Posts filed under ‘shoes’

Naked puffy vagina

My knees were up against my chest. He was on top of me, inside of me, lovely and full of course, but something else, something different, something… an extra frisson. It was Thursday morning. I’d shaved on Saturday — completely. He liked that. He liked the black stockings and the garter belt, too. I like that he likes them, love the little extra gasp that he made when I turned around after unzipping my skirt, letting it fall to the floor. Black lace, black garters, sheer black stockings. A cliche. But flattering. And the gasp. Worth the gasp. Female power.

Worth keeping my shoes on, even, for a few minutes. High heels are easy to hold onto, when you’re pulling your ankle over your head.

This morning, though, five days after the fact, five days after the smooth shave, was different. Shaving carries consequences. Consequences not as dramatic as unprotected sex, perhaps, but consequences nonetheless. Hair removal of all kinds, in fact, carries consequences. At the very least there’s stubble, razor burn. If you shave. If you wax — well, if I wax, I don’t know about those Glamazons on Sex & the City — but if I wax, I end up with a painful, unsightly collection of ingrown hairs. The pale, delicate white skin at the place where my thighs and my torso and my cunt all conjoin, becomes marred by red bumps. It’s not sexy. As my brother-in-law says to his daughter, “You can’t stop the beard.”

I definitely can’t stop the beard. I’m descended from hairy Vikings, hairy Mediterraneans, slightly-less-hairy Celts. I marvel at women who remove all their hair, all the time. Do their lady bits just grow desensitized over time? How is that a plus? And what about the drip factor?

Whenever I think about pubic hair removal, I think about one of the earlier pieces in The Vagina Monologues. It’s a bitter story, told by a woman whose husband was unfaithful, and insisted that she shave her cunt. She talks about her naked puffy vagina, how it made her feel little, like a little girl, to cut all the hair away.

I realized then that hair is there for a reason-it’s the leaf around the flower, the lawn around the house. You have to love hair in order to love the vagina. You can’t pick the parts you want. And besides, my husband never stopped screwing around.

And there is a nakedness, a puffiness to a shaved cooch. It’s missing something. Missing a lawn. A lawn is a good metaphor. The vagina, you know, it excretes things. It has runoff. It’s also like that thing we named after it: a delta, always draining stuff. Fluid moves through it. Without hair, it’s extra tacky, extra sticky. You can’t sleep without your panties on, or the sheets get all funky.

But it’s also extra sensitive, like the back of my head feels when I get my hair clipped close. The lovely feel of a car’s headrest against my smooth, close-clipped scalp. The lovely feel of the water beading at the cleft of my labia majora in the shower, dropping right to the spot where my clit nestles beneath my naked lips.

Naked in the mirror, without hair, utterly open, exposed. Excellent on camera, the curly joining of the lips around a ridiculously large porn-star cock as a woman rides reverse cowgirl, her hipbones like blades, the tendons running from her cunt to her thighs, all hard and plastic and yet still engaging, enthralling. Still the sacred work of sexuality.

And this morning, with a five-day stubble on my lips, the feel of Bran’s cock inside me, and the area around his cock — what do you call that on a man? — the base of his cock, the foothills of his cock, hairy and beautiful and against my skin, I could feel him, feel his skin against mine, extra sensitized and naked and exposed.

“It feels so good,” I gasped.

“Maybe you should do it more often,” he said — meaning shaving.

How easy it is for a woman to give away her power.

November 13, 2008 at 5:10 pm Leave a comment

Absence makes the mind grow dirty

Stupid Bran has some stupid work stupidity that is keeping him from his primary purpose in life, which is to please me.

You would have been so proud of me on Saturday. After dinner I marched myself right off to my car instead of trying to distract him from his work. It was kind of endearing, actually, the way that he couldn’t bring himself to say “you have to leave now.” Instead, he said the other thing that will send anyone with an ounce of social skills out the door: “you can stay as long as you like.”

I’ve been enjoying some solitude. And some quality time with friends, the sunshine, the October colors, and a farmstand or two. My old roommate from Cambridge and I get together once every few weeks and I entertain her with outrageous stories. We both had a big long belly laugh at the offhand comment I made about Ace having an amazingly high tolerance for pain — sometimes I forget there is a whole world of people out there for whom pain is not part of courtship.

Silly people.

