Wednesday, November 29, 2006


I've known Jan for years, and Marcy for about the same amount of time. Jan has the most beautiful eyes I've seen, clear clover green. They are set in a face that has seen too much, a heart broken too many times, and above a mouth as clever as my own.

We walked home last night and as I left them on the corner and we kissed our goodbyes, Jan says to me,

“You really are blooming, you know that?”

“Yeah, like a flower and shit.” I quipped back

“Yes!! Like a rose!” Marcy chirped enthusiastically

“Or a pothole” Shot back Jan.

And my laugh shotgunned into the night as I walked away.

(© Alice Ginsberg)

Monday, November 13, 2006

Don't be late..

I am pissed. I am a catty, bitchy, pissed off nag, woman scorned; I am epic on the small scale. I shove the last dirty dish into the washer, “Well at least you’re getting some housekeeping done,” my inner positivity chirps. “Shut up.” Snarls the rest of me.

He’s late, 12, 24, 30 minutes late. “He could be reasonably caught up.” Soothes Reason calmly. “Fuck you.” I snap back at her. Pick up the phone, let it ring till I hear his machine, hang up, continue cleaning. “If he comes now, I’m not answering.”
“Uh huh.” chortles Disbelief.
“Now, now..” tuts Reason.
“Whatever” my inner child says with a slight roll of the eyes glued to her Gameboy.

The phone rings.
“Its me.”
“Uh huh.”
“What apartment are you again?”

Then he’s there, and despite everything I’m kissing him. He’s dressed in a trench, a sweater, trousers, all against the rain. All more than I’m used to seeing him in. Damn he looks good in clothes. I’m wearing white cotton and yellow silk, previously chosen for seduction, kept on for functionality.

We continue kissing. I keep thinking.. never a good sign. I lean my hips in, hyperflexing my back, and stroke against him. Hands never leaving his face, wherever his may roam. Its so close, why can’t he just tell, I want, I want.

“Push me against the wall”
“Push me, oh never mind..”
“You mean like..”

With a whoosh of fabric and a pivot of heel, he has me pinned to my door. The imbalance of power is not lost on me (given his dressed state, and my half dressed one), nor is the proximity of my neighbors. My door shudders audibly with each shove of aggression, he bites, I moan, the silk is lost.

My hand is at his zipper a second after his, one hand as the other is clutched at the back of his skull busy trying to get his mouth ever closer. When his cock is free of the pants, he shoves me to my knees. ‘Yes’ I think as I suck at him gracelessly, pointedly, passionately. I gag, drool, slobber, all because I know he likes it and I want it to be about what he likes. His fingers tangle in my hair, grip my skull, and push me even farther.

He grabs my white cotton clad arms and drags my mouth back to his. I hear my neighbor vacuuming the hallway as he plunges his tongue into my mouth and fingers into my cunt. His mouth is spring sweet as I hear the rip of a condom wrapper. “Smooth!” admires the inner observer seconds before he silences thought with one solid stroke.

We pound against each other, against the solid door; I wrap my legs in the swirls of cloth getting off on our non-nakedness. He swivels me around, unto my feet, ass in the air, palms on the floor. I grapple for something to squeeze, pinch, grab, so as to silence the moans that threaten to alert the neighbors. One hand supports me, as another acts as muzzle, my shoulders ache.

Kissing we back into my room, bed is swept clear of debris, he struggles with the buttons of my shirt; I wrap my legs round his hips like a possum gripping a tree. He pumps into me again and again, more position changes, more aggression, tenderness, biting. Till we’re both flat on out backs staring at the chipped ceiling.

“Well,” I huff on the breath I’m trying to catch. “that will teach you for being late.”

(© Alice Ginsberg)

Friday, November 10, 2006

The dominant submissive

So here’s the thing:

I am no blushing wallflower, no coy flirt, I am nobody’s pushover. I argue like its my raison d’etre, I spare no breath in telling perfect strangers they're wrong, I laugh louder than most think is necessary. Yet I’m submissive.

Nothing does it for me more than being overpowered, but you have to prove it to me first. You have to show yourself a worthy opponent, for if I were to bend to the will of a being less powerful than I… Well really, where’s the fun in that? Its like oohing and aahing at the strength of someone you could bench press.

And while I will let you take my body, tie my down, mark me red, blue, and bruised, pound me till I can barely take it… I won’t give up my pride. That’s mine, I earned that.

Call me a whore (please), grab me roughly, throw me down and fuck me like you don’t care, but tell me to crawl and you’ll get no more than a raised eyebrow and a sneer. Slap my face and you remind me of my mother. Disrespect me, give me no consideration, and I’ll find my shoes and the door.

(© Alice Ginsberg)