wonderland

Comfort Object by Annabel Joseph

2012-01-12T12:17:00.002-05:00

Comfort Object by Annabel Joseph

I had to finish this book the same night I started it. And no, that's not a good thing.

There was so much right with this story that it made what was wrong all the worse. The concept was interesting, the writing was good, the characters were more fully formed than in most erotica, and the sex was crazy hot.

The problem lay with the "hero"; a classification which I am loathe to use in this case. Jeremy was such an abusive, emotionally damaged, man child so as to make the whole book horribly distasteful. The way in which he treated the heroine, Nell, was not that of a dominant male, but of a controlling, insecure, abuser.

I like my erotica more on the edge than most and this is a pretty hardcore BDSM book, but I couldn't deal with the things Jeremy did to Nell. He was so incredibly hurtful (outside of any sort of power exchange) that I found their whole relationship to be incredibly depressing. I can't imagine that someone who treats women the way Jeremy did Nell would ever be a loving, functional partner. Which made the ending so unbelievable.

Sorry I missed out on a few hours of sleep for this ebook.

View all my reviews

"Oh god, I didn't have anything prepared.... this is so unexpected"

2008-09-15T22:38:00.003-04:00

So, I've been nominated as on of 2008's Top Sex Blogger. Which is lovely and unexpected. (Probably undeserved as I've blogged so little in 2008.) No matter, I just wanted to thank who ever nominated me. Here's to more sex in the next year.

xoxo

nerve.com

2008-07-25T11:05:00.002-04:00

"No one ever listens to good advice once they are attracted to a person; logic and reason go out the window. I guess this is the best explanation for why I am doing what I'm doing with you."

I read this on the dating confessions section of the Nerve website. I like it so much that I had to re-post it.

hibernation

2008-05-17T00:11:00.001-04:00

Feels like I've cocooned back into the virgin I was. Now with the memory of many a hot night, and the reality of an empty bed, I am left with curiosity tempered with frustration.

My lust has died down. Like a sullen toddler, there's only so much of a fuss it can make till it needs to sleep. The time since I've been touched has made the wanting infrequent. So infrequent that it worries me.

In my detached narcissism the thing I find most fascinating is the disinterest. I just can't imagine that the trouble of romance, dating, and all matters of the heart are worth the payoff of the flesh. My small world feels comfortable, and until love wants to knock on my door.. I don't feel the need to look for it.

(When I imagine this inner world I picture it looking like Winnie the Pooh's house. Carved out of a giant tree in the Hundred Acre Wood. I wonder what that means... If I'm Pooh, then who's Piglet? Tigger? Roo? Non sequitur, sorry.)

I've forgotten the glorious high found in intimacy. That glimmering hope that comes with each first kiss has dimmed to the faintest ember.

The foot tapping, biological clock watching, cynic in me shrilly points out that time won't stand still even if I do.

One way or another, I have no sex to blog about. Just a diminishing sex drive and a dusty love life. Nothing here folks, just move along.

I relate to this...

2008-03-09T23:22:00.002-04:00

OK . . . I give up . . . just fuck me like a whore
Date: 2008-02-27, 5:34PM EST

OK - I have been trying to meet a "nice" guy for quite a while now, using both traditional methods (set-ups through friends, the bar scene, work, etc.) and non-traditional (i.e., internet dating), and have had abysmal results. By "nice", I don't mean a bible-thumping, republican, up-tight putz who could make a diamond out of a lump of coal planted firmly up his a-hole. I mean a guy who is capable of having a decent conversation that doesn't center around the size of his cock; who is aware of the world around him; who is respectful of people and animals; who doesn't clip his fucking fingernails on the train; who makes me laugh; who parties like a rock star when he has the time; and who can fuck me like a champ after checking his hang-ups at the door. Someone with a brain. A sense of humor. A job. I'm a busy, successful, attractive woman with a professional degree and a great circle of friends. I have a life. What I don't have, however, is a lot of time to wade through a bunch of bullshit. If you just want to get laid, fine; just say that up front so I can move on. Don't make me waste my time exchanging e-mails for days, then stop writing after I don't want to answer the "money" questions after knowing you for 3.5 hours, like 1) what's the craziest sex you've ever had? 2) how often do you masturbate? 3) do you have a nice, clean ass, with clean ass odor? (I couldn't make that up) and 4) do you like oral? (DUH??!!?? WHO DOESN'T??) Apparently, no matter how pretty, sexy, funny, smart, successful, sweet, caring, interesting etc. I am, it all boils down to one thing: fucking. Fine. I give up. You want to fuck? I can fuck.

