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.

Just from the act itself

“Now I have a hard-on,” he complained. I’d persuaded him to come back to my house even though he was tired and wanted to go home. He was naked, curled across the bed so that I had to push him over to make room.

Poor thing. Hard. In bed with a nakey female who may or may not be interested in sexing him up.

I slipped under the covers and pushed and prodded him until he was under them too. He complained like my cat when she doesn’t get fed on time.

And we lay there, both mid-week-late-night tired.

I turned off the light.

“Nooooo!” he said.

“I’ll turn it back on when it’s time for you to go home. I’ll drive you to the T, like I promised.” And I butted his shoulder with my head, then turned away, onto my side, and hugged one of the stuffed animals on my bed. He began to pile them all on top of me. I have about seven stuffed rabbits, and all of them have names that start with “O”: Oscar. Omnia. Oliver. Olivia. It’s a little game we play, burying each other under all the blankets and pillows and stuffed animals in my bedroom. His bed, by comparison, holds a wrinkled sheet, an ancient nubby blanket, and a furniture pad he uses when it’s really cold.

To turn on my side like that, away from him, is a coy thing to do. I turn my face away, but I turn my ass toward him, and depending on whether I want to tease him or arouse him, I might press my callipygian^* rear end against him. If he’s on his side facing me, it’s a very strategic location.

That night, he was on his back. But he turned, and there was tumescence.^*

He pushed against me. We began to rock, gently, side to side, and then to undulate^* from the hips. He kissed the back of my neck, and I sighed. Reached around to kiss his face, his stubbly cheek, turned onto my back, and he rolled onto me, pushing his hard-on into the delta of my thighs, my legs clamped tight.

It’s flattering how easily he stands to attention for me. But I wanted something else. Something less… cock-centered. I wanted him to put it away and lick me, worship my body. I was feeling small and neglected. Giving out, out, out, but not receiving.

“Please lick me,” I said.

“I don’t want to tonight,” he replied.

“Okay,” I said. But it wasn’t okay. Inside me, beating against the walls, was the little girl shouting IT’S NOT FAIR!!!! I always go down on him! He thinks we’re uglybadstupid, he’s just using us! NO!

I told her to be quiet, to go play outside. I told her we’d sort it out later. I’ve learned the hard way that there is a time and a place for that kind of conversation. And in bed, with one partner aroused and comfortable, is not the time.

He pulled back, on his knees, and looked at me there in the moonlight. He pulled my legs apart and I let him, guided his hands into the cleft between them.

“You’re so wet.”

“Yeah.”

And he worked his finger back and forth into the slickness, pulled his thumb up from the honey-pot to the little button at the top of my folds, where the inner lips meet.

“Please,” I said. I was excited, halfway to orgasm. I wanted his mouth on me, to feel the warmth of his face against my holiest of holies, to feel that softness, wetness, to feel the friction of something soft that would make me burn, burn me up, move me through and out and under. But this would do.

And I came — did I need to put down a chux? I can’t remember. It wasn’t the kind of orgasm I’d wanted, but I came.

He leaned over to the bottom drawer of my nightstand for a condom. I leaned forward, to take it, to unroll it over his hard-on, to take him in my mouth, but he pushed me back, and I went down easy, and he was there, skin against skin, and slick and hard at the doors of the temple, and I held him there, pushed the head of his cock against my clit, rocked with him there, wanting more, wanting more before he entered, until one or both of us tilted our hips and he was inside, he was inside me.

The friction of the fucking always makes me feel like I’m flying. Or burning. Or moving through a tunnel. It takes me by surprise every time. He fits me perfectly — not too big and not too small. Just right, my Goldilocks Bran, and I was moving back and forth under him, trying to fuck him from below, and he laughed and pushed my hips still, and then he was saying, “Come!”

“No,” I said, spoiled girl, turning my head from side to side. “No. Not yet.”

“Please come,” he said. “Please come, (and he said my name),” and I came, because he asked me so prettily, I came around him then and clenched him tight and screamed and soon afterward he was coming too, head twisted to the side, the aaaagh that almost sounds like pain but it’s not, it’s a pleasure so intense you can’t distinguish it from pain, and then we were both still, and I didn’t want to let him out of me.

