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

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

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

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

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..

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

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

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

“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

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

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.

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)

glass houses

(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

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

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

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)