Propositions

There was a smut store near my high school, and I was one of the few daring enough to go in. The Purple Onion, it was called. I suppose I expected one of those hybrid head shops/kink stores, but it was full-on dirty movies, mags, and...video booths.

I remember seeing a mag full of hermaphrodites, which may explain why I have such a fetish for big clit/tranny porn. In case that is something you were interested in knowing about me. But then, I have a fetish for just about any kind of porn.

I convinced friends of mine to go in with me, once. A couple, and they were far more sexually active than I was, so it seemed fitting - Stacy and Danny, in the land of -y, -ie, or -i names. Stacy struck up a conversation with Roy the clerk, who told her a story about a woman who came in and asked if she could have the largest dildo free if she could fit it inside her (it was 20 inches, and yes it fit, and yes she got it for free). I'm sure the story was false, just this old man's way of chatting up an 18 year old. 

In the meantime, Danny and I ventured into the booth area. I remember using my foot to turn the channels, like you sometimes do to flush a toilet in a public restroom. Danny and I were entranced, watching all of this SEX. Neither of us noticed the man who came into the booth with us until he spoke. I don't recall his exact words, but it was definitely a proposition. Something about he and his wife and such an attractive young couple as ourselves.

We both froze and politely said no, but thanks. I wonder, though, what Danny's reason was...because mine was simply that I was not part of that couple. Otherwise, I believe I would have jumped right in.

Oh, and the purpose for the visit that day...my boyfriend/future husband needed a little ego adjustment and a bit of payback for a few sins committed, so I was buying him a copy of the book, 'Boot Camp Cocksuckers.' That and a pair of silk boxers were delivered to him the following week at USMC boot camp.

Bliss

In that moment of still expectation with eyes full of each other and the heat of flesh close enough to touch. There isn't a detail that I miss. The pattern that shapes your face, the swell of your bottom lip, the aquiline grace of your nose. My balance is lost, I am falling into you. 

All thoughts of explosions and wonderstruck romance long gone, only the texture of you against me. The movement, the head shift, the hand on my waist. It's all peripheral and nothing, not in this moment. It is soft and learning and tender. For a time.

Then there is pressure, and my teeth are aching to gnaw, and soon I'm fighting my way to your skin, that fragrance so heady. My bruised lips sliding across your body like the outstretched fingers of the blind.

A delicious tumult of clothing and grasping and then you're inside me, urgent. A pause, a lingering, an accommodation, and your eyes and lips are mine again while my body becomes your punctuation.

Parchments

When I lived in Ohio, I found a treasure trove of used books. It was an old church, renovated as a bookstore. It was creaky and drafty and I got a particular thrill of finding 'U.S. Military History' in the pulpit. The pickings were slim, but the hunt was a joy. The smell of old books is better than the smell of old money. I just want to writhe around on the floor, surrounded by old books.

I'm lucky to have three near me now. Today was Wilson's Books, in what seems to have formerly been an auto repair shop, or gas station. I found a 1949 printing of James' The American, a beautifully bound and well-maintained 1979 copy of Madame Bovary (with illustrations!), a restored edition of Plath's Ariel, and a collection of poems by Adrienne Rich.

The James has a sticker from the original bookseller. B.H. Blackwell LTD, in Oxford. I wonder what strange route it took to arrive in a sweaty little Florida town.

An excerpt from Rich...

But art requires a distance; let me be
Always the connoisseur of your perfection.
Stay where the spaces of the gallery
Flow calm between your pose and my inspection,
Lest one imperfect gesture make demands
As troubling as the touch of human hands.

from Love in the Museum

Update: My favorite thing to find is a book full of marginalia (as it sounds, notes scribbled in the margins). Ariel is FULL of scribbles from the previous owner. My favorite so far - beside the lines "It can sew, it can cook, it can talk talk talk", she has written the word OBJECTIFY.

How utterly appropriate.

Meeting at Night

It wasn't poetry, not that way, no matter how long I cooked it in this overheated mess of neurons.

It was just this - two people with a connection and no patience for the whims of chance.

