pretty dumb things

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.

talking dirty in english from afar

I masturbated today, I say casually and spritz my kitchen counter with blue stuff. I used my nipple clamps, I tell Donny, and the disco-in-my-vag.

“Do they market it that way?” Donny asks. His voice sounds as if he’s speaking through a wooly muffler. He’s a quarter way around the world. It’s six hours later where he is. Where he is has chateaus and signs in French. When you order things in a restaurant, the verb in your sentence would literally translate in English as “take.” Ordering in French, I always imagine myself scurrying away down twisty alleys with the dish hot and buttery in my hands, a trail of waiters eddying behind me, their long white aprons flapping like nun's wimples.

No, I tell Donny, they don’t call it “the disco in your vag”; they call it the “thundercat.” This distinction then calls forth a brief disquisition on how this is also the name of a cartoon, which I end abruptly, saying, Oh, and I held the chain of the nipple clamps in my teeth as I masturbated.

lend me a hand

Lend me a hand. Not, however, just any hand. A hand blank and devoid of nuance, a hand blunt-cut as a cheap cigar, a hand without delicacy simply will not do. Nor will one too effete, too wan, too limpid and limp with lack of use. This lines of this hand cannot belie the power of its touch.

Give me this hand, a hand clean and manicured, but not too well-manicured. A hand that neither has the anxious red-ragged cuticles of the recently audited nor the great scooping parti-colored nails of a Long Island goomah.  Give me this hand with its sensitive touch and tensile strength and knowing fingers. Give me this hand. Perhaps it’s attached to you, perhaps it’s not. Perhaps you just want to watch.

reuse, recycle, reduce

I am still battling the flu from hell. Fever, chills, aches, snarfling mucous: the full evil flu pantheon of symptoms. I feel like at least four of the Seven Dwarves.

And because I'm sick and barely upright, and also because it's Fleshbot day, I present to you a handful of my favorite smutty posts.

Enjoy. I'm going back to bed to read Austen.
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"let me be steamy"

Let a candle be lit. Let the hot water faucet be turned on high and let the hot water fall promiscuously. Let the shower remain empty, and let the air be made so sultry that waterbeads collect and roll languidly to the tile below. Let the steam fill the bathroom.

Let me be bent naked over the sink, hands pressed upon the still coolish marble. Let my face be even with the mirror. Press me down into a willing angle.

Let me be spanked. Let your hand lift and fall with the cadence of my perceived transgressions. Slap the smackwarm assflesh with your hand; tap tap tap spank it with the back of a hairbrush. Let me ask to be marked.

Mark me.

More...
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"cockworship is for pussies"

This is what you do.

You have your female lover—your girlfriend, your wife, your friend, it matters not—lie on the bed, her legs bent, her thighs spread; like the twin columns of trees that line the road leading up to a French estate, her parted legs welcome you.

You take your time; you gaze at the vista; you appreciate the topiary; you stop and smell the metaphoric flowers. Perhaps you trail a finger or two up and down her vertical slit. Perhaps you part her labia, idly, like a dawdler eavesdropping at a tea party.

You tell her in no uncertain terms that you have something planned.

More....
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"in praise of clitfucking"

Somehow, there are things I forget to do when I’m in bed, things I forget I like, things I forget have given me pleasure.

Somehow, in all the Sturm und Drang of buzzy toys, ropey bondage, hot wax, cold ice, and D/s-flavored fun, I forget some of the basics, sometimes, when I’m having sex.

Let me then sing the praises of clitfucking.

More....
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"cold ass ice"

Step outside and it feels as if you’ve entered a hot, wet oven. You’re the pat of butter on the baked potato that is Gotham. It’s hot, hot, hot heat, wet and hot, and it cleaves to you, sweat-pressing your skin and enervating you with its doughy-moist succubus embrace.

You need to go somewhere the sun don’t shine. You need to find your place in the shade. You need to embrace your inner arctic. You need to stick an ice cube up your ass.

More....
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"voraginous"

Donny lies on my bed naked, delicious and cream-filled as an éclair. His pale long body, dalmation-spotted with birthmarks, has been stripped of clothes by me. The clothes sit in a rumpling heap, man-panties and shorts all hurdy-gurdy, t-shirt inside out, entirely unlike the neat and undoubtedly folded pile Donny himself would leave them in.

But he isn’t in charge at this 4:06 p.m. Saturday moment, and I am.

More....

slave to the rhythm: or, how Kanye West made me come

He whines, ”She take my money,” and his voice drops, despondant, “when I’m in need.”

“Yeah,” he snarls,  accusing, “she a trifflin’ friend indeed.”

Conspiratorial now,  he sings, “Oh she a gold-digga way over town,” Ruefully he admits, “That digs on me.”

I’m so animal-angry I could spit. I’m a cobra, a camel, a wild and uncharted venomous thing found in jungles and avoided by the people who live there and know better. I’m vibrating with anger. I’m a high-C note. I’m repressing and I’m stuffing and I’m barely containing, I’m six pounds of wrath in a five pound bag, and I’m riding my boyfriend’s cock.

Music plays in the background. Kanye West is grunting. He is using bad grammar to high rhetorical effect. The music bumpa-bump-bumps, this half-broken lumpy rhythm, loopy elliptical and slowing to speed up. Jamie Foxx half-croons/half growls/half whines, three halves, yeah, it’s pure excess in endless circles.

We are fucking. My boyfriend and I. He’s below me, appaloosa-spotted and whippet-thin, his eyes narrowed in pleasure, his cock hard and hot and red and bulging and invisible, buried as it is inside my furious pussy. Donny doesn’t know I’m angry. He’s lying there in pure pale innocence of my mental and genital furor. He has no idea; he is all ingenuous happy-happy-joy-joy in my angerfucking. It enrages me, his  innocence.

Bumpa-bumpa-bumpa. “Uh,” Kanye grunts. “Now I ain’t sayin’ she a gold digger. Uh,” he raps. I press my fingertips into Donny’s chest and perch my body on the very tip of his dick. I can feel it, his prick justbarely, justthisclose, justinside the greedy mouth of my pussy.

I pause. My hips circle; little tiny bonny round O’s are carved by my generous ass, the tip of Donny’s cock justinside, justthisclosetofalling out.

“Uh,” grunts Kanye. “Uh,” grunts Donny.

This angerfuck burbles and roils. The subsumed silent wrath screams in my pelvis.