WANTED: a guy to pull out his big, thick cock within five seconds of our first meeting. I want to kneel at your feet and worship you (and your organ) like a greek god. I will take your throbbing love-stick in my mouth and service you like a pro. I will lick the head of your penis, concentrating on the sensitive spot underneath the head, where it meets the shaft. I will then take you fully into my mouth, and move my head all the way down, swallowing the entire length. When you're all the way in and I'm fighting not to gag, I will move all the way back to the tip, then repeat. I will continue, up and down, until I feel that you're about to cum; then I'll stop, lick my way down to your balls, and take take them both in my mouth while stroking your cock with my hand. I will then move around to your back, spread the cheeks of your ass and rim your asshole with my tongue while stroking your cock. I'll shove a finger or two up there, if you like.

Once you're good and hard, I'll let you eat my pussy for a while, preferably until I cum two or three times. A little rimming of your own would be nice. Attention can be paid to my breasts (which are D-cups, by the way), or I can pinch my nipples myself. Once my juices are flowing, you can proceed to the fucking. Shove your cock in me, hard, all the way in. The harder the better, and if you're hung like a horse, my prayers have been answered. Keep going. Don't worry about me; I will make myself cum again on my own, either with old-fashioned diddling or my trusty vibrator. My ass needs attention, too, don't forget-I'm a three-input kinda girl! After you've made me cum fucking me the old-fashioned way, slowly (and gently, please!) push your huge dick up my ass. Use lots of astro-glide. I will be a little hesitant at first, but then the yummy pleasure-mixed-with-pain will start to kick in, and I'll get really into it. I'll start shoving my ass back against your cock as hard as I can, until I explode with the hardest orgasm yet. At this point, if you feel like getting your freak on, we can pop in a porno and emulate whatever is happening on the screen. Or, I can pull out my cache of sex toys. You can have me straddle an enormous uber-cock and work as much of it into my vagina as I can take, while you get in on the action by fucking me up the ass. You want a threesome? No problem. I'll invite one of my crazy girlfriends over, and you can watch me eat her out while you masturbate. Or, she can sit on my face while you fuck me. Another option is you banging me from behind while I lick her pussy. The possibilities are endless, really.

Once that's over, feel free to pull out and cum on my ass / tits / face / mouth / whatever.

See, I do have what you want! Don't tell ME law school was all for naught. . .
w4m

Matinee Idol

2008-02-21T19:43:00.003-05:00

I never crushed much on actors. There is little spewed out of the celebrity machine that sparks my carnal desire. By the time they get to me they're so homogenized and publicity ready that there's nothing to whet the palate. Maybe that's why this picture sparked such an ardor. It's so stark, that vein along his arm just kills me. I wanna lick him.

hungry

2007-11-04T22:54:00.000-05:00

It's been months. I miss having hands on me, fingers trailing on my skin. I miss feeling the fullness only a body atop of me can bring. But I don't miss the tears. The salty taste of disappointment as it runs down my cheek. I miss the bites, the marks, but not waiting for them to be made.

Now, I just need to find someone with whom to break the fast.

Erotic

2007-10-17T19:17:00.000-04:00

Pretty pictures.

