of precious experience. I stopped enjoying the writing, in short, and it began to feel like a burden rather than a gift.

Then Donny and I broke up and I stopped having sex. I slumped into doldrums; the doldrums grew into a vast depression; and I drowned in that murky black for altogether too many months. I didn’t fucking feel like living, much less did I feel like fucking. Forget fucking writing anything other than what I was paid to write, which was not about fucking.

The lake receded and I’m now high and dry and relatively chipper for an ambient misanthrope raised by a long line of dour people. I have vague and happy notions of perhaps dating in the not-too-distant future, and I have optimism that this potential dating might lead to actual physical friction with another willing, perhaps enthusiastic, partner. But I won’t write about said friction because, as I’ve explored previously, I don’t want to jeopardize a fledgling relationship with my occasional will to overshare the very moist, throbbing and tumescent portions of my life.

Plus, I don’t want to be only a sex writer for the rest of my life. So there’s that. I have too much to say to limit it to things most quintessentially expressed in guttural phonemes.

And yet, I acknowledge that I do like writing about sex. I think it’s important cultural work. I think there’s a power in doing it well, and I have the hubris to believe I do do it well. I just don’t want to do it on my blog. Therefore, you will be able to find all of my new sex writing at the gloriously shiny, newly opened, terrifically sleek and gleefully—if thoughtfully—perverse Filthy Gorgeous Things. In fact, you can go here to read my first piece for the site. It begins with Hegel and ends with Oscar Wilde, and because I’m both thinky and kinky in equal measures, it meanders through strip clubs and deep-throating. I’d love to know what you think here because there are no comments there.

I’m keeping my smut archives here on my pretty dumb things because to jettison them would be untrue to the history of this blog, but the great priapic share of my new sex writing will be now found on FGT. I’m already working on two new pieces on sex and techs. They’ll be really very, if not like totally fetch.

I do hope you enjoy the full body of FGT. It’s quite beautiful and strange and erotic. Plus, it’s wicked smart, and anyone who doesn’t get the intrinsic sexy value of the grey matter is no friend with benefits of mine. I’ll let you know when I post new material, or you can check out my Twitter feed here.

foot in mouth

There was this one photo buried in a spread in French Vogue at some point in 1983. Shot in black and white, this one photo showed a close up of Jerry Hall’s gloriously equine face, her blond hair falling in amber waves, her eyes slitted near-shut, her mouth painted a rapturous shade of what must have been red and delicately wrapped around the marble toe of a statue. The copy of Vogue has gone the way of all flesh; I carted it around with me for years until it got shucked off in some great purge of stuff. It was that photo, the one of Jerry Hall giving toe, that made me keep the magazine for so many years.

Toe sucking rarely gets its rightful share of visual representation. For all of the ways magazines can sell stuff through artfully composed shots of metaphoric kink—blondes or brunettes swilling long necks, sheeny-slick piles of emaciated models looking like they just emerged pansy-eyed in a post-coital swoon from a D/s dungeon, bent-over jeans models proffering round and mysterious butts that jut to invite the eye and more, jewelry hanging like gyves around wrists and ankles—toe sucking gets pretty short shrift. Perhaps only cunnilingus gets less visual air time, but then as pornographers world-wide have discovered, it’s hard to shoot the licking of a pussy. This is not the case with toe sucking. Toes stick out; they’re easy to suck; it’s a picture just waiting…and waiting to happen.

Toe sucking bears the inescapable taint of fetish. Toe sucking, like rubber clothes, like age play, like any sex act involving hats, seems to be a speciality act. It’s not, of course. No gear is required to suck a toe or ten. One needn’t even be particularly into feet to enjoy having one’s toes sucked, nor to suck them. That’s my position and I’m sticking to it.

I enjoy a good toe suck every now an then. I prefer mine in someone else’s mouth, just as I prefer being the salad tosee to being the salad tosser. I know it’s not an equitable thing, but all is not fair in love and war, and I’d rather be the one being eaten than the one doing the eating. In my mind, I’m the succulent dish, and I say this being a woman avowedly stuck in her oral stage. It’s the strange imparsability of the feeling. The toe in another’s mouth bears a paradoxical keenness and a blunting of sensation. It’s a feeling that’s bigger than itself, or bigger than my toes, anyway. Maybe it’s that my toes get so little notice except for pain that when they get a bounty of pleasure, such as they derive from being nestled like little white chocolate eggs in another’s mouth, they get a bit giddy with it. It’s a surfeit of feeling, the toe sucking.