And oh christ how I loved the anticipation and your preparation. All that taunting before the hour, and my nerves were on edge. I was 16 on my first date, I was 17 losing my virginity, I was 37 and finally seeing a man the way he is meant to be. I was all that wrapped up in a satin shirt and peep-toe pumps and I was yours for the taking.

That moment of indecision, of seeing it also on your face. The wine flowed and the conversation eased and you had me follow your directions just enough to humiliate myself. That egg, and that wireless remote, and not believing you'd given it to some random stranger until that random stranger returned it to our table.

Your laughter at my shocked face.

I remember all of this and more. The shirt, ripped. The tangle of our legs, how quick it was over, awkward laughter and more laughter, and more that was not so quick.

You snored. I didn't mind. It was comfortable. I allowed myself to live that moment. And it was a fine, fine moment.

One More Day

Speaking of schoolgirls...

I begin the next step of my long-neglected secondary education next week. Yesterday, I went to campus for mundane things...parking permit, student ID, meandering trip through the bookstore. It's move-in week for the little quaking freshmen. Once I got over the smell of too much freesia-scented bath & body works products on top of mild b.o. and acne cream (my nose is very sensitive), I was amused to find I was being deferred to as if I were a professor.

I wonder how I can use that to my advantage.

I have just this day left at work and then a long stretch of glorious vacation. Good wine, good books, and lots of good napping.

Surprised Schoolgirl

I grew up solidly lower middle class. Which is to say...I didn't have everything I wanted, but I certainly had everything I needed. Both parents worked, my sister and I had our own bedrooms, we did a significant vacation once a year. It was a comfortable and safe place.

But somewhere along the way, a family tradition was born. In order to excite us about the things we needed, my parents would treat them as special, unannounced gifts. The new winter coat, a sturdy pair of shoes, an outfit to wear for class picture day, even hand-me-downs from my older glamorous cousin.

We would come bursting in from school and hear those magic words...'there's a surprise on your bed!' Lickety-split we would be there digging into whatever was laid out.

My favorite was a true schoolgirl outfit. A plaid skirt to the knee, with a matching navy plaid-trimmed jacket that had two pencil pockets. WITH plaid-printed pencils. I think I still have the pencils.

Now that I'm grown, the surprise on my bed has a different connotation. No less exciting, mind you.

Don't we all deserve a surprise on our beds?

Fool Me Once

My conversations with a quite forceful man (see the post Dichotocatocutomies) have continued, and I've made plans to see him again.

There is some understanding...I don't willingly submit, though I need it so badly. He is intrigued by this war in my head.

I'm not so certain. But I'm eager to see what comes next.

At the very least, maybe I'll be knocked down a rung or two. I'm self-aware enough to know that it's often needed.

Truth or Dare

It was early, even for me. I'm the type that went to school when the doors were still locked. Not a pet, just...eager for a change of scenery. But even given my predilection for arriving early, this was very early. I had three hours to kill before my flight. Oh yes, I had a book, but what good is a book in people-watching central?

I stopped for enough beer to keep me occupied, but not so much to send me to an airplane bathroom more than once. Shiner Bock, fresh off the tap. Yes, please, 22 ounces.

I tried not to notice the oh so loud women on the other side of the bar. I tried not to notice the man sitting at the end of the bar also trying not to notice the oh so loud women.

It didn't work. Eye contact, a moment of wry humor shared. Who spoke first? Does it matter? Soon entangled in a resume exchange and business travel woes conversation. He was small and wiry and sharp, like a hungry fox. Something about his eyes made me prey.

We were on the same flight, of course. He to Baltimore, me to Tampa. A wishbone of luck. Delays, delays, the bar closed. We sat whispering and giggling, the innuendos coming hard and fast.

Another delay announced, another chance granted. I lick my lips, his fox eyes track my tongue's movement. A quick walk to a deserted corridor, there is time, yes, there is time. On my knees, quick, in this corner, a fly unzipped, a soft cock exposed. My mouth was so greedy and wet.

It was over in an instant, in my mouth and down my throat while he twitched like the fox in a trap.