Recent coochie conditions have also contributed to a drop in the GOP (Gross Orgasm Product). But the antibiotics have begun to work and I woke this morning thinking about Bran. Specifically, Bran’s body. I began to treat it as a mindfulness exercise; a quiz to gauge the effectiveness of all my hours of study. The surprisingly soft feel of his short-cropped hair, indeterminate color between brown and grey. The crinkle of his eyes. The ski-jump of his nose. The scratch of his cheeks. Slightly irritated gasp he makes when I lick the smooth side of his neck. Moans that happen sometimes when I penetrate his ear with my tongue. Freckles on the shoulders.

The lovely shoulders I could spend hours looking at, touching. Perfect curves of the muscles, the way they bunch and relax. I could sink my teeth into them. Sometimes I do.

Particular scent of his underarms, light dusting of hair. Bran scent, better than anything to be had within a bottle. Simian arms, slightly longer than mine, perfect for climbing trees, walls, ladders. Perfect for twisting my right wrist behind my back and pressing my body to his own. Perfect for binding to the top of the bed.

This is where the fantasy kicks in. What I want to do to him.

I want to do to him.

Not to get even for that time I lay with my knees bent up onto the couch, because getting even implies revenge — and revenge is not something to seek for an enjoyable experience. But reciprocity is important. Keeping the balance of power is important. Equitable distribution and contribution of resources is important. I love laying back and being a pillow queen. And I also love the other thing. I want both/and the vanilla and the chocolate. And strawberry and pralines n’ cream as well.

So this is what I think about at 6:00 am, with both cats crying their early-morning duet of hunger:

He is naked. I am wearing my long black skirt, a turtleneck, brown tights and my brown high boots. I take the belt from my bathrobe and loop it over the hook on the back of my bedroom door, dangle it down the other side of the door. Close the door and make him hold the belt. I don’t tie him in. This is an exercise not in bondage but in discipline. In training. And following orders.

“Don’t let go of the tie,” I say.

With the door shut and his back to it, with his hands grasping the strip of terry cloth, his arms fold above his head. He is naked. Half-erect. It’s a bit chilly for him, but not for me because I am fully clothed. His nipples are two hard points. Because of the cold or because of something else.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t like to see my face when I hurt him. Why does he think I am going to hurt him?

Maybe because my riding crop, my little red whip with the feathers on the end, and a length of sailing line are lined up on the bookcase behind me.

“Open your eyes,” I say. I am standing right in front of him, my face inches from his. With the lift of my boots, I’m about half an inch taller than he is.

“No,” he says, but in that gasping way, the way he’s been saying it more and more often, which I don’t take seriously.

“Open your eyes,” I repeat. I take his face between my hands. His eyes are bright blue, worried. I kiss him on the lips.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to tell me. Bran is so much better at communicating without words than me. I know what he wants — or part of it, anyway. I am just tormenting him. Pushing him to the edge of his comfort zone. When he opens his mouth I push my tongue inside it, fuck him with my tongue for a moment. He begins to undulate — this is one of the things I love about Bran, his intense physical response to me. When we are sexual, he moves like a woman, if a woman had a man’s body.

“Hold still,” I say, and place my hands on his hips, which have begun to buck.

I slip a blindfold over his eyes. He doesn’t like it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I won’t hurt you.” Much.

I run my fingernails down the outside of his arms and the sides of his torso — gently, to create sensation, not to scratch. His reaction is instantaneous. He’s terribly ticklish.

“Ah-” I say. “Hold still.” In the same voice he uses on me. Daddy voice.

The fantasy dissolves right around here, into some biting, some teasing, as I try to drive him past his discipline. Ultimately I wouldn’t mind him throwing me to the bed and fucking my brains out. But it’s all just sex in the head. It doesn’t even really touch my body. I get up and feed the cats.

October 13, 2008 at 2:53 pm Leave a comment

Naked surprise

He picked me up at the airport when I returned from California, and there was some welcome-back sexing. Which I enjoyed. The rest of the week, though, was too busy for any real quality (aka naked) time. So we made a date for Sunday afternoon, Labor Day weekend.

I’d gotten gussied up for him — one of my new pretty skirts and the fishnet thigh-highs. And the new high-heeled shoes I’d just gotten from Zappos. He came up the stairs with a bouquet of flowers. I love it when he brings me flowers. And when he greets me with a deep, passionate kiss. And while I was putting them in water, he crawled into the kitchen, naked, and began to kiss my feet.

I was surprised, but in that happy way. I felt like a bad top — now that he’s naked and at my feet, what do I do with him? I’ve been a bit of a pillow queen lately. But I did, after all, know what to do.

It involved fingernails, and a thorough polish of my new shoes. And his leash. And some wrestling. And an orgasm or two.

September 12, 2008 at 1:21 pm 2 comments


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