The first man who sucked my toes was Vlad the Would-Be Impaler. He did it in a hot tub. I was a fool not to recognize his seduction for what it was. I still, 26 years later, kick myself for not fucking him. I don’t remember the next person or the person after that; there have been lots. Toe sucking was something I know I indulged in with many men (and a few women). But the next one who was really into it was the Goat Gatherer. He’d fuck me, one of my legs extended up his stubbly, chiseled torso, one of my feet stuck in his mouth. He said he liked toes, the way they felt, the way the smelled. I would always have a pedicure before seeing him. He’d rename my toenail polish.

“I call that one Biker Slut,” he’d say, looking at the scab-red polish on my toes. And then he’d put the whole fat row of them in his mouth. It was heaven underfoot, around foot, about foot.

I loved that French Vogue shot of Jerry Hall giving toe to some anonymous stature, much like I adore this new shot from Italian Vogue of Eva Mendes giving toe to herself. There’s something unabashedly naughty about the sucking of the toe, something sweetly verboten, something just left of vanilla in the toe suck. It’s like Vincent Vega says of foot massages in Pulp Fiction. “That's what's so fuckin' cool about them,” says Vincent, “This sensual thing's goin' on that nobody's talkin about, but you know it and she knows it.”

The toe suck, as Vincent’s partner Jules observes about the foot massage,  may not be the same as “stickin' your tongue in her holyiest of holyies,” but it feels pretty fucking close, pretty fucking close indeed. That is exactly what is so fucking cool about it. A toe suck is as close as you can get to oral sex while dressed. The intimacy, the tickle factor, the edging onto trammeling on kink, the smell, the unquestionable need to deny questions of hygiene for the sake of pleasure: the toe suck is the closest somatic approximation of tongue on holiest of holies.

The only thing possibly better is the open mouth on the naked arch of the foot, all wide warm maw, wet-hot pink and the barest scrape of the pearly whites. The ball of the foot against the bald pate. Or the press of the toes against a cheekbone. The cupping of chin in the arches of both of your feet. Or the two big toes together in a mouth, tongue swirling like a creemee around the both.

Summer is the time of feet. Enjoy them—your own and those of others.

coming together and falling apart

There was nothing neat about, nothing artistic, nothing that hollered anything but ripe visceral need. There were no toys, no ties, no accessories, just two bodies jumbled as jewelry thrown in a drawer, though more pleasurably so.

The fucking embargo has ended. Donny and I had sex.

he says "fucktoy" like it's a bad thing

With the blindfold over my eyes and the ball gag in my mouth, all I can do is smell leather and pussy.

in fucking elliptical praise

“Don’t come yet,” Donny says as he puts his hand over my mouth. His lips are shiny with the gloss of my pussy. Two fingers on his left hand are strung together with pearly strands, like a spider’s web spun of my lust.

Donny pushes me back on the bed, marches on his knees up the conquered territory of my body and puts his cock, slagging at pudding consistency half-mast, in my mouth. It, like his fingers, like his lips, tastes like me. I’m lemony-sweet today. Like a lemon meringue pie, like a lemon drop, like a sweet tart. Donny groans as I struggle to take the whole of his cock in my mouth, down my throat and into my gullet, if I could, which I can’t.

These cinematic pieces, were they pieced together in a linear narrative, rather than beginning in medias res, rather than enjoying a post-modernist reluctance to lockstep with chronology, rather than being more Pulp Fiction than Maltese Falcon, would still tell a delightfully elliptical story. It would be a chronicle that began in an unexpected place and refused conventional sexual narrative convention. It would begin with fucking—my being bent face-first into the white duvet of my bed, Donny behind me, my dress wadded wantonly up around my ribcage, Donny’s cock introduced rather rudely into my not entirely prepared pussy—rather than exactly end with it.

This story would begin with my pussy being not unlike like a girl with the towel still around her head when her swain arrived for the big date. It would begin with surprise. It would start with unreadiness.

This narrative would move swiftly along, propelled by the trajectory of my boyfriend’s lust but informed with his intellect. The narrative would not flash-culminate with his fucking my pert up-turned pussy, my ass jiggling seismically with his every thrust, his gutter-whispering in my ear, “How does my cock feel?” and my answering back honestly and gratifyingly, Big.

This story wouldn’t pyrotechnic-quick finish with his spraying jism like wet streamers on my vanilla ass, as if we were welcoming a diminutive parade of wee astronauts of some tiny extra-terrestrial world. It would not end that quickly or that expectedly. No, it would not: it would continue with a more sensory than auditory pop! as Donny pulled his cock out of me like a cork from a bottle and flipped me over to lick my recalcitrant pussy.

