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.
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.
“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
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.
"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?"
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
"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."
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 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!!
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.
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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