-she-

2007-10-03T22:36:00.000-04:00

“You smell good”
she did smell good, like peppermint and sage. like a yoga class.
a smile unto my lips
“So do you”
I slide my hands up the nape of her neck into the tangledwave of her hair. Wishing I could tug on it, but it was too early for that. I find her mouth and remembered anew how much softer the kisses of a woman are than a man’s.
I suck her bottom lip into my mouth and nip it with my teeth, thinking that horizontal would be a much better setting for this communication.
She lightly sucks my tongue,
I get sensory snatches..
the soft fine hair of her neck,
the bump of one nose against another,
the clicking of one body against one body like flint and stone.
She’s soft, an odd mirror of my body, similiar but not the same.
Breasts smaller, bones lighter, eyes dark and cat like.
I feel her fingers stroking the insides of my wrists, and think she could be my undoing.
She pulls back to find my eyes, and all I can think is
I am happy I came in close enough to kiss
and I’m happy she said yes

Just a phase

2007-10-03T22:28:00.000-04:00

He was handsome, well they all were. And an asshole, yeah.. they all were. He didn’t smile the whole time I was in his presence, he complained that his body wasn’t fit enough, and had little or no interest in whether I came home with him. Until I said I wouldn’t sleep with him, then his bad mood got worse.

The dates generally started and ended the same. They started with diners and coffee and they ended in my bedroom with nudity.

Towards the end of my slutdom I became lazy, I just asked if they wanted to come over. And I requested they bring things... Movies, food, my roommate always requested beef jerky. I didn’t care as long as they came. A girl brought flowers, that stayed alive much longer than she stayed in my life. A guy brought wine, which I didn’t drink. And another brought miso soup, for the cold I had. Not knowing that I hated miso soup.

I was a grocery whore.

I don’t know what I was looking for with them. However, I’m sure that part of what got me into trouble was my impatience and curiosity. I just wanted to know, wanted to know how they kissed, wanted to know what their cock looked like, felt like. And once I’d gone that far there wasn’t really an option of stopping.

Please

2007-07-28T00:23:00.000-04:00

"Sit" he orders me.

'What am I, you're fucking dog?' I can't help thinking. But my glossed lips stay shut. Lips he hasn't even kissed. Lips that he camethisclose to when he greeted me, only to pull away after his warm breath hit them with his hello.

We are in his study. The walls are green and the light diffused so it seems den like. As if I stayed too long I'd never extricate myself. He takes the leather chair only after I sit in the wooden one 5 feet away.

Tonight he's not wearing a belt. I remember it pressing into my belly cold and thick,
how he pinned my arms when I fumbled with it. "Patience" he'd hissed in my ear.

So there is no metallic interlude before he starts on the buttons of his fly, one- two- three- he looks at me to see how much I want it. It must be enough as with a few more tugs his thick cock is out, nestled by the soft pillow of his balls. I bite the insides of my cheeks, wanting to kneel in front of him, to lick, nuzzle, kiss, worship him. As if he can read my mind he shakes his head, and starts to stroke.

A bit of pre-cum leaks from the tip, I lick my bottom lip knowing it would be salty as I licked that soft skin. Skin so soft there's nothing like it. No food, no fabric, no liquid or solid can match the luscious softness that is a man's cock.

"Please?"

"No"

He grips himself harder, his cock surging red. He grabs the lube he knows I like and
drizzles some on the treat that should be mine.

"God, didn't know you were such a showman."

"Being a brat won't get you anywhere."

He forgets about me for awhile, his head leaning back, eyes closed, hand jerking a steady rhythm. When I let out a whimper he opens his eyes but doesn't lose the beat.

"Okay" he breathes heavily. I stand,

"No"

"But,"

"Crawl"

I hit my knees with a speed I didn't think my dignity would allow. My eyes don't leave his cock as I crawl to it. My hands find his knees and his hand is in my hair. As I lean in he pulls me back by my curls. I look to him brow furrowed,

"What do you say?"

hey pretty

2007-07-15T11:20:00.000-04:00

I slip into romance novels like motel rooms. I cheat on my intellect with these flashy tickets out of reality. I come once, twice, three times. Yet, its not enough. The clenching, tensing, gushing is nothing compared to the real thing. The feel of flesh on mine, flesh not skin. Flesh sounds more carnal, its more than a handshake or a hug. Flesh is you against me top to toe separated by only the slip of sweat. Me, spine curved atop my comforter, hand between legs, that is snacking when I need a meal.

