Just a phase

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

"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?"

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)

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)

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)