Friday, October 21, 2011

Drip, drip, drop

I'm digging under the celery, searching the shelf for the last jar of minced garlic, when I feel your palm sliding along the curve of my jeans, where my hips and thighs meet. You lean in, low and close, to whisper in my ear, "My God, you have a nice ass." I suppress a smart comment. Thankfully nothing but the ketchup and the milk can see my smirk, because I'm still bent over with my head in the fridge. The feeling is electrifying, as unexpected touch often is. I feel the hairs rising on my arms as you trace your hands along my back pockets.

Laughter explodes in the living room, and I hear a voice raised in protest. A group of our friends is carving pumpkins and drinking beers; I doubt they've noticed our absence. You've got you fingers tracing up the inside of my thighs. I back out of the fridge carefully, a hard-won jar in my hands, and turn to face you with my best poker face.

"Can I help you, sir?"

You move toward me, carefully pinning me to the counter with your hands on either side of my waist. You've got several inches on me, and I have to look up to make eye contact. You're almost close enough for me to kiss. But instead you ask me, "Where are your wooden spoons?"

I point across the kitchen and wiggle out of your grasp, turning my attention toward the chili pot on the stove. What a mistake. In a single move, you've got a wooden spoon out of my top shelf and it's colliding with my ass.

I can't help but jump with surprise. "...what the? What are you trying to prove?"

There's a cheshire grin stretching across your lips, dimples pulled tight. "Come upstairs."

"Now? With everyone here? I've got cooking to do" -- I gesture hopelessly at the pot to emphasize my point -- "and a pumpkin to carve and..." Your finger across my lips silences me. "It can wait. We won't be long."

I'm half turned toward the sink, and you reach out to pull the string on my apron, causing it to fall forward around my neck. I pull it off and stash it in mock-protest, turning the stove heat down to a simmer. You're already halfway up the stairs when I reach the banister, hoping no one else notices our disappearance.

I step in my bedroom, and you push the lock closed on the door behind me. I've taught you this, enabled this... but I don't say a word when you reach around my waist, kissing the nape of my neck as you pop the top button on my jeans. You peel the jeans and my lace panties down only as far as mid-thigh, running your palms carefully around my ass. I realize you are sizing me up, deciding where your palm will have the most impact. The cold air hits my cunt, and I try to stifle the nerves as the sensation spreads.

You climb on my bed, sitting down with your legs crossed. I know that look in your eyes. It breaks only for my whimpers, only when you have me utterly at your mercy. You coax me onto the bed, and I pull myself across your lap. This isn't my first rodeo; I'm well aware of what you want. I fight it almost out of habit, becoming sassy, wiggling until my ass is draped over your thighs, and my face is pressed south into the pillows.

"Be a good girl, and don't make too much noise. We wouldn't want to alert your guests downstairs, now would we?" You stroke my hair with one hand as you say this, it's a sweet gesture, but the tension in your voice tells me you're only a second away from gripping a handful of my hair and pulling it by the roots. My breath becomes shallow with anticipation.

"You will be quiet, yes? Answer me."

"Yes." The pillow muffled my response.

"I didn't hear you." This time I feel my hair twisting in your fingers.

"Yes... ma'm."

There's no warning before your hand collides with my bare right cheek. I tense from the pain, but don't make a sound.

"That's my girl."

You begin to spank me, a succession of slaps, soft enough that I can tell you are warming me up. I hear voices downstairs, and I hope the echo of my 14 foot ceilings and wood floors prevents our sounds from traveling to the guests below. The pain comes in quick succession, low along the dip where my ass meets my thigh, as you rotate from one side to the other. The first time I whimper, you switch, going for higher on the cheek where the sting from the last hit doesn't reverberate.

I'm letting go, relaxing into the pain, feeling the warmth of the needles along my skin each time you hit me. You stop for a second, and I tense. My stomach sinks. The warm up is over. The silence and the cold compound my tension.

"I love to keep you waiting," you whisper. "You're such a good girl. Tell me what you want."

I've forgotten the crowd downstairs, the stove, the pie in the oven. I've forgotten anything exists outside of my dripping cunt and the cold air hitting my raw backside.

"Spank me again," I whisper, "harder."

"Can you handle it?"

"Yes... ma'm."

You wait, again, leaving me to wonder when it will happen. But instead, I feel your finger reach between my thighs, stroking the lips of my cunt. "My, you are soaking wet."

I smile into the pillow. "You must really enjoy this." You're playing with me, now, stroking so lightly that I'm wiggling and stretching to hold my body still. I want your fingers buried in my cunt, your cock, your lips, hell, I don't care. Anything you can find to put inside me. But you stop, lean down to plant a soft kiss on my left cheek, and bring your hand down so hard on my right cheek that I jump involuntarily.