My newly minted gym rat status has brought libido along with muscle. At this particular gym there is little eye candy beyond the TV screens, but there is one exception.

I rythmically pull at the machine, 1, 2, hearing him grunt as he counts his own. My eyes shut and I imagine myself on my knees in front of him, giving him whole new reasons to grunt. 5, his hands in my hair, 6 tasting the salty tip of him, 7 dragging my nails down those carved thighs. I snap open my eyes. I’ve got to stop this or I’ll be thrown out of here for pulling down his shorts and getting a taste. Another groan from him. Fuck he’s got to stop that or I won’t be held accountable for my actions.

crush

2007-07-01T22:03:00.000-04:00

My romantic life is mostly crushes these days. I used to hate them, they would lock me in a wheel of thought, "him, him, him". Pretty soon I could see why a fox would be willing to chew off its own leg to escape the trap. Never could figure out where to bite. They were incapacitating, excrutiating. They didn't have the fluffy, victorian politeness of infatuation. Or the groovy swing of a 'yen'. Nor were they the squirming, warmth or puppy love. They were a pin you to the ground, wish it would end, crush. Now they are nice, light. Something to look forward to like your favorite tv-show at the end of a long day.

One is at work, one of the tech guys. Dark hair, kind eyes, scruffy jawline. He's our local heart throb with half of the junior high girls giggling at his presence. He had a girlfriend, so what did I care really? I know how shitty I feel when I fuck someone else's boyfriend. Now that he's single, well there are suddenly more reasons to call the tech office for computer help.

summertime

2007-05-13T14:28:00.000-04:00

Well its summer, I got my first sunburn. My left bicep was burned pink the other day as I ate a dodgy over-priced hamburger. The rest of me was protected by the huge mesh umbrellas which made up the outdoor eating area flanking the river.

I've been away, have had no desire to write, no impetus and no drive. But talking to Scarlett, or perhaps a desire to avoid the tedious data entry which I must do, has inspired me to log in and shout out.

I signed my contract for another year of work at the school. Was given a 10% raise, which is bitter sweet given that it still makes ends hard to meet. I can't say that I'm tempted to turn corporate again, especially when asked repeatedly by students whether I'll be coming back. When I answer yes they ask about my marital status. As teachers who marry, leave. It seems all my co-workers are getting married or knocked up. I sign card after card for various showers, and see candidates ushered around as next year's replacements. You'd think the establishment would learn to stop hiring the young, pretty, female teachers, maybe look for a few grey haired established instead.

I'm thinking of veering away from the autobiographical sex blogging and exploring some fantasies. Would you want to know the veracity of what you were reading? Would you need to know whether it was true? I guess I don't know how much I care really. If I follow a blog for more than just the desire to get off I would care, but for pure stroke material? Nah.

I'm hanging out more and more with Lena, her dogs Eloise and Eeyore, have become my surrogate children. I'm at Lena's house a lot, whenever I arrive Eloise does this dance of happiness where she tries to sit (in obedience) while walking to greet me. All the while her whole body vibrates with excitement. Eloise is an American Bulldog who resembles a small joyous cow. She is white, with spotted ears and tummy, and a sandwich sized spot on her back situated with no mind to symmetry or aesthetics. Her tongue is too long for her mouth, whose snores sound like Oliver's moans. Her brother Eeyore is a prime example of his breed. With a large square head furrowed with wrinkles and a sturdy body perfectly proportioned. His fur is perfectly white ("Like a kilo of cocaine" one friend described) leaving his ears lightly freckled with soft brown spots.

Since I've so lovingly described her dogs, I must really mention her boobs. Lena has the most fabulous breasts. They are dramatic in proportion to her fine frame, full and globe like. Every time I see her I want to grab em and go "HONK!", luckily she understands.. and laughs.

Technical Difficulties

2007-04-04T16:33:00.000-04:00

I have a headache. But that's not reason enough to not post to say that I (finally) have internet service again.

Sorry to anyone I've neglected during this time. More to come, soon.

soundtrack of my life...