“Get down girl go head get down (I gotta leave)get down girl go head get down (I gotta leave)get down girl go head get down (I gotta leave)get down girl go head.”

I stop the delicious tiny teasing circles. My hips now make great wide striding arcs. Swoop up, pause, swoop down, grind. My pelvis is kicking ass and taking names on Donny’s cock. It’s going balls to the wall, it’s leaving no prisoners, it means revenge and this time it’s personal.

It’s pure arcing angry ache and my hips beat time to the music.

“If you aint no punk holla We Want Prenup/WE WANT PRENUP! Yeaah/It's something that you need to have/Cause when she leave yo ass she gone leave with half.”

I ain’t no punk. I switch rhythms again. (Donny is an accessory. He’s a toy. He’s nothing. He’s innocent in my angerfuck and I kinda sorta hate him a little bit for that.) My ass has broadened the tiny circles to great wide capacious O’s, like the open mouths of idealized whores, and my greedy angry pussy is eating Donny’s cock like a midnight snack.

I am rocking. I am rolling. I am fucking him senseless. I am losing the rhythm, my anger, though, that’s still spot on.

“Get down girl go head get down/Get down girl go head get down/get down girl go head get down/get down girl go head,” Kanye commands.

I do. I get down. I see myself dancing on Donny’s cock, I visceral remember my strip past deep in my cunt, I feel the redbluegreen lights playing flash-flash on my flesh. I feel Donny’s cock deep inside me and I jerk on it, vicious-like.

“Get down girl,” Kanye’s voice insinuates.

“Come for me,” Donny tells me. “Come on my cock."

“Get down girl/go head get down.” They both urge me, singly, together. Jamie Foxx does too.

There’s a crimson wash, burnt-rage-black around the edges (no petal-pink balloon lifting this) my pelvis goes hurdy-gurdy frug-jerking (it is not pretty; it is ugly beautiful and scary strong), this orgasm that takes me hostage (I am its unwilling participant; I didn’t want to come; Kanye made me do it) and there’s this crazy-vowel yowl scream  I don’t recognize as my own (though I can see little sprites of wrath escaping my mouth).

The song is over, the fucking is not. My anger, too, remains.

my mirror/my enemy/my self

I wrote this piece at the beginning of SlutFest 2004, that tawdry spot in time when I gave myself a blank check to do whomever, whatever and wherever I wanted. I wrote this piece for the man here known as Whitey, the palest, smallest, slenderest fingered Dom known to woman. To illustrate: Whitey, upon the occasion of our first meeting, told me I could spot him by his "LV bag." It took me the entire trainride to mid-town to parse that term as "Louis Vuitton." And a big designer man-purse it was too, on that diminutive Dom.

In our short and unconsummated (or should that be unDomsummated?) relationship, of the tasks that "Whitey," alternatively known as the Son of Panties, had me do was to write a thousand word essay after masturbating in the mirror for an hour, which is in fact the writing that follows. It's not a very good piece, but it has a couple of interesting moments, and if nothing else, it will give those of you who have read my pretty dumb things for a while some sense of how and when my writing, well, sucked. 

There is not a lot more boring than having to masturbate for an hour. The mind wanders and the body responds erratically—too soon, too slow, too fast, too unpredictably. Time passes, yet it does not. It does not serve to watch the clock.  This act, this traveled road to orgasm, one—at least for me—so indelibly ingrained in flesh and in memory becomes like déjà vu in a foreign land: something remembered and something alien, experienced and new, altogether too easy and unpredictably challenging.

As with many other tasks you have set before me I began this one with trepidation. And not merely because the hour-long masturbatory session is so taxing on body and mind, but more because of the dread (dum-dum-dum) mirror.

The mirror: My enemy/my reflected self. Like most women, I have no real clue what my body looks like to the casual observer, and even less what it looks like to my lover. For me, the self is always reflected in the fun-house mirror image; distorted and swollen like some Man Ray photograph, erupting in bulges, uncontainable and irrevocably flawed. So the hour-long masturbation and the mirror? Again, props to you.

I did as you told me. I took out my jewelry. I threw this old comforter on the floor. I arranged a bunch of toys around me (you did not explicitly forbid them, I did not ask for fear that you would). I tilted my full-length mirror back and kneeled on the spread.

And looked. Must say that middle age is a lot like adolescence, only slower. I can see both terrifying and exciting changes happening. I have the fullness of girlflesh where there was none; I see the glacial effects of gravity and many places that have not changed a bit, defying the onslaught of time, experience and misuse.

These musings are not what you’re interested in. They are introspective, and potentially more self-indulgent than spending an hour with my fingers in my pussy.

So reclining on my comforter, staring at my image, I realized I’d never really looked at myself from the perspective of my lover. I’d never really thought about how it looked to see me spread on the floor, a finger in my wet pussy, my belly curved and tight and taut and relaxed, my breasts splayed out like men’s legs on the subway, my face beginning to be transported in erotic desire. I imagined what you would be seeing if you were watching me, how your eyes, like mine, would traverse the contours of my flesh and flash momentarily in my gaze.

I did as you asked. Looking at myself touching myself, I thought about how it felt when we were talking on the street—I felt myself already possessed by you, like you had already penetrated me, like you were penetrating me right there, shoppers passing with their Zara and Bloomie bags, talking on their cellphones, street vendors making change for tourists buying knockoffs, weary workers on their way to wherever, all oblivious to the simplicity of you fucking me before them.

I thought about when we were in the subway station, you didn’t want to leave, you asked me where I want to touch you and you gave me permission to do it.  I thought a lot about the moment you told me to show you my breast and I did. I thought about the power I have over you because I know you desire me, and the greater power you have over me because you know I will do what you tell me to do in order to make that desire overwhelming.

And I watched myself touch myself. I saw my pussy grow open and wetter, and I inserted a vibrating egg inside, while I continued to stroke my clit. I tried not to let my mind wander, but I was not successful, not very, and had to keep disciplining myself to concentrate on the pleasure I was giving myself for you.  I lubed my dildo and I inserted it in my ass.  I thought about you watching me, and I rose to a seated position in order to be able to fuck the dildo with my ass, driving it as far as it could go inside me. I watched it go in and out, in and out, and I thought of you lying under me, telling me to ride your cock.

I rested a bit, lubed some more, and thought about how I was hungry and what I wanted to make for dinner, and how in order to make myself be committed to this act, I needed to get my literal and metaphoric ass in gear.