It wouldn’t be linear, this sexy story, because I asked for it not to be. Grown weary of my boyfriend’s rather phallic and predictable linearity, I told my boyfriend that while I appreciated his desire to make me come with/in/by/around his mouth, as well as his love bordering on fetish of fucking my just-orgasmed pussy, it wasn’t working so well for me. It was too straight a line, I told him. After it, I said, I felt like Peggy Lee. Is that all there is? I wanted to ask, while he lay panting and moaning and shaking his head as if to clear it from semen’s cobwebs.

It wasn’t easy to critique my lover’s loving. I found myself screwing up my courage in order to tell him how to screw me better. Donny, being the man he is, and that would be the man who loves me—a lot—took the critique as well as he might. He listened patiently. He asked questions. He looked pensive. He acted slightly churlish, letting drop a couple of self-deprecatory jokes that slammed himself and his Patented Donny Technique. And then in bed, where it counted, he showed he’d taken my words to heart.

He fucked me elliptically. He teased me. He made sinuous love to me. He fucked me in circles. I loved  it. I loved him more.

This fucking session, the one with which I began this elliptical narrative, stands as groaning testament to the power of elliptical fucking. Having been fucked, licked and fingered, I suck my boyfriend’s cock in slurpy lemony gratitude. Having been surprised, unnerved, made uncomfortable and shocked into lust, I lie on my back in abject supine praise of him.

“Ride me,” he says from above. We switch positions, and I start to draw my dress over my head. He tells me to keep on my dress, and I climb on him, slowly sinking his cock into me with delicious squelchy friction, which we can hear but not see, hidden as this theatre is behind the curtains of my dress. I ride him, I do. I slide and sway and curve and circle. I move my hips in ancient rhythms that come, I find, from somewhere rather other than memory. I ride him, and I become more urgent, I lose myself, my thinking, my mind, if I’m thinking I do so in short, blunt phonemes. My mind all but points and grunts.

I ride him. Fuck me back, I tell Donny,  and he does, and as he does, I find that sweet hot pink swell buoying me from below and crashing on me from above, like I’m a surfer held thick wet prisoner in this fucking pink pipeline, and riding him, I ride that wave as it goes crash crash crash in shocking infinite elliptical sweetness.

my boyfriend's absolute devotions

My boyfriend has fallen in love with my pussy. By stating this, my boyfriend’s in-loveness, I don’t mean to suggest that there was a time when he didn’t like my pussy, if not love it. I mean rather to suggest that what he feels now seems to have turned a more scarlet shade of passion, a richer hue of devotion, a more singular tone of monomania. My boyfriend is seriously in love with my pussy.

He kneels, he kowtows, he pays deep, wet, and oral obeisance to my cunt. He seems unable to help himself; he loses control; he stampedes toward my pussy. There is only the sweetest, too brief interlude at my mouth, the quicksilver flash of his tongue rolling in my mouth like a piece of sashimi, the gum-rubber slickness of his lips. There is a cursory stay at my neck; he pulls my head back and he pauses like Rousseau’s lion at my gypsy throat. He bites, but all too fleetingly. He takes a detour—the swiftest pit-stop—at my breasts. He sucks one nipple, he bites it as if he were nipping a berry from a bush. He suckles, summarily. He then descends, rapidly, single-mindedly, thrillingly, to my hoary depths so that he may worship at the altar of my cunt.

His knees amid the dustbunnies, he kneels at my bed’s side. Eagerly, he prises apart my legs, and tenderly he rests my left foot on his thigh. I can nearly feel him vibrate in anticipation. I can absolutely hear him inhale. He draws me into him like a diver breaking the surface. He can wait no more. He sinks his mouth on me as if he hasn’t fed for weeks; his tongue is pointed and sharp as a shard of glass. I have to stop him often. Make your tongue soft, I tell him. It’s too hard. His tongue gets tumescent in his deep-dark obligations to my pussy.

My boyfriend licks and sucks. He’s found what works and he works it. He nibbles and he flicks, he toys and he titillates. He sucks a finger, flips his palm up toward the sky, supplicant-like, and he inserts first one finger and then a second. He curves his fingers beseechingly inside me. He makes come-hither signs, rasping his tips against the cat-tongue roughness of my g-spot. Silent but for the wet-slick slurp, he urges me closer with fingers and with his mouth.

“Come,” he says without saying. “Come,” he says to my pussy, this wet-open persimmon-slick, lemon-sweet part of me.