2007-03-15T21:36:00.001-04:00

IF YOUR LIFE WAS A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE?
So, here's how it works:

1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie

opening credits;
Between Me, You & Liberation
Common Feat. Cee-Lo
Electric Circus

waking up;
Let's Go Crazy
Prince
The Hits/The B-sides

falling in love;
Track 9
Alison Kraus

fight song;
Numb
Sia
Colour the Small One

breaking up;
Blowin' In The Wind
Bob Dylan

prom;
All You Need Is Love
The Beatles

life;
Chasing The Girl
Rachael Sage

mental breakdown;
C'mon A My House!
Eartha Kitt

driving;
Beyond the Gray Sky
311

flashback;
It's You
The Specials

getting back together:
Rocky Mountain Way
Joe Walsh

wedding;
It's True That We Love One Another
The White Stripes

birth of child;
One Flight Down
Norah Jones

final battle;
I Don't Want To Live Today
Ape Hangers

death song;
Intro.
Kanye West

funeral song;
Intro
India.Arie

end credits;
Living Room
Tegan & Sara

the hit-and-run breakup artist

2007-03-07T21:39:00.000-05:00

"That sounds like me"

I was telling Adiva that I'd broken up with him via e-mail. Cackling I ask Lena,

"You broke up with Adam through e-mail?"

"Oh yeah, I got him on e-mail, the answering machine, one time on the phone when he was deathly ill and celebrating a birthday."

'It's oh so quiet, shh shh, it's oh so still'

2007-03-06T22:15:00.000-05:00

I haven’t been posting much. The thing is with ‘wonderland’ I can get my own stats on the writing I put out there. I don’t mean those who visit, rather how much I write.

Here’s the rub; I started thinking this was a sex blog. It’s not. Not really. It does a nice impression of a sex blog, but it’s really just a blog written by a girl who likes sex. (Who likes to read about sex, write about sex, have sex…)

I also started to give a damn about people’s opinions. Started caring what people thought of what I wrote so I stopped writing. Seems like if you want to shut me up, just listen.

When I start to think about posting I think about the kids I work with and end up with writing what sound like a “Kids say the darndest things” re-run. I need a vacation yet end the day with jewels of memory stuck in pockets, chunks of time I re-visit to convince myself to return tomorrow. I struggle with co-workers, stamp my feet at all that is wrong with the school. I rage as quietly as I can, for there’s nothing I can do to change it. I must go get a degree, then another, then another. And all I want is to sleep, for a long time. and wake once in awhile in a lover’s arms.

For right now, I’m lucky to find the time for a first date.

A good bra is hard to find..

2007-02-25T15:05:00.000-05:00

A good man is one thing, a good bra will get you through the day. I know dozens of good men, only unfortunately most of them are not fellows I want to date. And the ones I do? Well they're generally not good men. Ha. Not really. Substitute "available" in place of "good" and you have the truth.

I've written before about my search for a good bra, this is what I've found. It makes my boobs look fantastic. Its not super pretty, there aren't any ribbons, bows, or bits of lace, yet it does my body good. So two cheers for the Gap, who'd of thunk it?

In other news, my mom's in the hospital for reasons unknown. I can't get through to her and can't get a call back from my brother, so I have no information. Yay dysfunctional family!!

In dreams, I walk... with you...

2007-01-13T19:00:00.000-05:00

I had a sex dream last night.

Or this morning to be specific. I don’t have them often and this one was good. We were rolling around and kissing in that way which is half loving, half competing. It was morning, we were in my bed not yours. I wondered how you had gotten there and was relieved to realize it was a dream, happier still to know you were close.

I dug my fingers into your short blonde hair and pulled you on top of me. Remembering the last time you were over… how in the middle of the night we fucked unceremoniously. No one came, yet needs were met. Funny how that is.

I was walking with Sophie, killing time before the movie. I told her about my dream. She responded with, “Yeah I once had this sex dream where I was Danny Devito having sex with a woman in the woods”.

I couldn't stop laughing long enough to tell her who I'd been having sex with.

pussy

2006-12-20T07:41:00.000-05:00

You’ve come already. In this dark place we lie, you’ve got your pleasure now its time for mine.

