“A young woman has young claws, well-sharpened. If she has character, that is. And if she hasn’t so much the worse for you.” -Henri Matisse
It’s late November; I’m sitting upstairs in a Starbucks reading a long, dry textbook chapter, and Billie Holliday’s version of “All of Me” comes on. I try to focus on the text, but when I stare down at the page, the black marks swim and crash against each other until I have to close my eyes. I remember you gliding your hand up my right arm, pressing my palm into the cabin wall while biting my neck. You reach behind my shoulder with your other hand to untie my bikini string; the top falls from my breasts and you yank it down, taking your left hand off my right and sliding your fingers into my wet hair. I still feel your muscular arms wrapped around me, picking me up to wrap my legs around you and pressing me harder into the rough wood so you can penetrate me, banging me against the wall with all the force of youth’s desperate wanting. I try to find something to hang onto, but you tell me you’ve got me; I don’t need to put my hands anywhere but around your neck. You sink your grip deep into the flesh of my flanks and find a way to get deeper into me, tasting lake algae in my kisses and hearing me whimper into your ear as I come hard onto you, making sure no one outside hears us. There won’t be campers until the next day, so we spend all night tangled together, listening to Billie Holliday’s love songs on the cabin’s CD player.
I’m driving through Death Valley on a long stretch of empty highway, looking around at colorful rock strata and abandoned mines, and “Shameless” by Garth Brooks comes on the radio, crackling because I’m so far out. I think of another highway in another state; of tall firs and stars. We’re in your 1981 Ford pickup, and this song – our song – comes on the radio. You pull over, shut off the engine, and ask me to dance. With my window rolled down, we can hear the song loud and clear; I have my hand on your shoulder, caressing your neck with my fingertips, and you have your hand in the small of my back; I sigh, feeling connected and safe. Mid-dance, you reach under my skirt to slide my panties down under my dress and over my flip flops, flinging them through the window. You return your hand to my back and touch me with the other; still swaying side to side, you take the now-flowing juices from inside of me and lift them up and over my clitoris, clumsily moving your fingers, but still gratifying my easily-satisfied body. After the song, I hop into the truck bed and offer you my hand; you grin and take it, scrambling up. I unzip a sleeping bag and put it down, pushing you onto it and laughing. I take your boots off and unbuckle your belt, then unzip you to find you commando and hard as a rock. I let my dress straps fall over my shoulders, taking them off as I straddle you, and put on your hat. I interlace my fingers with yours and sink onto you, giving you my very best cowgirl. You buck up like a mechanical bull and I stay on for the long ride. The night is black around us, and I still smell pine sap and distant bonfires.
A band at Coachella sings “Billie Jean,” and I remember sneaking off with you at a Halloween party, finding a dark room where we meant to make out but ended up fucking with abandon on a couch. We were too greedy for each other to be careful about not being seen or heard. Too young to be drinking; tipsy with vodka, but soused with oxytocin.
I hear “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” by the Temptations in the supermarket and am transported to an intense and steady stare in your eyes across a field of running children; I blush, feeling a taut line between us where everything else fades. I feel a tug on my hand and look down; it’s a seven year-old camper. “Delivery service!” she squeaks, smiling big with a couple of teeth missing. I pop the balloon handed to me and take out a piece of paper that reads, “I want to make you come so many times that you beg for mercy.” I stuff the paper in my pocket and blush deeper, trying to will my nipples to deflate, feeling an uncomfortable and warm gush in my knickers. “Mercy,” I mouth to you, and you salute me.
At karaoke one night, someone gets up to sing “Faithfully” by Journey. I deeply inhale and think about the last time we kissed, slow dancing at the Bear’s Den in front of your bros, multi-colored lights flashing around us. You had a girlfriend, but that had never stopped us on either side. I listen to the lyrics – “Being apart ain’t easy on this love affair / two strangers learn to fall in love again / I get the joy of rediscovering you / oh girl, you stand by me – I’m forever yours, faithfully” – and reminisce about the promise of love, the consequences of lust, and the fact that there are some people you never stop wanting no matter how much time has passed.
This piece was inspired by an erotica writing contest over at @EA_unadorned’s site; he came up with a brilliant set of writing prompts based on song lyrics. Please check out not only the prompt page, but his site in general!
So Molly and I took a walk in the woods this summer, and of course I got naked, because that’s what one does when in nature with Molly. She sent me all these beautiful, verdant, sun-dappled, big-blue-skied photos… and while I love them all, this one jumped out immediately as my favorite, because all of my life I’ve loved all things spooky, creepy, haunting, and dark above all else – to the degree that I sometimes think my parents should have been a little worried when I was young.
My dreams of the woods are more The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon (which is a fantastic book, btw) and less teddy bear picnics. Sweet dreams, everyone. Halloween is coming.