Semi-seated and bent over, I could feel the dildo filling my ass and the egg vibrating against my g-spot. I kept touching my clit, imagining you were watching. I reclined, propped on my elbows and moved the dildo very slowly in and out of my ass, concentrating on squeezing my belly, pussy and ass. I felt my orgasm building and on concentrating on the sensation of all of my muscles holding fast to the dildo inside me. On the verge of coming, I stopped myself, convinced it hadn’t yet been an hour.

I paused and looked more carefully at my whole body, spread out like some wanton party girl, and thought how it would please you. I wanted you to see me like this, panting in my desire, a bitch in heat.

I went back to moving the dildo in and out, slowly, squeezing down on it and the egg, intent on watching my fingers play with my clit. In my head I heard your voice encouraging me to come, telling me to give in, to let go, commanding me to come for you. Over and over, I heard you calling me your little slut and telling me to come.

I did, and I looked in my eyes as I came, imagining it was you locked in my wicked gaze.

these things I can not say

I myself am tongue tied. I can write filthy sweet nothings that make a grown man inwardly keen. I can talk a naughty tear of silky shreds into a phone. I can, at innocuous moments, lean over, place my lips just thisclose to your ear and drop-whisper some dirty bomb mot into your ear that will make you erect and proud with lust in a wet hot second.

I cannot, however, do it in bed. In bed, my language leaves. My words fumble and falter. They can’t find purchase. In bed, or its desk/chair/bathroom/kitchen counter equivalent, my tongue trips and stumbles. I open my mouth and I am struck dumb.

Oh. Yes. I try to say. Your cock feels so…good.

Which I suppose is enough. But it isn’t for me. I want to sing improvisational pagan paeans to my lover’s nasty velvet cock. I can’t. What am I if not my language, my pride asks in my ear. And I try again. Oh. God. Yes, Please stick it in me.

Stick it in me?

Each phrase I utter feels banal, bare and mundane as corrugated cardboard, stripped of any erotic charge. Light dies before my uncreating word. I am a dunce.

Oh. God. Please, yes, fuck me. I say and flush red with embarrassment.

Fuck me? That is the best I can do? I say the words (oh, yeah, uh, good, cock, cunt, whatever) and the words betray me. They used to be my friends; in bed I feel their betrayal. They leave my mouth, they drop like spit, they splat flat; they turn their backs on me. They put their hands on their hips. They look over their shoulders and they stick out their tongues.

“See? “ They say, “Fuck you.” They line the room like spectators at a prize fight; they stare at me blankly. “We no longer mean what you mean us to mean,” they tell me, meanly. Fucking words. They hate me in bed. They won’t do my bidding.

Little furry bastards.

And the greater irony is that I love being talked to in bed. Donny, bless his unselfconscious soul, will often keep a running commentary while we fuck.

“Your pussy feels so beautiful,” he tells me. “It’s so tight and so beautiful. Do you hear that? That wetness, that’s so beautiful,” he says. It’s repetitive as a lullaby. His words rock me closer to coming.

“I love fucking you,” he tells me as he fucks me. “It’s not like fucking anyone else. Every time we fuck it’s like the best sex I’ve ever had,” he tells me as we fuck for the 43rd, 62nd, 221st time.

“You look so hott,” he says and describes in detail my hotness. My wide shoulders, my tapered waist, my flowering and good-natured ass, my tiny pink-brown asshole, if he’s behind me; or my bouncing breasts, my shoulders and my tummy, if I’m on top. (If he’s on top, he tells me how my pussy looks, its openness, its pink-brown greediness, its seashell smell, its general excessive opulence.)

When I am fucking Donny, I silently will him to speak. Talk to me, I telegraph in my head to him. Talk. To. Me. I never ask him to, as much as I love it, because somehow to ask for it would be to break its unutterable magic.

He hears my silent message. “Fuck me,” he says. “Ride my cock. Use it.” He urges in gravel tones gently laced with his Jersey accent. “Go now,” he commands, “fuck me.”

He makes it sound so easy. “That’s right,” he says, “feel my cock filling you,” he says (I do and it’s good). I wonder why I can’t do that. I try, but when I whisper his plagiarized words, Oooh, I feel your cock filling me, it’s hollow. It thuds. It feels inauthentic. Like I should have a bouffant and white vinyl boots and an extra diagetic bow-chicka-wow-wow plunk-funking behind me.

Which is fine, but not exactly my image of my erotic style. My erotic style slumps with beat poet aplomb. It holds a pen that is longer than is necessary. My erotic style pauses to check literary references for accuracy. My erotic style has style; my erotic style smokes cigarettes and wears red lipstick. My erotic style is far better coiffed than I am. My erotic style doesn’t grunt.

I, however, do. In bed my language abandons me. It packs its bags and all it leaves behind are little dregs, the panties you’d never want to be caught in an E.R. in, mismatched socks, that shirt you bought on sale that isn’t really your color or your style but you were feeling low and the price was too. In bed my language leaves behind monosyllables.

I can’t say them without shame. I feel hot and red in the gross spotlight of my inadaquate words. I can't talk the dirty talk when I'm walking the dirty walk.

But, oh, how I love to hear it. “You are so tight around my cock,” Donny says to me, and grunt that I am. “You are such a little slut,” he says, and I nod my assent. “You love to fuck me, I know that you do,” he says, and he is right. He talks on and I listen, his gutter utterances leading me by the clit closer and closer to sweet nothingness.

This lambent language falling like fire, flickering like rain, making me feel so dirty good.

bonus busy-ass birthday fiction, part 2

Earlier this week, I posted the first part of “Soldier Boy,” a story I’d written last spring for a private client, an American military man stationed in Iraq who was to return shortly to his wife. He’d requested that I write a story from the point of view of an Army wife of her husband’s return from duty overseas. I complied, doing the best I could to piece together what I thought it would feel like to be separated from your loved one by so much time and space.

I have to admit that Donny gave me a lot of help. Donny is not much of a reader, though he enjoys reading. He is, however, an engineer and highly analytic, and this quality makes him a very good editor. He often gives me ideas when I need to put stories together, and it was he who suggested the story be predicated on a kind of erotic reawakening precipitated by the husband’s return. It seemed to make narrative sense to me, so I took Donny’s suggestion as a framework, built the story on it, and emailed it off to my client.