As he does, I am distant. In my head, I’m miles above and beyond him. In my head I’m otherwhere—a tawdry vision shimmers and gasps in the dusky depths of my fecund imagination. It’s too dirty to describe, this chiaroscuro of my mind; it conflicts with the shiny bright worship of my boyfriend’s tender absolutions at my beloved cunt (though I know not for what sins he needs absolving). I am miles away from him. I reach down, miles below my waist; I find his face and I trace the curve of his nose to anchor me, to pull me back to him, to us, to this pleasure he gives me because he loves it.

I have grown jealous of my pussy. It seems to be something that I am not. My body languishes in abject dismay and petulant envy. To my pussy alone my boyfriend serves his devotions in an ancient tongue. He worships and my goddess-pussy answers. I become its handmaiden, a conduit for its rapture. He beckons, beseeches, plies and offers. My pussy responds and I speak out in shuddering tongues, and I resent it. After the seismic shakes subside, he fucks my pussy. He drives his cock into it again and again, the gates have opened, he is welcome, his offering has been accepted, his will is done. And I resent it.

I feel lost in my boyfriend’s devout relationship with my pagan cunt. I am beside the point. I am there, a vessel, a mute being who holds the godhead, a signifier without a signified, a placeholder. I am nothing, until my boyfriend comes and returns to me, and sees me whole and complete, a woman reborn in his eyes, and not a mere trail of pleasure parts, some more purely transcendent than others.

some things old, some things new, nothing borrowed, and some stuff decidedly blue

I don't know exactly why, but I just haven't been in the mood to narrate my sexlife of late. It's been swell. All is definitely well with me and my boyfriend Donny; even if we still don't have as much sex as I myself would find ideal, what we may lack in quantity, we more than make up in high-quality, custom crafts-work, pyrotechnic love-fucking, to make a mosh of metaphors.

Nevertheless, I recognize that many of you enjoy the erotic rubbernecking--and, really, who doesn't?--that I wanted to cater to your more prurient taste and pluck a few especially plum posts for your pleasure. (I never claimed to be above alliteration.) So without further ado, please allow me to offer you a tasting menu of erotic posts past.

• A time I made myself quite handy
• A time when I was wet-hottest
• A time of binding and unwinding
• A time for suffering gladly
• A time best termed "spanking good"
• A time I turned the other cheek

And if that is not quite enough for you, avail yourself of the shiny newness that is the my stuff on Sappho's Girl. Here's the inaugural post and here is the whole delightful enchilada. Also, tomorrow on Lust Bites you can read an interview with me by the very lovely Alana Noel. Reasons to be cheerful, 1, 2, 3.

Enjoy!

kissykiss,
chelsea girl

UPDATE: Here is the interview on Lust Bites. I feel a bit like my head is going to explode. Or maybe implode. Hard to tell, but wow.

Thanks you, Alana.

a star-spangled booty

There is not much better than sex on a national holiday. The national holiday hangs low, and the air itself feels heavy and quiet; lassitudinous and torpid is the feel of a national holiday. It lends itself to fucking, this weighty and still air; it seems to press itself upon you and force you into bed like the firm hand of a knowing lover. It gives you the tacit permission to fuck off and fuck. The banks are closed. Stores are shuttered. People stroll with nowhere to go, but bed. Fucking on a national holiday is almost an obligation like paying your taxes or voting.

Yesterday, Memorial Day, I went to Donny’s apartment late in the afternoon. I had taken the dog to the dog run, I had washed my floors and cleaned the cat’s box. I had showered and eaten and brushed my teeth, I had sent a few emails. I had done a bit of duty to others and to self, and then it was time for me to do my duty to my country and to my cunt. It was time to fuck my boyfriend.

some great fucking boots

I've added a picture of the great fucking boots in question, just because people asked and just because I'm nice like that.

There is something about a good pair of boots. It’s the way they encase the leg, whether to ankle, mid-calf, knee or thigh, in that tight sleeve of leather. There’s this thing about boots where what they do is draw attention to where the clothing is not. Other shoes may have their charms, as does a naked and pretty foot, but only the boot is inherently and inescapably dirty-hott.

Boots make you imagine what the body looks like naked but for the boots. Boots have this inherent violence to them, like the clothing should be ripped off, or if not ripped and shredded in haste, then removed with a meticulous and scrupulous care, which is in its own way almost more perverse. Regardless of how the clothing is removed, rent to bits or folded exquisitely, a good pair of boots compels you to withdraw clothing article by article until the woman is standing in just the boots, heavy, moribund and anchoring her to this earth, as if without them, she would drift skyward like a helium balloon.

