Posts tagged ‘love’

Truth-telling: ur doin it wrong

The joy of an anonymous blog is that you can tell the truth without fear of consequences. But both Bran and Kit read this blog, so is it really anonymous? And can I tell the truth about them, about me and him, about us and her? Can I take that risk? Is it an either/or proposition? If I tell the truth, will I lose them both?

Continue Reading February 13, 2010 at 5:54 pm Leave a comment

In memorium: Transgender Day of Remembrance

In memory of Duanna Johnson, killed in Memphis less than a week ago.

In memory of Brandon Teena.

In memory of Venus Xtravanganza.

In memory of my unnamed ancestors.

In honor of my trans friends, my trans loved ones.

Because living without fear of violence is a basic human right — and because transfolk are denied that right daily. Right here in the USA.

Because these are my brothers and sisters.

Because there is no difference between them and me.

Nov. 20: Transgender Day of Remembrance

November 21, 2008 at 3:11 am Leave a comment

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

Post-election commentary (skinny version)

  1. McCain’s concession speech was awesome. A friend of mine described it as his “return to integrity.” I think he’s just as relieved he didn’t make to the White House as I am.
  2. Obama said “gay or straight” in his victory speech. I’m happy about this. Of course, I’d have been even happier if he’d said, “gay, straight, bisexual, or transgendered.” But maybe all those decisions by activists judges have made me too big for my britches. Yes’suh, I’s happy with civil unions. Which brings me nicely to…
  3. …Prop 8 passing in California. Grargh. And also: haha, Massachusetts is the Winnar! And I win for staying in Mass.
  4. Via WordPress Tag Surfer, I bring you a set of lovely images from the Grant Park celebration.*

* And as a minor aside, I find it interesting that the tags “love,” “relationships,” and “god” link to so many blogs on the completely opposite side of the political spectrum from mine. I respect Christianity in the aggregate, but I still find myself suppressing the gag reflex when reading certain Christian blogs in the specific. Still, we’re all Americans and we all have the right to express ourselves. Even opinions like this one. Or this one, God help us all.

More to the point, I find it annoying that words like “god,” “faith,” and “spirituality” seem to have been appropriated by a group of people with viewpoints so drastically convergent from my own. There is a liberal religious tradition in the United States. I swear to God/dess, I’m not making it up.

November 7, 2008 at 4:07 pm 3 comments

Is it still dirty if it just makes me feel all mushy?

So Bran came on my face last night. I opened my mouth and caught some of it on my tongue and everything, just like those scenes in porn movies I always fast-forward through. He was straddling me, and it got all over my mouth and my face. Instead of swallowing it, I pushed it out and felt it dribbling down my chin. But even though he was gasping and caught up, I didn’t want it to end yet. A woman’s orgasm can go on for a long time, and I think men are probably more like women in their ability to have multiple, full-body orgasms than we think. So I grabbed his cock, slick with his come, and worked it even as he was coming.

“No,” he gasped, racked with pain/pleasure of climax.

“Yes,” I insisted, and worked it, worked it, with my hands or my mouth or both I can’t remember. He was still on his knees above me, and unable to move. Even though I was supine, pinned below him, I was the one in control. He began to shudder and jerk. Too much. I began to worry that maybe he was going to have a heart attack, remembered those times when I myself felt like I was going to short circuit — but my body can take so much more, it seems, before I reach that point.

I put my hand against his heart, worried. Pushed him back to make him lay down. He collapsed to the side, but with his knees still bent. I still had his come all over my face and chest, but I didn’t want to get up for a washcloth. He was still convulsing, jerking, trembling, his knees half-pulled up, effectively keeping me at a distance. The convulsions — I couldn’t tell if it was just the aftermath of pleasure, or something more sinister.

I lay next to him, still covered in come, and tried to soothe him. Shushed him, gentled him with my hands. Too soon for cuddling. I was worried.

It reminded me of the time he burst into tears as he came inside me, and from the back, when I couldn’t hold him, couldn’t really see what was happening with him. He’d been fucking me up the ass, and I had to run off to the bathroom. When I came back, he was sitting on the side of the bed, still… not dazed, but not right.

“Are you all right? You were crying.”

“It just… it just reminds me how easy it is to lose control with you.”

Losing control can be a good thing. But safety… I can’t stand the thought of something going haywire with his body. I want him near me, and in good health, for a good long time. The thing about being in my 30s is realizing that it’s not going to be forever, or even as forever-ish as everything seemed when I was younger.

Eventually the jerking stopped. It was probably just the aftermath of orgasm — it’s certainly happened to me plenty of times. “I’ll be right back,” I said, and got up to clean myself up. Came back with a warm washcloth for him. And lay there beside him, head on chest.

“I like you,” he said, and the words were even more heart-warming than those other ones, the ones that go with all the hearts and flowers and Harlequin romances.

“I like you too.”

“I like having sex with you.”

“And I like this part here, too,” I said, snuggling my head in the spot between his armpit and his chest.

“It’s all part of it…” and the two of us settled into the light sleep, the afterglow, of an orgasm that comes not just from wild monkey lust, but from love-making.

Love doesn’t just sit there like a stone; it has to be made, like bread, remade all the time, made new.

September 30, 2008 at 10:06 pm 2 comments

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.

September 23, 2008 at 6:09 pm Leave a comment

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.

September 21, 2008 at 10:09 pm Leave a comment

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