My client was quite happy with the story. Which was gratifying. More gratifying, really, has been the response from a handful of military wives who have taken the time to write to me and thank me for it. One wrote, “It's validating, bolstering, to be understood so eloquently and so simply.  So - thank you.  Your character was a vulnerable, human portrayal of a quiet struggle so many women experience alone.” It’s pretty much the best praise a writer can get.

It’s probably no secret to anyone who has read my blog that I oppose the war, though I rarely write about politics outside of gender politics. I’m not even sure I support the troops, if only because I’m not entirely certain what that phrase means. I do know that I support humans who experience pain and loneliness and tough choices and unspeakable violence and all that vulnerability that goes along with living life inside the world’s many war-zones, as well as outside them. And yet I still consider myself a misanthrope.

Without further ado, and with dedication to those women—and men—who are living their lives at home while their lovers fight overseas, here is Part 2 of “Soldier Boy.”

bonus busy-ass birthday fiction

Forgive me. What with all the birthday festivities, the ambiant free-floating anxiety, the detritus of my every day life, a spanky new hair-do and the purchasing of two new sex toys, I've had no time to write. While I do assure you that several thinky-kinky posts currently percolate in my fecund noggin, I must in the meantime beg your pardon and offer you a piece of fiction I wrote for a client last spring.

This client was an American soldier stationed in Iraq. He asked me for a very specific piece of fiction: the story of a young wife, told from her point of view, awaiting her husband's return from the war, and rediscovering her own erotic self in the interim.

Here is the first part of "Soldier Boy," the story I wrote for this client.

bonus nasty naughty fiction for friction

I am currently held in the cruel throes of the very worst menstrual cramps I have ever had. I don't know if it's my aging and sloughing slowly toward menopause, or if there are spontaneously generated and warring weasels in my lower abdomen, or some gifted Voodun with a grudge has thrust a pin in my uterus, but I'm just about nonverbal with the pain.

No reason why you should suffer, though. Jump below the fold to find a nasty naughty piece I wrote for a private client, who, parenthetically, has never written me to tell me how he liked it. Maybe something went wrong in the mail? Dear Patron, if you're reading this post, do let me know if you've not received my discreet package, and I'll mail it across the pond again.

And the rest of you, enjoy.

sinus infection bonus friction

It's the first sinus infection of the season for me. Even though I need recuperate and revel in the inexplicably dull joy of staring into space, I feel there is no reason for you to have to do the same. Below the fold is the story I've sold to Audible.co.uk for their upcoming lesbian and bisexual anthology (it will be published under the name "Chelsea Summers" if you want to look for it).

It's, you know, fiction for friction. Enjoy.

kissykiss,
chelsea girl

a sweet short infinity

The way to do it best is first to shuck his body of clothes. Pull the t-shirt up and over his narrow chest, his angular elbows, make it go pop! over his head. Unbuckle the belt, have him lift his hips up off the bed and peel his jeans and his man-panties down in one fell swoop, like you’re denuding an ear of corn. Let him lie naked, vulnerable and unjaded on the bed below you.

Feel free to punctuate the nude syntax of his body with kisses. These kisses are at your discretion, a casual and creative grammar. You need not follow MLA guidelines.

Cup his balls in your hand. Take the tip of his cock in your mouth. Let your tongue swirl like you’re a sommelier tasting wine. You are a connoisseur. Grasp firmly the cock at its base and appreciate the hard velvet of it. Take it into your capacious mouth, your generous throat. Swallow at will. (But don't let him come. Swallow around him. Draw him in. Let him think he owns your mouth. He does not.)

Undress when you like. While undressing, press your newly naked bits to his mouth. Feed him your nipples. He likes that.

Who wouldn’t.

Pull off your pants or pull up your skirt. Remove your panties. Waddle with determination to his head and place one thigh on either side of his face. With your fingers, spread your vaginal lips. Allow his tongue to lick, his lips to suck, his mouth to wander from one slick pinkwet labia to the other. Let drip on his face your juice, glidey-sweet as that of an overripe peach.

Gird your loins. Find some resolve. Gild the lily.

Disengage his mouth, his fingers, and yours. Extend one leg behind you and then the other. Position yourself above his cock and hover. Delicately. Pause. Lock eyes. He’s yours, right now, this moment. Even if his cock has gone soft, gone soft in the concentration of pressing your pussy to his mouth like a mango to a starving man, he is yours.

(Make him hard if you must. Use your mouth, your fingers. Use both. Don’t be stingy. Take him deep into your throat. Use a finger to nudge him infinitesimally yet more deeply. Give to him yourself.)

And hover for a moment. You are poised, you are posed, you are positioned there, just there, just on the cusp, his cock just nearly not touching your out-poooching vulva. And then you lower yourself slowly slowly slowly onto his cock.

You rock. You twiddle. Your right middle finger finds a happy tingle-driven rhythm on your clit, if you are me, and because I am writing this, you are. You pause and you kiss. You lean back and you ride this cock because you can and because you must.

Abrupt, you stop short this ride. You ascend, once more, you goddess-waddle to his head and you cover his mouth with your fresh-fucked pussy like you’re giving him mouth-to-mouth. Which you are not. You ride his tongue. He sucks, in that good way. You feel his epiglottis twanging your clit, or you think you do.

You tear yourself away. You descend once more, down down down the bed you go. You crouch eye-to-eye, a feral  cat to his cock and you draw it deeply into your mouth. You taste yourself, your tang, your umami, your salty-sweet pinkshell musk. You taste him too, some slim bleachy undernote, some cutting clean pearly sheen. You lick him clean.

You feel your musk trail down your throat. You feel your clit a tiny heart tight-beating. You feel his cock rigid unto bursting. You rise.

And you rise, and then once more you hover, pausing implausibly above his arching aching need and yours. You impale yourself on his cock. Because it is hard. Because it is there. Because he is yours. Because you love it. Because you love him. Because you love pleasure. Because you can’t help it. Because.

Back and forth and up and down, you make an ouroboros of his body and yours. Your cunt is in your mouth, his cock is in your cunt, your cunt is in his mouth. You and he, bound in a delicate viscosity, an invisible lock, rocking and connected, pelvis to pelvis, an ancient form made new, made now.

orlando, bloom

This story was originally published on Tell Your Sex Story last September. I wanted to give my longtime readers a chance to revisit it, as much as I wanted to let my new readers in on its sweet, damp secrets. Moreover, I was prompted by my friend and personal bitch-goddess O (who is TYSS's featured writer this month) to reprint, as much as I was urged by the example of Alana Noël, a new blogger and long-time erotica writer.

