Thursday, September 28, 2006

Cherry

“I’m going to fuck your ass now."

um.
okay.
um.

I was on my knees, my hands tied with pretty knots that didn’t hold me tight enough. He started with my back, driving off thought with each touch of teeth, lips, tongue and leather. He came to my hips and kept going, eating my ass delicately then ferociously, another first gets chalked up on the board.

“You know I’ve never done that before, right?”

“I know”

I freeze up. I don’t untie my hands, or get off my knees, or even look at him. This seems to be another step off the plank. The internal dialogue starts again. “Another first? with him??? you sure you want another first with him?? so much power!” “Oh shut up, its an experience to be had by me. Not a notch for his nonexistent headboard” “This is bad. You should not be doing this.” “Sure, why not?” A cacophony of voices and opinions, all mine. Only one reaches my mouth.

“You’ll stop if I say?”

“Yeah”

um

“Okay”

He pumps lube into his hand, unto me, unto him. He slides in just, I try to relax, imagining each inch he gained, imagining my muscles letting him in. I feel so full, it doesn't hurt as I'd imagined. And within time he is sliding into me so easily I think, “This is it? This is what the big deal is all about?”. I wrest my arm free of the white clothesline, awkwardly pushing back towards him with a hand requesting a vibrator. As he fucked my ass I buzzed against my clit, quickly making myself come. At that point I freaked again, everything tensed.

“Out, out, I’m done. I can’t. I.. I”

“Okay okay”


I showered with the lights off and the door open, he cleaned up in the kitchen. I came out with my hair up, little squiggles of curls escaping from the hurried topknot. An aqua green towel wrapped around me, floating on endorphins, brain chemicals, astonishment. He wrapped his arms around me, swaying us back and forth in the dark hallway. Hot, wet, clean. The song on the radio was slow, a woman singing, country.

And on my feet, for that moment, was scarier than on my knees.

(© Alice Ginsberg)

Monday, September 25, 2006

Lingerie Designers should all be murdered

Could someone please tell me my bra size? I swear to dog, I've tried to measure myself and I'm all thumbs. I don't trust sales people, and every bra I have fucking sucks. The underwire works half the day then spends the second half digging into my flesh like a stilleto into dirt. The lace itches, or flops like unenthusiastic puppy ears, or fades into colors which were not intended by the designer.

Oh for the love of all things holy why have lingerie designers forsaken me? The things which I like I cannot afford, the things I can afford fail to meet my expectations to such an extent that ace bandages and going commando seem an appealing alternative.

Let me give you a bit of preference here. I like g-strings (they are more comfortable than thongs), cotton bikini underwear (old navy makes the best imo), or low cut thongs (and these are a rare occasion kinda thing, I love em sometimes, sometimes I think Gisele should be burned in effigy for how uncomfortable they are). OH! and boyshorts (aka tap pants). How could I have forgotten those? They are absolutely lovely, clothing yet not, sexy yet comfortable, they are awesome.

Why am I such a picky panty person? Well I have no ass. To qualify that, yes I do have an ass, but in comparison to the rest of me it is sickly and miniscule, flat and stereotypically caucasian. I am only bootylicious when I am running and biking so much that my ass is big and juicy from the muscle underneath my lily white skin. Otherwise? Not so much. Now I'm not complaining, but it can make finding cute jeans and comfortable underwear a pain in the butt. (I know, I know, I had to.) Anything in my size results in a handful of excess fabric on my tush, not a flattering look.

Anyway, I must run.

Thank you.

Besitos para tu. (I tried to proofread that, but babblefish is down. FUCKING BABBLEFISH!!!)

(© Alice Ginsberg)

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Sean

And I sit next to him, sharing terracotta tile and plaster wall
just barely leashing the urge to run my fingers through the thick blonde hair on his arm.
Remembering the contrast, to the smoothness of his freckled chest.
I leave pink lipstick marks on his styrofoam cup of black coffee and wonder faintly, why I can't remember the name of the last man I slept with.


(© Alice Ginsberg)

"Fuck love, all you need is a great pair of shoes."

I have some shoes coming in the mail. I am very excited. I have something of a fetish (or obsession, collection, packrat tendency), and since my job has negated most of my shoes as options for the everyday... well I needed new ones right?!?!

Everything ordered was sensible and work appropriate except for these. Strippertastic I tell you. I have a fair number of "whore" shoes, 4 inch heels, vibrantly sexual, fuck me now, kind of shoes. These shoes make me more than a little intimidating. I'm 5'8", so they make me a good 6 foot, taller than the average man or woman. I've walked in heels since I was a kid, so despite my generalized clumsiness I can strut with the best of em.

My collection consists of...

My courtesan shoes. Pink, mixed fabrics from velvet to satin, to metal, all in one barely there open toed confection topped with bows around my ankle and toe. Bought with a cash gift given to me at the end of my art gallery internship.

My New York shoes. Candies, Patricia Field designed. Bought after a trade show with my friend Ally. They are incredibly easy to walk in despite their height, and I was once told in detail how Jimmy could see me stripping in them. They have a cartoon apple and the words New York across the toe, and lace up on the ankle. A friend would not let me walk home in them saying they were too sexy and it was too late, she gave me sneakers instead.

My office shoes. Diesel, bought at a sample sale, half a size too small. Black, leather, pointy toed, spike heeled, sling backs. These are the type of shoes the corporate bitches wear, with good reason for in them one could take over the world. Unfortunately after about an hour in them I want to clutch my feet and cry.

Now, there are many more in the collection. But I can't enumerate them all. It would be boring for reader and writer alike. Plus I need coffee, and a shower, and if I could a cigarette. But damn, I don't smoke.

Monday, September 11, 2006

dark

He quickly snaps off the lights.
“I don’t think we’ve had sex in the dark before” I whisper
“I don’t know that I remember how.” He jests, coming closer as my eyes adjust and he goes from formless to lit by night city light and moon.
“That’s okay, I’ll show you.” I assure him.

He proceeds to fuck me sweetly, roughly, gently, mundanely. Somehow we manage to twist every experience into a few hours. I love him on top of me, being free to just be fucked, or to swing my hips into him with whatever momentum I can gain, or curling into him trying to get closer, closer, closer.

“Mark me, please” I whisper. I want to walk through the day with bits of him remindered into my skin with circles of bruised flesh. I want those bruises to be my secret, underneath the layers of good girl I want to remember tonight.

He shoots on my stomach, his cum like salve to the wounds he’s inflicted. We collapse onto his bed in a tangle of pale, soft, moonlit limbs. Petting each other gently, I look at his face and realize that I really like this man. Perhaps that’s novel as its the first time I’ve had the realization without an accompanying rush of terror and disbelief.

A line of prose comes to me and I need to write it down, I grab my notebook and attempt to write without turning on a light. The process unwraps my legs from his, and brings my cum laced stomach to kiss his bed.

“What are you doing?” He asks. Licking and biting my ass, crouching atop my prone body to nuzzle his face in my hair. “Well,” I want to say, “I was trying to write. Now I’m just doing whatever the hell you want me to be doing.”

His lips trace my back, dragging gasps, shudders, and goose bumps. He picks a bit of flesh and digs his teeth in, the pain is intense. I want to cry uncle, but something keeps me pinned beneath him, moaning and writhing, till he lets go long enough to choose another spot. When he's done I'm breathing like I sprinted to catch a bus, and his body's weight feels like all that is keeping me in my skin.

(© Alice Ginsberg)