"Hold still," you growl, "or I'll take your insolence and disobedience out on you." I nod, and you bring your palm down again, hitting me without abandon, until I'm moaning low and softly, almost yelping. The seconds stretch out into minutes, and I find myself holding on tight, wishing for the end, but simultaneously reveling in the pain. Such a love/hate sensation, this need for pleasure and pain, so wound up together.

I can't take much more of this. I breathe a sigh of relief when you stop. You slide your fingers back into my cunt, teasing, as you lean over to whisper, "I'll finish you later."

You land one more good smack on my ass, then pull me up and off the bed. I turn away to pull my jeans back up and unbutton them, hoping I haven't soaked completely through the the fabric. You check to see that I'm dressed and unhook the latch, pulling the door open to let me leave first. But I turn back at the door way to kiss you, quick and dirty and deep, before bounding down the stairs for the kitchen.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011


"I'm afraid I'll crush you."

She laughs, a little too loud, and cocks her head to the side in that quizzical, puppy dog way. "That's ridiculous! You can't crush me. You're not that much bigger than me."

"It feels like it. I don't know. It's probably just my being self conscious." I climb off her, shifting my weight onto my hands so I can fall on my hip into the bed next to her. She reaches up to slide her hands through my hair. She's been doing this exact move for months, over a year now, and I still turn my eyes down when she looks directly at me. I don't know if it's the intensity of her stare, or the way her fingers feel in my hair. I want to rest my chin in her palm, turn my cheek into her fingers. I find myself hesitating (again). It takes so long to let go. I can't handle this kind of intimacy with someone immediately. I shy away, turn stiff.

The thoughts turn off automatically when she kisses me, and I reach my hand back down between her thighs. She pulls away. "What are you doing?" She's cocky almost, and I immediately wonder if I overstepped my bounds.

"May I fuck you again?"

"May you... hm. You just did." I lean in to kiss her again, pushing my body against her until she falls back, buried in the pillows. I lean in to bite her neck, beginning at her clavicle and working my way to her ear, running my tongue along her earlobe until I can feel her start to squirm beneath me. "Did I?" I mutter softly into her ear. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much. I don't recollect this. How about I try once again, just to make sure?"

She hesitates, and I kiss her neck again, so softly I can barely taste the salt of her sweat on my lips.

"I don't want to be... a pillow princess." It's my turn to laugh. I spin her nipple in my fingers, twisting it before I bite around the areola. "Ouch!" She jumps in surprise, not hurt, but not sure what to make of it. I can see the playfulness in her eyes. "Please. I offered to fuck you. Hell, if you're sweet, I might even beg. Don't be silly. I promise to never, ever think less of you for asking for sex, for wanting to get off, for letting me play with you. If I didn't enjoy the hell out of it, I wouldn't offer."

She squirms again, as I hope my words sink in, wrapping around her self-conscious thoughts, and bringing her instead to the surface, to here, to now.

"I'm going to try this again," I coax her gently, "You're welcome to say no. May I fuck you again?" This time I don't touch her; I want a genuine answer -- not an influenced one. I look directly into her eyes, and even though the impulse to turn away is strong, I fight it. What do I want? This. Her. I can't ask her to not pull away, to not give into those same impulses, if I'm not willing to check my own.

The playful fire melts, and instead of her strength, I find her vulnerability swirling around dark pupils. Maybe this is why sex is intimate -- not because touching genitalia is, not because orgasms are, not because of nudity or skin-to-skin contact or the way her clit slides between my fingers. It's intimate because we bring our fears here, our baggage and our needs. It's intimate because we have to learn to ask for what we want, and more importantly, how to draw boundaries around what we don't. The give-and-take is intense.

She reaches up to put her hand through my hair again, stroking it, and this time I don't break eye contact. I can feel the fear building up under the surface, flooding my body, but I focus in on the crows feet around her eyes, the hit at the beginning of laugh lines. She pulls me in for a kiss, but slides over instead, letting her lips brush my earlobe, and whispers, "yes."

The word sends chills down my spine.

Come On Over

Outside the Boxes: Celebrating the Queer Body Erotic
November 11-13, 2011 - San Francisco