I kind of like this story, inspired as it was by Virginia Woolf's Orlando and Jeanette Winterson's The Passion, as well as by the androgynous beauty of its titular namesake; I hope you enjoy this little fictional detour from my usually all-too-true all-the-time postings.

Listen.

I’m telling you stories.

I met Orlando not in Orlando but in New York City, which has three islands, really, so maybe it is appropriate. Islands aren’t attached to anything; neither, it turns out, is/was/will be Orlando. Like the string of beads that is Venice, New York too is a series of islands. Fluid bits of lands attached to other lands by bridges, by tunnels, by boats.

We met in Manhattan. We met at a bus stop. It was raining. I offered Orlando my umbrella. It seemed like the thing to do. We weren’t, either of us, waiting for the bus. Orlando was waiting for something. (Orlando was/is/will always be waiting for something.)

It turned out that the thing I was waiting for was Orlando.

It was raining. I saw Orlando standing there, though of course I did not yet know it was Orlando. I just saw this body hunched and unprotected, rain besotting the masses of dark hair that hung in limpworm strands snaking down the trenchcoated back.

So the offering of the umbrella.

“I thought you’d be taller,” Orlando said.

Which, you must agree, is an odd greeting in any society.

cold ass ice

Step outside and it feels as if you’ve entered a hot, wet oven. You’re the pat of butter on the baked potato that is Gotham. It’s hot, hot, hot heat, wet and hot, and it cleaves to you, sweat-pressing your skin and enervating you with its doughy-moist succubus embrace.

You need to go somewhere the sun don’t shine. You need to find your place in the shade. You need to embrace your inner arctic. You need to stick an ice cube up your ass.

Maybe you try it on your own the first time. Maybe you go out and you buy a bag of ice because the cubes in your fridge just seem like you’d be shoving a square peg in a round hole, which you would. So you go out to the delis and the bodegas, the grocery stores and the mini-marts, you search high and low for those cubes shaped more like a child’s cartoon smile than a shoe box. You find a bag, you plunk down the outrageous $2.50, and gleefully you bring them home.

You stow the bag carefully in your freezer and you survey your bathtub. You consider the switch-twitch at the knot between your labia and then you consider the ring on your tub. You are suspended, momentarily, between desire and laziness, between disgust and yowling erotic need.

You clean the tub.

You stop and you admire its creamed-butter sparkle, and then you go to the freezer and you open the bag of ice. You pick out a singular, perfect, crystal-smile cube. You put it, a quick cold moment, in your mouth. You exhale and imagine you can see your breath in the freezer’s polar air. You take the ice cube to the tub.

You realize you still have your clothes on, so you put the cube in a cup, store it in the freezer, go to your bedroom, take off your clothes and tip-toe back to the bathroom. You don’t know why you tip-toe, there’s no one home, no one but pets to disturb, and they’ve born witness to so many of your indulgent perversions that they’re not even curious. But tip-toe you do.

Undressed, you get the cup out of the freezer. You add a second cube, just in case.

You go to the bathtub. You squat ungracefully and you recline clumsily. You extend your legs up the wall, so that the faucet sits between your splayed thighs, like the face of a grotesque lover. You consider for a moment running the tap with that gentle flickering stream that when you place your pussy exactly below its cascading fall, you come in a few wet minutes, your hips undulating a silent liquid adulation to your Neptune lover.

You consider it, but you don’t do it. Not yet.

You take a cube, you rest it against your asshole and you feel the immediate pucker of the asskiss, that quick inward convulsion, that wrinkle-crinkle in and up. And then with a deep breath, surely, remorselessly, unmercifully you use your index and middle fingers to push the ice cube into your ass.

The shock of the ice. Silver sliver ice-nine-esque core radiating. Like the plunge into a mountain stream from the inside. A swift round shot of pleasure/pain/pleasure.

Your breath inhales ragged-like. You imagine it’s not unlike the sensation of crack, only pure body.

You lie there in the tub, the ice melting in you, your breath quieting its rush-rush pants. You can almost see the cube rounding and erasing, turning into a little puddle of water, you can almost see it and you can feel the pain easing into a pure goodness.

You find that your hand moves between your legs, and you rub your hard little knot of a clit, your legs up the wall, the ice melting in your ass, you rub and you rub, and you imagine your lover watching you, maybe with his friends, all of them crowding in at you in the bathroom, perched on the sink and on the toilet, peering down with you with encouraging eyes, commenting favorably and as you imagine, and as you see the ice melting, and as your hand rubs your little hard knot, as the heat bears down on this glass city, wrapping it in still-born siroccos, as your heels scooch uncontrollably down the vanilla cream tiles of your shower, you come.

Or perhaps you just get on your hands and knees before your lover, hand him the cube and tell him, Stick it where the sun don’t shine. And turned away from him, you smile secret as he does so.

voraginous

Donny lies on my bed naked, delicious and cream-filled as an éclair. His pale long body, dalmation-spotted with birthmarks, has been stripped of clothes by me. The clothes sit in a rumpling heap, man-panties and shorts all hurdy-gurdy, t-shirt inside out, entirely unlike the neat and undoubtedly folded pile Donny himself would leave them in.

But he isn’t in charge at this 4:06 p.m. Saturday moment, and I am.

Naked on my bed, Donny struggles to push my head up, he battles his desire and my bodyweight to free his cock from my mouth, to remove my hand from the base of his shaft, to tug my summer dress off my body. We meet in mid-struggle, he curved around himself like a comma, I on my knees, and kiss.

No, I tell him, just enjoy. You can fuck me later, I say, and push him, now compliant, back to supineness and take the head of his cock in my mouth.

From between his thighs, on each upswing of my head, as I inhale, I look up the narrow expanse of my boyfriend’s body. His arms are twin upside-down “vee”s, his head resting between. His mouth is slack and open; he looks utterly abandoned to the pleasure I am giving him.

His cock deep in my throat, I swallow around the tip, and with one forefinger, I nudge the shaft just a bit further, guiding his cock just a tiny bit more into my voraginous maw. Donny moans, and he puts a hand on my head. It’s uncomfortable and irritating, but I let his palm rest there, on top of my head, patting me as if I’m a good doggy. As if he is pleased with my doggy pleasure at a particularly juicy bone.