“I don’t want it to slip off,” he said. It’d happened once before. So I gripped the roll of latex at the base of his cock, and he slumped over to the side.

I got up to pee, and to bring him a warm washcloth.

“I hope you didn’t mind that I didn’t want to…” he said. “I just wanted us to both come… from the act itself.”

And I was in his arms, and I understood, and I loved him. Heart to heart, skin to skin.

^* I have hereby fulfilled my quota of GRE-level vocabulary words for this post.

Sex as the result of intimacy

We had our first fight this week. It was hard. We survived.

“I’m afraid you’re going to write me off as damaged goods,” I said, my voice tiny.

“I don’t think you’re damaged goods,” he said. “Not any more than anyone else I know.”

He cared enough to tell me he was mad. I cared enough — I was brave enough — to explain the less-than-rational thinking behind my freakout.

On Saturday night we went to Harvard Square to see Neal Stephenson read from his new book, and I got to introduce him to one of my good friends.

Afterward we took the bus back to my place. My place went ‘splodey this week. He sat there on the edge of the bed while I changed the sheets. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“A little ashamed,” I replied. When my head’s not right, my house gets dirty.

“I don’t think you have any reason to be ashamed.”

“Well thank you for saying that. I’m sure I’ll stop feeling ashamed any minute now.”

I couldn’t say it to him, but the shame is mine. Mine mine mine. It rises up from its little pool underground and all I can do is pick up the stuff I don’t want to get waterlogged until it subsides. And change my socks afterward.

Once the sheets were changed, he sat down to take off his shoes. I was suddenly hot, so I took off all my clothes but my panties — the ones with the little ruffles, which I’d put on for him, because I know he likes them.

We’re not ripping each other’s clothes off anymore, and that’s okay. We can be naked together and not sexual.

And there was still the separation between us, the fallout from the week’s mishegas.

We drifted into sleep, and in the morning I brought us coffee and toast on a tray. We read books next to one another. Whenever I moved to get out of the bed, he’d loop his leg around mine. “Come back,” he’d say, and it warmed my heart to hear it.

Later, as I lay on my side, he rolled over to spoon me. I felt the muscular hairiness of his legs against my own smooth, soft ones. His arm draped over mine and made me safe. His chest, strong, his belly, soft. And his cock began to swell against the small of my back.

Dirty, sweaty sex

It was even hotter at home than it had been in the city. My apartment was an oven, and the cat’s water bowl was empty.

“Would you fill it up?” I asked, and leaned over the couch to open the window.

“Just a sec,” he said, and pushed up my skirt. His hands were on my ass, and then he was grinding against it, and I heard him gasp and felt him harden. He loves my ass. I love that he loves my ass. I pushed against him, and he pulled me to the side, slapping my cheeks. We were all tangled up, and hot, and I was moaning and my legs spread of their own accord and I reached around to kiss him.

“I thought about you a lot this weekend,” I said.

“Yeah?” he said, and now he was spanking me between my legs, right between my legs, through my panties, which drives me wild.

“Yes,” I said. “All the way there, and–” I caught my breath as his hand came down, rotating my hips, squirming, moaning. “–and — last — night in bed. And — on the bus– ride– back–”

I was close to coming. So soon. He could tell. He stopped, got up, walked away. I sat on the couch, gasping, dizzy, excited. It was the same spot where I’d pushed him down for our first kiss five months ago.

He picked up the cat’s water bowl and went into the kitchen. “Go to your room,” he said.

I went. There were clothes on the bed, left over from packing. I threw them on the floor by the closet, closed the blinds, turned on the fan. Smoothed the cover. Turned on the lamp by the bed, turned off the overheard light. I heard him moving in the other room. I stood there, awkward. I wanted to take my clothes off, get on my knees. But more than anything, I wanted him to tell me what to do.

He emerged from the gloom into the light of the bedroom. He was naked, his body familiar to me, strong, mine.

“What do you want me to do?” I said, one foot behind the other, still in my clothes.

“What do you want to do?” he said.