I fumble through the dark for playthings, returning to the sheets prepared for self-centered fucking.

Your body spent wraps around mine, holding me tight in reality as my hands play an instrument that drives me to fantasy. Your lips suck at my neck, my ears, as the buzz starts between my legs. I don’t want you to watch me, I want your accompaniment, I want you to help orchestrate this orgasm.

Fingers dig into my soft skin, I feel you hard against my hip. You whisper into my ear. I want you to whisper what we could do, what we would do, what I fear doing. Maestro you oblige me so sweetly.

You huskily tell me how we’d walk, till we found the right stranger. How my knees would grind into the pavement as you told me to suck him. I imagine his look of surprise as with a smile I slide his zipper down. He wears black leather and denim, and he is too wary of his good fortune to question it. I unbuckle the silver buckle of his black belt, one two three four five buttons, light blue cotton boxers, pink soft hard flesh. I feel you behind me as his cock drags across my tongue.

My face hidden by my hair and his crotch, my mind distracted from the park by thrusting my mouth, licking his length, by the cunt that cries for your attention.

Yes, I’m wet, throbbing, each discomfort making it a bit more of a turn on. I like being your slut, the ownership, the degradation; I like sucking him off for you.

And we’re back on cotton sheets, my pussy clenching around this purple menace, my teeth gnashing, my back arching, as I let out the noise that only comes when I do.

You sigh into my ear, the sweat of lust cools my skin, and I sink into sleep.

(© Alice Ginsberg)

type

2006-12-15T21:15:00.000-05:00

I like to look at the stat counter page. I enjoy thinking about the people who crawl into this clubhouse with me and lurk about like ghosts. I want to live in a tree house, with pink shag carpeting that never gets dirty. And a puppy who never gets lonely. And a bed with soft sheets that never need washing. If I could tell you my paradise, I think that would be close.

I realized this morning that Liz's blog has continued. I haven't read all of it. But I do miss her sense of humor. And I wish things could be like they were. But I need time, and don't know that I can trust her again. Especially considering recent actions she's taken, but I don't think it’s appropriate to go into that.

A guy wrote me. A tattooed, grungy looking fellow, who when I saw his picture made my breathing go all funny.
Its odd.
I like skinny guys, with tattoos and a love of computers.
I like tan, shiny, guys with a high school football career.
I like artsy, effeminate guys who I could beat at arm wrestling.
I love tall guys against whose strength I cannot win.
I like preppy guys, who work at hedge funds, and seem to be grown up versions of prep school crushes.

Really, I don't have a type. I am particular, I like what I like, but I can only say that I know it when I see it.

Take Salem for example, he's Jewish (not to be bigoted, but generally not my type), and a bit of a mess. But when he said that he'd sat down the cats and dog to explain that mommy wasn't coming home anymore (divorce you see), I could have made out with him right there. Later he picked up my iPod and accused me of being bipolar cause the Allman Brothers were next to Bikini Kill. His nose has been broken a couple times, he's angry, he's funny, he's unavailable, and I find him drop dead gorgeous.

Yeah, that guy, the angry, funny, unavailable one? He's my type.

(© Alice Ginsberg)

Blooming

2006-11-29T07:20:00.000-05:00

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)

Don't be late..

2006-11-13T19:36:00.000-05:00

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”
“What?”
“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)

The dominant submissive

2006-11-10T07:37:00.000-05:00

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)

me vs. the lingerie designers

2006-10-07T16:03:00.000-04:00

In the past 24 hours I've spent a pretty penny. I went to Fairway last night and walked away with the makings of a great self-date, vanilla bean ice cream, and violet roses.

Today after volunteering I stopped off to get new sneakers (greatly needed fyi) so I can start going to the gym again. (Biking is great and all, but parts of my body are not addressed by my travails on the Caddy. My legs are ripped, but my biceps are a sad state of affairs.)

Well then, I picked up some work shoes. And stopped by H&M for my beloved cotton panties. I walked away with....
-garter belt
-black thigh highs
-light leaf green lace bra/tank thingy
-black satin hot pants
-black, white, gray, cotton hot pants

Thank goddess I'm working tonight. I can't afford this shit.