From between his thighs, looking up at him on each upswing, I remember other cocks I’ve sucked, one in particular, one belonging to a man who’d never been deepthroated, one belonging to man whose last name was Applesomething. Applebottom. Applesmith. Applecock. A man who professed his love for head with lots of eye contact and lots of spit.

I don’t tell Donny this Applestory, though I know that were I to stop and interrupt my head-giving to do so, it would increase his desire, as much as it might diminish the sweet simplicity of this experience. I keep it to myself, as I change the rhythm, now slurping the head of his cock with a noisy abandon, while fluttering one hand on the length of his shaft.

I have made his whole cock slipperyslick with my pornstarry spit, and I take advantage of it. From slurping and fluttering, I change again, for I have sensed that my boyfriend’s cockish turgidity has now spread to his body, signifying a hotsweet intensifying leap in his pleasure. His body under me grown taut and quivering is telegraphing his needsome desire through its shuddering wires.

Now my hand and my mouth work in concert, dancing together, a well-practiced pas-de-deux; my hand and my mouth slide together from stem to tip, my throat opening to swallow at the depths, my tongue poised to twirl, like a minute and pinkslippery ballerina, at the tip.

Up and down and up and down, my hand and moth work together, my body heaving on the bed; the bed’s old and worn springs plaintive creaking is the weight of my hunger made audible. Creak-creak-creak is punctuated with Donny’s moaning and my oft-stifled breaths and indecent slurping.

There are no table manners in bed.

Donny tells me he’s going to come, a message made pleonastic by his quivering, taut white-wiry body. He tells me again, he’s going to come, and I bow down to receive his message, my lips brushing the manscaped mat at the base of his cock, and swallow.

And find that fed this amuse bouche, my hunger whets.

a problem of search terms: truly awful erotica 3

Welcome to the final Friday in June. Not just the last payday before rent, it's also time for me to bring you your monthly episode of Truly Awful Erotica. In April, I sodomized and satirized for your protection. In May, I malapropped my way to competition. And in June, I have assembled the fine, fine buzzing swarm of search temrs that have brought you, my readers, to my pretty dumb things. Everything in color was an actual search term that led someone--maybe you--right here between my virtually parted thighs. Everything in black is merely my gooey goodness.

Truly awful erotica...it's so bad, it's bad...

“Please don’t cum in me,” she cried as my balls emptied into her cunt.

I wasn’t in a mood for listening to her. I was in the mood for naked vampire women, dicking Snow White, or girls in rollers giving blow jobs, preferably to me. I knew what I wanted, I knew I wanted it now, and I knew how to find it.

I just didn’t know where it was. Fortunately, I had the whole world wide web at my disposal. It’s always a problem of search terms.

“My mother always said ‘Helena Bonham Carter,’” she said, looking at me with those big eyes of hers. “Why does my vagina make farting noises during sex?” she asked. She was the queen of non sequitors, my Anais was. But Anais likes pink sox, and I’m a sucker for pink sox.

She also asked a lot of questions. Why I fucked a monkey. Should a woman wash her fanny before letting a man lick her. What oral sex feels like. What kinky things can you do with baby oil. What is a butt slut.

Because it was there, I told her. Yes. Good. Lots. You are.

Funny thing. Anais had found me. She emailed me on that sleaze site I like to call Craig’s List. “We are a petite and busty white girl next door type and a tall and curvy half Swedish seductress type,” her note read, “we’re looking for a switch threeway with rheostat.”

I was confused, then intrigued. I wrote her back. I told her that I fuck older women on film, but that I was looking for a sexy mom who wears short skirts and no panties or topless dames who wrestle in club rooms. But any dumb slut would do, really.

Needless to say, she was charmed and hooked me up with pictures of female masturbation with shower head and then the three-way. It was awesome.

“Kiss my bitchy royal spoiled feet, slave,” Anais’s friend commanded me as I entered the motel room. But then she laughed. And offered me a candy clit. No, thank you, I said, peppermint candies make a man impotent.

Now it was her time to laugh.

I gave her an order. “Raise my skirt,” Anais’s friend said, and like a good litter girl, did what she was told. She was a busty girl next door type indeed. I pulled her to me, letting my fingers do the walking all over her curves. I want to look between a girl’s legs before I fuck her, so I made both of the girls spread their thighs.

It was a sight indeed—Anais in her pink sox, all half-Swedish and seductressy. Her friend all busty and white. Let me lick your juicy fanny, I said to them.

“No,” said Anais, “Bang my wife Chelsea.” I found out later the two of them had been married in Vermont. Anais was married before, but she got a divorce when she came home to find her husband wearing sexy wives clothes and riding her dildo. It wasn’t the dildo-riding that bothered her, she said. It was that he never washed them after, even though they had gotten a new Nicholson Baker dildo washing machine as a wedding gift. Also, they weren’t her clothes he was wearing.

So what could I do? I banged Chelsea. I put her face down on the Motel 6 bed, and Anais climbed in front so that every time I thrust my dark man meat into her wife, her wife’s face drove into her pussy. Lemme tell you, I liked fucking that litter girl’s pussy.

I call her a litter girl because her father invented that clumping kitty litter. She’s totally loaded with litter money.

Anyway, we stayed in the Motel 6 for a while, all the time a Sara  McLaughlin sex tape playing in the background, and I fucked the two of them good. I fucked Chelsea and then I fucked Anais and I fucked her so good I got jizz on her monkey. What can I say? It was there.

Now though, I was getting bored of Anais and her white apron bondage antics. Sure, she had innocent wife fantasies about fucking strangers with bigger cocks, and that was charming and all, but I wanted something else…something different…something like…

A granny slutfest? Maybe. Or a marshmallow enema? A giantess inserting shrunken men? Something… I’d find it; it was just a problem of search terms.

Did you like this one? You're sick. You disgust me. And attract me. Maybe you want to try it too--the truly awful erotica, I mean. Do it and I'll link you like the hott hott thing you are. Or maybe you just want to read another searching story? If so, here's my edifying tale of Fanny, the monkey face girl...

the whey it could of ben: truly awful erotica

It's the last Friday of the month, and that means it's time for T.A.E., Truly Awful Erotica. Last month we "enjoyed" a "dirty" "story." This month, it's something a bit deferent.See how much you can stand before you howl in agony...And if you want to play along, send me a link and I'll add your post to mine. It's a gang bang of really awful fun! Truly Awful Erotica, so bad it's almost good...