Your gender. Your body. Your energy. Your beautiful self. How often has the world tried to force you into the gender binary, asked you to assure it that your pronouns matched what it saw rather than what you felt, required that your genitals conform to expectations, demanded that you deny the complexity of all that is you?
What if you could come into a community in which all expressions were possible? Where gender, sexuality and expression were aligned according to your truth? Where no one assumed what parts would go where? Welcome to Outside the Boxes: Celebrating the Queer Body Erotic!,
Come explore your erotic potential through the mind, the body and the heart using conscious breath, movement, process work and massage. Awaken the erotic energy that lies within all of us. Through a queer tantra lens, explore archetypal masculine and feminine energies and the myriad ways they can be expressed. Break down silos of gender and sexuality.
This workshop focuses on the entire body and is conducted in a container that is playful, safe and reverential. Using carefully designed experiential embodiment practices participants will:
  • explore the innate wisdom of your body
  • expand awareness, sensation and pleasure through conscious breath, movement, touch, and communication, where each person's choices and rhythms are honored
  • learn how to more deeply tune in to your body, mind, heart and spirit
  • to receive more fully from yourself and others, and to give without losing yourself
  • learn to give and receive full-body massage and to focus on the healing potential of sensual/spiritual energy
  • learn from your own and others' unfolding, and feel awed witnessing and supporting our uniqueness and commonalities
Outside the Boxes: Celebrating the Queer Body Erotic is a 2 1/2 day workshop (Friday evening, all day Saturday and Sunday), often clothing-optional, for those who are ready to vigorously explore new levels of feeling and aliveness, both within themselves and within a community of queers.


I'm heading here in three weeks, and I couldn't be more excited. I went to a similar workshop in upstate New York last November, and it was a life-changing, amazing experience. I haven't seen San Fran in three years, either, so I can't wait to   fall in love with the city again. It's one of the few places I would consider living, other than New Orleans. I know, I know, that sounds like cheating in my head, too. If this interests you at all, check out the website. And hit up the coordinator, Amy, with any questions or concerns. I might can help, too, so feel free to comment here if there's something you'd like to discuss about the workshop. 

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

Under Pressure

As I always say, you wake up one day (or one evening) in New Orleans and find that the cold has arrived, blowing through your cotton layers and straight into your bones. The heat arrives much the same way; there is no subtlety, no precursor.

Standing in the kitchen, I can feel the wind blowing through the cracks in the kitchen door, from under the cabinets, beating the leaves against the windows. A siren echos nearby, a reminder that we live only blocks from the hospital and even as my life slows down, someone, somewhere, is trying their best to survive a crisis. The kitchen smells like hot pie, Bourbon and apples, and I feel grateful. For a moment today, I wondered if life was returning to normal. And then I remembered... there is no normal. There's today. There is more stability, yes, but my normal now bears little resemblance to my normal of six months ago, a year ago, six years ago. There is no constant except change. Someday my silly heart will stop thinking otherwise and begin to embrace this.


How do you tell someone you know that you can't love them? What a bizarre statement. I don't claim to know what I'll think, what I'll feel, months from now. And yet. I know this. 

I know that for all your sweetness, for all the ways my arms long to wrap around yours, that my heart isn't in this. I know by the way you slip from my mind. I know by the way I become short-tempered, even frustrated, when we talk. I know by the way you shut me down in conversation, by the way you can't stop for a minute and consider my view as possible. Not right. Just possible. 

I know by the way you touch me, by the way I touch you. I know by the way we miss each other coming and going, like freight trains in the night. I know by the look I give you before I walk into the next room.

How to say all these things without crushing you? I find it cruel, almost, how beginnings are graceful and endings are always akin to a car crash. 

I've got to stop putting this off. 

Monday, October 10, 2011

Sex Toy Review: Rainbow G

I'm not sure if the "G" in Rainbow G stands for "gangsta," but a part of me hopes so. Or G-force. It could also be an abbreviation for what I'm screaming, which is along the lines of... "God, that feels amazing."

The Rainbow G is a pyrex glass dildo from SSA, sold at EdenFantasys sex toys. It's not actually rainbow-colored, unless you consider the primary colors to make up the whole rainbow. Personally, I don't see how anyone can truly call something "rainbow" and leave out the color purple. I call foul on this "rainbow" thing.

Despite the misnomer, I'm still a big fan. The Rainbow G has 7 1/4 insertable inches with a lovely curve in the middle which makes it fantastic for a g-spot toy. I definitely preferred it to the straight models. I'm learning that the trick to these glass pieces, due to their unyielding nature, is to try out several and see which one fits the angle of your body best. I'm curious what the reasoning is behind this one, since the curve is in the middle but straightens back out for the bulbous head, making me wonder how the hell it works so well. I don't think the curve is quite as significant as it looks in the photo. For all my analytical skills, I can't figure it out. But I'm past caring. I suppose it's a testament to the truth that every vagina is built a little differently; we don't all resemble the curves of anatomical models!

The rounded head makes for a more graceful exit and entry than some of the glass toys I've used; as I mentioned in a previous review, taking these out after orgasm can be a bit difficult if your vaginal walls tighten. The Rainbow G passed that test for me with flying colors, and for this reason alone, it will probably become my favorite of my glass collection.

The Rainbow G has a wide base, making it suitable for anal play. It has all of the fabulous benefits of glass -- it can be sterilized, heated and cooled, and easily stored. Plus, glass will rock your world. The Rainbow G is definitely capable of giving some earth-shattering g-spot orgasms. And if you haven't experienced glass dildos yet, then stop putting it off. You're got to try one of these :)