Later, sly glances from his row to mine. From the connecting airport, taunting text messages. My further delay, his eventual return to Baltimore. Nothing more happened, but I would have worn his skin like a stole for the night.

Impracticalities

I got lost in thought standing in line at CVS on my way home from work. It was my round of errands. I'd already stopped at the wine store and bought a gift card for my boss (never mind the fact that I'd rather stuff all her blowholes with marshmellows and watch her slowly suffocate) for her 40th birthday, now I was just looking for a card (one of those musical ones...it plays SuperFreak, which is a far cry from Witchy Woman - her programmed ring tone on my cell phone).

Anyhow.

I was lost in thought while I was behind a youngish man who'd turned to look at me as I walked up. I'm fairly perceptive, I know an 'is someone behind me' glance from a more studied look. And this was definitely a studied look. I was mildly confused, given that there should have been no chemistry at all, reciprocal or not, and I certainly wouldn't have looked twice at him. I mean, really, that's why you get a studied look, right?

Apparently not. I think he was trying to confirm if I was the fuzz (did that just date me horrendously?). I must have passed (failed?) since he proceeded to attempt to pay for his purchases (wine, newports, bag of ice) with a credit card that was CUT IN HALF. And his swipes weren't the garden variety 'debit or credit, miss?' swipes, they were like skiball swipes. I thought he was going to rip the machine off the counter. Obviously, it didn't work, so he paid with cash (and almost walked out without his change). When I left, I saw him two stores over climbing on his bicycle, swigging from the bottle.

Where was I?

Oh yeah.

I have this thought, that I was born in the wrong era. I can sit and watch Pride and Prejudice or Out of Africa again and again, I'm so taken with the timeframe (late 18th century to early 20th) and nationality (English - domestic or colonized). I don't know if that speaks to some inner prudishness cum eroticism in me, or just that I really really like empire waistlines.

But, you know, if it weren't for the lack of indoor plumbing, deodorant, and dental hygiene, I would SO be building a time machine...

Anais aka Benny Hill

The return trip from Dallas should have been over Wednesday night. But due to weather, the flight was delayed, a connection was missed, and bang presto...I'm 12 hours late in getting home.

After two days in the same clothes and with only a whore shower to tide me over, I was WELL ready to be home. But the comic relief that is my daily life had other plans...

I arrive home, dogs in tow, and settle in to my routine. Gather the mail, take it out on the back patio while the pups sniff and piss contentedly. Of course I close the door behind me, no sense in letting all that air conditioned coolness out.

Only...I forgot to make sure the bottom lock was disengaged. After a brief moment of panic, I decide to try the front door. No luck.

I spend a few minutes going from front door to back door (surely this next time I turn the knob it won't be locked!). Finally I think...time to try the neighbors.

Sidenote...it's absolutely criminal how dependent we are on cell phones these days. I was lost without it.

Back to me traipsing up and down the street, knocking on doors. No one is home! It's the middle of the day! What to do, what to do, what to do???

I return to the front door and have a thought...maybe I can jig loose the crank-out window and get enough of my arm in there to turn the crank the rest of the way and then pop the screen and then reach the lock and yes, this is going to work!

It won't budge. Nosireebob. Nothing is going to happen according to that plan.

However, the right edge of the window frame isn't settling back into place, let me just press here on the window....

Yes. You guessed it. Window...shattered. And worse yet, blood EVERYWHERE. My wrist is bleeding copiously. No spurting, thankfully.

I look at the blood and the window and think... Fuck. I'm going to bleed out on my own goddamn front porch.

But then I realize, now I can actually GET in the house! So I break a bit more glass out, bend up the screen on the inside, pull a chair over to fall into, and then squeeze my ass through the 17 inches of space left by the broken window.

In a dress.

With no underwear.

And the postman comes to the door.

Two hours later and the glass is cleaned up and the repair man has paid a visit and all is right with the world. The cuts on my wrist were just flesh wounds...I dripped on some superglue and they closed right up. I told you I am a masochist!


Postscript: The postman had absolutely no reaction. None whatsoever. Freakish.