I love a good pair of boots. I have seven pairs of boots, including one pair of fugly dusty pink boots I wear in deep snow; I shouldn’t really count them in the context of this piece. They’re pure practicality and zero eroticism. Recently, in reaction to my biological father’s return in to my life, I bought a two pairs of boots, both Frye boots, both very much on sale, both dirty-hott in different ways.

One pair are short cowboy boots in antique gold with crackly white tops and a scarlet flame. They look like I should wear them with short floral dress and then have the dress pushed up around my waist so as to be fucked on top of an engine-warm vintage Mustang in a light rainstorm. The other are high-heeled dress boots, black, with a strap that wraps a couple of times around the arch of the boot. They look like I should be pressed against a brick wall, a finger worrying the crotch of my tights until there’s a fist-size rip, and with one leg wrapped around the guy’s hips, fucked mercilessly while we stand clandestine and bestial in the chic urban night.

I have yet to be fucked in the short cowboy boots. I have, however, inaugurated the high-heeled black pair. I have come, and come loud, come lusty sweet-shuddering in them, come so hard that I almost, for one fleeting second, forgot that I really need to bring them to my shoe guy to stretch them because I realize that while I used to be a solid size 9, I might very well now be an effulgent 9.5. The orgasm made me forget the pinch around the arch, the leather squeeze around the instep.

Because when my boyfriend has told to strip everything but for my boots, and when I have slowly unwound my wrap skirt, and when I’ve slowly pulled my t-shirt off over my head so that it caught for seconds and as I’ve untangled my head and my arms and my hair from the garment, and when I’ve been sure to jiggle my bosoms in a glass-clear faux-naif provocative manner, and when I’ve then stood there before my boyfriend, dressed in nothing but a bra and panties, and when I’ve removed first the former and then the latter, there is nothing to do but to eventually succumb to the coming.

Sure I might be delicately drunk, and I might be slightly tired, and I might have made myself come twice the day before with a small battery of toys, once in fact with my boyfriend on the phone because we do love the phone sex; sure, all this may be true, but it’s not like I had a choice. I knew what I was getting into when I bought the boots. I knew I bought them for the coming.

Because when I’ve been tied up, arms tied in front of me, forcing me static into Jeannie’s wish-granting pose, the white rope then wrapped around my back, lacing delicately around my throat so that my breath catches in cunning and interesting ways, and when after I’ve been bound and splayed, my legs forced apart, cranked open like the recalcitrant doors of a mansion, when my boyfriend has licked and nibbled and sucked my clit, when he has pushed one long finger and then two and then three into my squishy-wet pussy, it’s not like I wasn’t aware of the power of the boots.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t signed on for it.

It wasn’t like I didn’t expect him to crawl up the slow white length of my body and feed me his cock, and it wasn’t like I didn’t know I would gratefully and dutifully deepthroat him. It wasn’t like I didn’t know that would happen when I purchased the boots. And it wasn’t like I didn’t know I wouldn’t then ask him nicely to untie me so that I could use my hands while I rode him, and it wasn’t like he wouldn’t when I asked.

I got the boots online, and when I opened their box, unwrapped them, sniffed the tangy-earth smell of their jet black leather and slipped them on my feet for the first time, it wasn’t like I didn’t see this moment in my mind: me, resplendent on top of my boyfriend’s body, his cock so deeply embedded inside me that I’d be embarrassed by the sheer greediness of the position were it captured on x-ray; me, gyrating in those ancient and terrible rhythms that once day has broken in my consciousness shame me with their ineffable helplessness; me, laving myself in his dirty patter, his calling me names, his rough sleep-drunk voice urging me to orgasm; me, both in my mind and out of it crying out in neck-snapping violence as the wet-pink-hot-crimson-flash of coming rips through my body from the pussy out and I fall, limp, sweating, small and meek on my boyfriend’s narrow chest.

It wasn’t like I didn’t expect my boyfriend to bend my knees around my earlobes so that as he drives his epic and fat-bellied cock into my post-coming gushy pussy, so that all I can smell is sex and leather. I full on expected that when I bought the boots. Hell, I bought them so that this would happen, so that I would find myself bent uncomfortably double and gleefully suffering my boyfriend’s pneumatic drilling.

Such is the burden of fashion: knowing the outcome better than the writer of fiction. We collapse, my boyfriend Donny and the boots and I, one glee-spent leather-loving heap.

“Those are some great fucking boots,” Donny said appreciatively. I concur.