I pinched his right nipple, hard, and he gasped. I raked my fingers down his back, and he moaned. We were kissing each other, rough, struggling, he was pulling my skirt up again, grabbing me to him, grinding his cock against me. I untied my halter, pulled down the black fabric very slowly, backing away from him. He held my breasts in his hands, bent to kiss them. I turned around, pulled off my top, and knelt before him. I wanted him to see my submission, see it as beautiful as I see it in others–in him.

This all happened on Sunday night and I’ve had days to forget. The heat of the encounter no longer rises with the memories. But I still remember how slick we were with mingled sweat. I remember that I came, and came again, from his mouth and his tongue and his fingers and his cock. “Do you like it when I pay attention to your pussy?” he asked. And what could I do but gasp and moan and come again. He stayed hard for what seemed like hours. At one point, he told me to hold my legs open and made me scream the way I usually only scream when I’m alone in bed with a vibrator (I scream in a different way when we’re fucking). Once, as I was writhing underneath him, he said, “I love to watch your face while I fuck you,” and I became aware of what I must look like, blushing, in beautiful agony.

Once, he told me to come all over his cock, to make it wet with my come, and I did, right then, on command. I’d pushed my pelvis off the bed to meet his cock as he kneeled, and he must have cupped his hand underneath me to catch the gushing, because the next thing I knew he was dripping it on my stomach. My orgasms so different than his, and yet not.

Later, with my finger wriggling up his ass and his cock in my mouth, he penetrated me with his fingers in both places at once. I remember how hungry I was for him.

I hadn’t bothered with a glove and I ran to the bathroom to wash off my finger. “Wait here,” I said, but he didn’t wait. He followed me in, put his hands on my hips as I bent over the sink and rubbed his hard-on against my cheeks. I turned around, knelt down, and took him into my mouth, as far as I could, lips at the base of his cock. I slipped my finger back inside him, wriggling, feeling for the little pea-shape.

“This is so dirty,” he said. And I agreed. Dirty sex is a good thing, on that we both agree. Not all the time, but sometimes. A lot of the time.

I pulled his cock out of my mouth long enough to say “You’re fucking my mouth and I’m fucking your ass. Who’s in charge here?”

Later, he bent me over the sink again and licked my little rosebud, forced his tongue inside. “You’re so open,” he said. And I was. It’s hard to predict whether I’m actually going to enjoy buttsex before it happens, no matter how much warming up is involved, but I seemed plenty ready for it that night. He lubed up the condom and my ass and he was sliding in, and it was wonderful. But we’re just close enough in height that sex standing up doesn’t quite work, even with me bending over all the way. So he pulled out. And the poor boy was tired by then, needed to rest.

Funny thing about sex, and orgasm: it never feels like “successful” sex until both of us come. Or, in my case, until I’ve come plenty of times. But if you fixate on the orgasm, you don’t have time to enjoy all the fun of sex: the skin on skin contact, the heat, the … the everything. The journey. Why hurry toward the destination? I always tell him I don’t care if he comes or not, just that he enjoy himself. And when it takes him a while, really, who am I to complain? But I do like it to happen. I like to see him lose control. And I wanted him to come on my face. That’s the sort of dirty-sex mood I was in.

We lay there, side by side, in the heat, with sweat coating our bodies, and said exhausted things to each other. I rested my head at the junction of his shoulder and his arm, then pulled back to look up at the ceiling. He reached over toward my coochie, groping idly.

“She’s sleeping,” I said. But didn’t stop him. And he moved his fingers over the folds, and in spite of myself I began to move with his fingers. Opened my legs, felt my lips growing slick, and we were back to it.

Later, he was standing next to the bed, working his cock while I said nasty things to him and ran my tongue around his balls. And then he was coming, a lot, and I bent my head right into the line of fire. He pulled back, half crouched, muscles tensed. I pulled him back to the bed, and he resisted at first. “I’m covered with it,” he said.

“The sheets are already stained with mine. I’m going to have to change them anyway,” I reminded him, and pulled him down beside me, pulled him close to me. Most times, I want that afterward, the holding. His jism was still all around my mouth, and he looked at me and laughed, and I laughed too. It’s such a silly thing to do, really, letting a man come on your face. It’s meant to be degrading, I suppose. I usually see it that way, in all the porn videos. But it’s intimate too, and something I’ll do because… because I want to, because I’ll do it for someone I know cares about me. Because it makes us closer. Because I can.