Photo courtesy of Exhibit Unadorned
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There’s a big disparity in the way we talk about pleasing people with penises versus pleasing people with vaginas / vulvas; one only need to Google “mystery of female orgasm” to see it (oh my god ALL THOSE ARTICLES). Touching a vulva is seen as something that needs specific technique / dexterity / finesse – there are classes and books dedicated to it. Handling a peen, on the other hand, is discussed flippantly if at all – due in part to the social narrative that men see hand jobs as a waste of time because they also have hands (as do I… but that doesn’t stop me from wanting other people to touch me with theirs!).
Because I talk about sex all the time to most of the people I come into contact with, I’ve met many a man who preferred hand jobs to blow jobs because the muscles in hands are so strong, because they don’t like the scraping of teeth, because the angle of manual sex is better for them, or for various other reasons. I prefer giving hand jobs to giving blow jobs because I have chronic jaw pain; even when I do engage in oral sex, there’s a lot of manual stimulation thrown in.
And just as every woman likes to be touched in a way that’s unique to her, every man does, too. When I’m with a new partner, I always ask: How do you like to be touched? When you masturbate, what do you do? Can you show me? I like to put my hands over theirs so that I can practice the kinds of movements and rhythms that make them feel good. I like to experiment, too; gently, at first, in case there’s something my partner doesn’t like. Hand jobs are my favorite way to learn a new penis. I prefer to think of them as a type of massage and really like integrating them into massaging other parts of my partners’ bodies. I use both hands, I use oil, I ask if I can touch areas they may or may not be comfortable with: the base of the penis that lies behind the scrotum, their testicles, their anuses.
Hand jobs can be an amazing way to connect with a partner; imagine coming home from a long day at work to a dimly-lit bedroom with relaxing music on and told to get undressed so your partner can give you a massage… and then having that massage focus on your dick. Hand jobs can also be hot as fuck when they’re illicit – say, under a blanket on a long-distance train, while driving, in the coat room at a party, or in a crowded bar (story forthcoming).
Hand jobs aren’t some lost relic of adolescence; they’re a big part of my sex life – especially in the context of a long-term relationship, they help me to establish connection and feel out (pardon the pun) the ways in which my partners prefer to be pleased.
“Handy Man,” by the way, is an amazing blues song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BmFtwwCOmmo
I finally got the claim processed from when my camera got stolen in Spain, which means there’s a camera coming my way; until it arrives, you’re all stuck with these low-res phone shots. Hope you don’t mind the quality of the picture, my darlings!
We’re making flirty banter as he’s driving down a highway; I watch one of his smooth hands guide the steering wheel as the other moves gracefully to the knob on his left to change gears. Looking at his large hands, I suddenly want them all over me – but seeing as how he’s driving, I opt to put my hands on him. There’s a moderate amount of traffic along the highway, including tall trucks wherein the drivers could see us from their cabs; I ignore this fact and reach my small, pale hand over to unbuckle his belt.
I’ve done this before, so he’s not surprised; rather, he leans his pelvis forward and grins at me. I unbutton his jeans, pull the zipper down carefully, and pull his stiffening cock out from his pants. He closes his eyes for a tenth of a second and sighs with barely-parted lips as I start grazing his cock with the tips of my fingers. Once it gets a bit harder, I lean under his left arm and wrap my lips around his warm flesh, taking him into my mouth and running my tongue around his head. I eagerly blow him as he struggles to concentrate; when I have to move so he can change gears, I look at him with pleading, lust-filled eyes and tell him how desperately I want him inside of me.
He turns right down the next road; we search for a place where we can pull over, but there is no place. We’re right outside of a mid-sized town, so it’s all driveways and private field entrances. We turn around and come back toward the main highway, my hand stroking his shaft. He asks what I think about just pulling over on the side of the road to make out a bit; sounds good to me, I say. But I want so much more than that. I take my panties off under my skirt and grab a condom from the backseat; I ask him what he thinks about fucking me on the car juuuust a little bit. Before anyone can pass us. Just a few thrusts, I say.
Within two minutes I’m bent over the bonnet, my red sundress up over my hips, and he’s pushing into my swollen and waiting cunt, jeans mid-thigh – I’m slippery and he eases in, taking his time to tease me even though we don’t have it. We (surprise!) don’t stop after a few thrusts; the taboo of fucking in public in broad daylight is so arousing that I tighten myself around him and beg him not to stop. He puts one of his beautiful hands next to me on the car and holds my hip with the other, just like when he was driving – only now, he’s driving himself into me. We can see cars and trucks flying by fifty meters down the road along the open highway, and I’m gasping with wanting him deeper. More. I wonder what the drivers would think if they could glance over and see us. We don’t want to push our luck, though; after a few minutes he pulls out – neither of us completely satisfied, both of us feeling a temporary relief.
I let my skirt fall and he pulls his pants up and I turn around to kiss him as fully as I can; how often do you get a partner who’s down to fuck in the middle of the day on a car near a busy highway? I smile and tell him he’s the best; he says I’m swell, and we kiss again, and the love I have for him fills me up.
*God I hope there’s a porn with this title.