“You had me at Ben Dover,” I sighed. He had just Finnished ploughing into my form behind. Mmmmmm….It had felt so grate.

We had corresponded on teh Internets for weaks before we finally saw each other in the flesh. I couldn’t weight to meat him. His pitchers were so hot—he was tall and handsome with washbored abs, dark brooding eyes and the most luscious pecker I’d ever seen. It was just gorges. I have to admit, I blue the jpeg up to what I thought was actual size, and would hold up my favorite dildo next to it for comparison. He was hug! I was so exited!

Every time I saw his email in my in-box I got whet with anticipation. Still, though, I was  nervous meeting him because I didn’t no what to except. I’ve been burned with Internet dating before, and so I defiantly felt a little sacred.

Finally, the day came and we met at a café and we drank white whine. The site of him was almost two much for me to teak—Ben was even more perfect in person. I wore my favorite cleavage bearing top, so that he could see my breasts and my taught nipples staining against the shear fabric. He wore a violent and white stripped shirt with French cuffs (I love French cuffs. I don’t know why, but I think there sexy) and a pear of jeans. (Jeans and a dress shirt are very sexy on men, I find.)

Sometimes a first date is awkward, but I was so comfortable with Ben. Its like I’ve known him my hole life and meeting him just put everything in it’s place. We sate at the café , just talking for a long time, stairing into each other’s eyes. His mouth is very full and really read. I wanted him to kiss me sew badly. I sat their, at the café, sipping my whine, imagining all the knotty things he could dew to me with his mouth. I wanted it everywhere, all over my bawdy.

The atmosphere was eclectic. We couldn’t keep our hands of each other four long, and soon Ben had moved his chair closer to mine and was stoking my thigh-high stalkings under my mini-skirt. I had on thigh-highs and my high-healed boots too, just so I would look extra sexy. Then, he was running his fingers around the edges of the stalkings, closer and closer to my pushy.

I could feel myself getting whet right there at the table. I whished that the tables were glass so that I could see his hands getting all bushy right there, in pubic, with everyone around us totally obvious to what we were doing. Ben just edged cloister and cloister to me, and soon he had whiskered in my ear, “Let’s go.”

I didn’t halve to bee told twice.

Soon we were in a cab, heading for my apartment. Our hands and mouths were very bushy they’re in the cab. Ben couldn’t keep his hands off of my bawdy—his fingers snaked up my legs, my thighs, and to the sweat spot in between, my little honey pot that was dipping with excrement.  His mouth on mine, his tongue teasing mine, Ben worked his thumb on my clip, slipping a finger inside my wet pushy. I whimperered.

The cabdiver must have herd me because he turned around to look. I caught his eye. I was so embarrassed! I want to curl up and dye! Butt I just turned to the diver and said, "Excuse me while I kiss this guy," and let Ben keep on fingering me because it felt so birthtakingly wonderful.

All most before I new it, we were at my door. As I unlocked the door, Ben fondled my nipples threw my top, making them stick out, ready to be sucked and licked. We got inside and Ben turned two me and said, “Stripe!”

So I did as I was told, being a good little girl. I stood before him in just my underware, my thigh-high stalkings and my high heals. That was when he told me his name.

Witch is really funny. You’d think he would have told me before, but he didn’t. I had bean using his email name, Hugh Jagoff, but I knew that couldn’t be his real name. I mean, Jagoff? What is that? It had to be a yolk.

“Ben Dover,” he said, and I could have feinted write their. I have always loved the name “Ben.” I’ve always said that there’s no finer name then Ben, and I’ve always thought I would merry a man named Ben. I’ve never been with a man named “Ben,” but “Ben” is how it should have been.

What happened next was really haute. He stood there, in my foyer saying his name over and over again, as if I could ever forget it.

“Ben Dover. Ben Dover,” he said, and then he took a steppe towards me, grabbed a fistful of my heir and used it guide me to my boudoir. (I love being lead, it makes me feel so wonton.) There in my bed room, he told me to take off my underware and my stalkings. He shoved my panties in my mouth to gag me and tied one of my stalkings around it to hold it in place. Then he used the other to blind fold me.

Ben pushed me to my bed. “Neil,” he said, and at first I couldn’t figure out why he was telling me a gnu name, but then I realized he was just using an imperative. So I complied. I could feel Ben get on the bed beside me, he must of stood in bed because soon I felt the tip of his smooth caulk at my mouth.

Hungry like the Woolf, I slurped on his man-meet. I licked and sucked and licked and sucked, and he was groaning above me, though I couldn’t see him threw the blind fold. Then awl of a sudden, he flipped me over like a peace of paper and had me on all force. I felt his bawdy be hind me, and then he entered my pushy with his caulk.

On my hands and knees, with the panty gag in my mouth, I could only speak in bowels. “Uhhhhhhhhh….Ooooooohhhhh….Ahhhhh….” was all I could grown. It felt amazing—his caulk was so smooth and hard, so velveeta and smooth. I felt him excite me, then he united the stalking holding the panties in my mouth, grabbed my wrists, and used the stalking to tie my wrists to my headbored. It was all done so quick, I couldn’t beleaf it.

Then he took up his positing behind me and commentated fucking me again, this time with a finger on my clip. He drubbed it and drubbed it as he fucked me with his smooth caulk. I was getting really closet to cumming.

“I’m going to cum!” I scrammed.

“You’re my good little hour,” Ben said. “Cum for your daddy, you little hour!” He kept on drubbing me and fucking me and it felt so grate and he kept on calling me his “little hour.” (I love it when gays talk dirty. Its really haute.)

“Mmmmm…” I said, “Fuck me, Daddy,” I scrammed. “Oh fuck my little tight pushy!” I came than, and Ben fucked me fastener and with more fuehrer. We formicated on and on and soon I could here him mane behind me.

“Oh! Yeah! Oh Dog!” He scrammed and rammed into me, shooting his lode all over my funny, and collapsing.

In a sweety puddle in my crimson bed, him laying on top of me, that was when I said to him, “You had me at Ben Dover.” And then I exhaled, “Oh, Ben!”

“What?” he said. “My name is Hugh.”

I felt shock first and then somee aww. And then I wondered, Sure, it wasn't the whey it should of Ben, but could I still love Hugh?

Haven't had enough of the exquisite pain? Go visit my doppelgänger O for more of the delicious badness. You won't believe it's not butter....

stupid rules girl, part 2

A continuation of an earlier story. Part one is here.