Cherry

2006-09-28T07:34:00.000-04:00

“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)

Lingerie Designers should all be murdered

2006-09-25T18:45:00.000-04:00

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)

Sean

2006-09-23T17:43:00.000-04:00

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."

2006-09-23T09:16:00.000-04:00

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.

dark

2006-09-11T07:16:00.000-04:00

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)

glass houses

2006-07-29T16:44:00.000-04:00

(Liz and I talking about my fan letter to one of my favorite bloggers, and her subsequent response.)

"Yeah we like her, she's a perv, but we like her." L
"Yeah... but then again we're pervs." A
"Yeah and you know people who live in glass houses..." L
"..shouldn't throw stones, but should share windex." A

(© Alice Ginsberg)

blah blah blah

2006-07-29T03:29:00.000-04:00

I am staying up way too late reading blogs of people who lead lives that fascinate me. Then retracing the characters through this cat's cradle of internet links only to find that I know less now than I did when I started.

Does this make any sense? I don't know and can't be blamed as I am tired, tired, tired

I saw the girl I lost my virginity to tonight (Ronnie), she was beautiful as always and she seems to be doing better. The braggart in me wants to just go around saying "yeah I fucked her". Thankfully I know to curb that impulse. Everytime I see her though... damn I just wanna relive the past.

I think my boobs are bigger than I think they are, I always thought I was a C... but I think I'm wrong. And I think guys tend to look at them more than I ever chose to notice. How have I managed to have these and remain ignorant for so long. Ah denial... tis a powerful thing.

(© Alice Ginsberg)

kitchen

2006-07-27T14:06:00.001-04:00

I am coming to terms with the fact that no higher power is gonna come down and tell me what to do with my life. No person is going to hand me the map and tell me what to do with it. (Anyway it is debatable that I would even listen in the first place) I don't know what to do with this truth... no clue.

I am starting to think of this blog as my own personal chemistry lab. A place to pour acid and makes things explode, a place of linoleum and hard cold counters, everything resistent to damage. I once heard that a cook should never try a recipe for the first time if she is to serve it that night, so I guess just as this is my lab it is my kitchen. The place to forget baking soda, or the vanilla, and though you are guests you are not being served. You don't give the first draft to the audience... so here it is, ticks, grimaces, spinach in my teeth and all. Watch the glass on the floor and be careful of the hot pans. And if you can't stand the heat, well get the fuck out of my house.

(© Alice Ginsberg)

first

2006-07-26T22:19:00.000-04:00

I'm starting this because I'm sick of worrying what people will think when they read something that is mine. I want anonymity in this and the sense of safety that goes along with that. So many times I've changed something online so as not to be found out... so here goes, a simple answer in an anonymous posting.

Last night I hooked up with Josh, he is dating someone and has been for years now. We never had a spark and didn't have one last night, but I was looking for something. I can say is that something is not Josh.

He said he had never slapped anyone that hard, and I told him he could do it even harder, I would tell him if it was too much. It wasn't too much and it was the one thing that blew everything out of my mind. that managed to shut up the chatter in light of physical sensation.

It made me think of Ronnie, of her asking me slap her to mark her. Wanting me to slap her face just as she was about to come, was that what she was looking for? A bit of peace found in some bruised flesh.

I didn't take his boxers or jeans off when I blew him. I'm pretty good at giving head so let's just call it a handicap. I don't know maybe its a side effect of all the how to books I read as a repressed catholic girl, I was more than ready to get started on the real thing when the opportunity presented itself for the first time.

Ultimately he was too soft, he tried to dominate me but I don't tame easy. He was too scared to hurt me, and I don't think the chemistry was there.

The handcuffs left bruises on my wrist, and I worry that I have fucked up my karma by messing with another girl's guy. (without her permission that is) but I guess Liz is right, it was worth it... I learned that chemistry won't show up just because you are both horny enough, and nothing is better than a good hard spanking.

(© Alice Ginsberg)