The astute reader would note my mistake. The astute reader would think to him or herself that Donny had given me two very clear directives.

“The first,” he had said, “is that you can’t speak except to ask permission to come,” and he’d followed it with this one: “The second rule is that you can’t stop touching yourself.”

The astute reader would note that I had followed the second directive to the letter. I did not take my finger off my clit except to make it juicy with my own saliva or pussy wet. I touched myself with a single-minded fortitude, a terrieresque purpose, a will as inexorable as any conquering army in the night.

However, the less astute reader might have been swept up and off with all the purpling prose that eddies and swirls around my escalating arousal, my erotic acrobatic turns of phrase, those linguistic repetitions and gaps and that fracturing syntax intended to express the inexpressible. The less astute reader might have suffered his or her own pupil-dilationary swelling ride. The less astute reader might have just read for the orgasm. He or she may have come for the coming and lost the rest.

See, the thing is that I knew exactly when I deviated from the directions. I knew when I was doing it and I knew why and I knew that I might very well incur the hand of Donny in doing so and yet I did it, did it anyway, did it with foreknowledge and with the hope that in the heat of the moment he would forget his own rules, overlook my lapse, let it fall and dissipate like a freak snow in June.

Keep fucking me, I moaned. Those three words are not in any known language “may I come?” They can’t be construed in any context as a request. They are solidly and unquestionably a command, an imperative. I imperated, which by all rules of the game—rules I had myself agreed to—was wrong.

Donny let me come. He did indeed fuck me, he did indeed respond to my command and thrust his hips upward to my open and frenzied cunny, he did indeed continue to fuck me until my yowling banshee spasms subsided, he did indeed hold me after in this long and ropy-strong arms.

And then he told me to get on all fours and to stay that way. Facing the head of the bed toward the wall, I could see nothing. I heard rustling behind me, and there on my fours I knew that he hadn’t forgotten, hadn’t overlooked, hadn’t dissipated like snow or any other freaksome precipitation. I knew that there was punishment in order.

Donny returned to the bed and stood by its side in front of my mouth. “Open your mouth,” he said, and I did.

He pushed the head of his cock not unforcefully into my mouth. Wrapping one of his hands in my hair, he cranked my head back and up so that our eyes met even as his cock continued to slowly fuck my mouth. With my head pulled so far back I found it more difficult to deep-throat him. I gagged slightly and when he pulled out of my mouth long pearly strands of my spit connected us like wet spider webs.

“You didn’t follow my directions,” Donny said. “I told you that except for asking permission to come, you couldn’t speak. You told me to fuck you harder. Now,” he said and shifted his body to fuck my throat more fully, “you will suck my cock until I come and as you do, I’m going to flog you. With each stroke, it will get harder and hurt you more, so you’d do best to make me come quickly.”

He released my head down and shifted his weight. I could hear it before I felt it: the soft thudding rain of the flogger’s leather tips on my ass. I continued to suck his cock, his hips moving with their own rhythm, guiding his cock into my mouth at his pace. I could do little but try to make it interesting—swirl my tongue surprisingly around his cock’s tip when he pulled out, bite gently behind its head for a brief moment when it entered, swallow around its heavy presence in the back of my throat when it had fully penetrated my mouth and throat.

Every passing moment the flogger rained down harder. Soon it had progressed from the gentle heavy drops of the beginning of an August afternoon thundercloud to the sweet stinging pitter-patter of an April shower and then to the driving discomfort of a cold February storm.

As Donny’s strokes became harder, fiercer and more punishing, his excitement grew. His cock was now piston-fucking my mouth, this hard and inexhaustible machine fucking my mouth with internal combustion power. His concentration on his cock, Donny’s aim with the flogger became less and less precise. He hit my ass and my thighs, but also the tender flesh of my inner thighs, my belly and my pussy.

Switch-flashy bits of pain flickered when errant strands of the flogger caught my clit, my labia, my anus. The pain lit on and off the bright white of warning lights. Pop! pop! the snaps of pain on my girl bits snapped like the obsolescent flashbulbs of 1940’s paparazzo’s cameras. (I would still, a week later, sport a lavender-green confetti of bruises on my inner thighs from the flogging.)

Donny’s voice murmured over the switch-swish thud of the flogger, over the slurp-slurp gasp of my cocksucking, over my own haggard, ragged breathing.

“You couldn’t do what I told you,” he said, “you greedy little slut. You had to speak, you had to break my rules. I’ll show you how to behave, slut, I’ll show you,” he said in elliptical folds, the nonsense of D/s speak, the gentle susurration of power that I find comforting, somehow. His rhythms of speech a complex syncopated counter lyric to the flogging, the sucking, the pop! pop! pop! of unanticipated pain.

“You couldn’t follow my directions, you stupid slut.”

In a phrase, the moment was gone. “You stupid slut”: It was a big Gong Show hook in my navel that carried me back into full presence. These four syllables ripped me from the plausible denial of reality that D/s requires; it ripped me out and I was back to myself again.

I sprang up. I’m not stupid, I said. You can’t call me stupid. You can call me “whore” or “slut” or “lazy slut” or “disobedient slut” or “inattentive slut,” but you can’t call me “stupid slut.”

Donny looked surprised, his flogger hanging at his side, his mouth open and his cock upright and glistening hot pink.

He laughed. I laughed. We hugged one another on our knees.

“You’re right,” he said, “you’re not stupid. I won’t call you stupid.” He kissed me and laughed again.

“Now get on your hands and knees because I’m going to fuck you until I come.”

I did. He did. And all was right with the world.

a very dirty story: truly awful erotica

Welcome to Truly Awful Erotica, a pretty dumb things original. Today, I give you a tale of love, requited and un, set at a back-yard bacchanal.

Truly Awful Erotica. It's so bad it's almost good. Lower your expectations and enjoy.

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It was a dark and stormy night. The weather was clear, even balmy as Brazilians, but Yolandette’s drink of choice was that mixture of dark rum and heavily spiced ginger ale commonly known as a “Dark and Stormy,” and since Yolandette always got what she wanted, we were drinking them that evening.

My personal preference was bourbon, like Johnny Walker Black, straight up and over ice. But I’ve always been a sophisticated man. Maybe that’s why I liked Yolandette so much.

It wasn’t just because she had the sinuous sinning curves of Pacific Highway 101 and was hotter th