Very Idiotic Provincial

I’m surrounded by lesbians. Short, chubby lesbians. Tall, rangy lesbians. Old Lesbians For Change. Softball lesbians. Punk lesbians. There are more crewcuts than I can shake a stick at, and frankly, not much in the way of lipstick.

On the way back to VIP, flash my bracelet, Security in an orange shirt calls at me. It takes me a minute to realize what she said was, “I’ll have to frisk you first,” and a second minute to realize it’s flirting. She’s a foot shorter than me, rosy cheeks, sleek grey bob, smooth unlined skin and great tits on a buxom body, waist vanishing as she approaches fifty. Later, I flirt with the lesbian comedienne, the big name anchoring the show, joking that all the hot chicks out there are making me bi-curious. Nothing says Pride Day Celebration like a hetero whore, right?

Here’s the thing. I don’t “get” lesbianism. It’s not that I don’t support anyone’s right to be with whom they are born to be with. But I don’t “get” it in the way that I don’t “get” what it’s like to be black. Just as I can only get a glimpse of what Big City Lover or Circus Guy go through in their daily lives, and they can only speculate what it’s like to be in mine, I don’t understand how the feeling of wanting can be wanting women only. Beautiful Girl tells me, “I love being with a woman, but I can’t imagine living without cock.”

Um, ditto.

I felt really, really provincial and kind of homophobic when I kept catching myself staring at the lesbian couples. Not the gay ones – I don’t know why it’s different, maybe because they are already “not me”, what with the testicles and all. But the women, the strong and beautiful women, were a herd of ten thousand zebras, giraffes, gazelles (and the occasional warthog) around one very confused and outnumbered lioness.

A Little Diversion (Poem for Beautiful Girl)

(People who post poetry on their blogs are lame.)


Fairfield Inn Room 346, Kansas City, Kansas

You are a goddess and a genius
i say to my friend she says to me
we will be princesses together
with yellow stones in your tiara and me with a green in mine
Victory Victoria Alexandria Albertine
your little sister shall be Albertine
and we will keep the good names.

You are an angel and a goddess my friend she says to me, she has created
me as Celestial, Celeste, Celesta (a tiny piano?
why not - i think it has the voice of angels, thin bells
arguing on high)
me as the heroin of my story
worth every penny for the high
dirty needles left in our wake
as she gets up from the dermabrasion table
(all reinvention comes from vanity)
and i lay down on the floor.

You are a genius and an angel
we say, we kiss hello, we rise from hell
oh, how we shriek with joy and share our scalps
and swap shampoo in tiny hotel bottles
that remind us of the nights
we spent and spooned, were chaperoned
and we were good little girls
good as gold, good as angels,
good as kind goddesses, not that other kind
of goddess, whose pretty words are sharp like knives
but not as sharp as scalpels - why make an easy wound?
we say, and laugh, receive our tributes
as our due, we pay our dues
with checks that bounce, and sign our names
Morgana, Calliope, Misti, Alice Pleasance
or just 'me', illegibly, i, i, i,
and tell our paramours to prove their love
and take the bait, slay the dragon, hold the line,
i'll be back, i promise, one day, i'll be back.

Back soon...

Sorry, Gentle Readers -

5 days of being "off" writing - not really having anything to say, not willing to write filler.

5 days of being not just heinously busy but surrounded by other people.

5 days of being in a location with minimal cell service, minimal internet, working my 'real job' all day...surrounded by other people.

So I am remiss. I have greatly appreciated the people who have checked in with me - thank you (personal thanks to come, a blog thank-you-note is lameass).

I did in that span have one long, interesting client - I've been writing it in my head and will post probably tomorrow or the next day.

Meanwhile - a little something written on a tablecloth.

Sugasm #82

The best of this weeks blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #83? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks

Back Surgery and Sex-How do you connect sexually when you can’t connect physically? (deliciously-naughty.typepad.com…)
“There was no sex. It wasn’t possible.”

A Hard Day’s Play - part 4 (curvaceousdee.blogspot.com…)
“But all the while, there was the awareness of the runes.”

Unrequited (junohenry.wordpress.com…)
“The man in question is a friend and sometime fuck-buddy.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Google Search: &imgtype=face (sugarbank.com…)

Editor’s Choice
Coffee (gentlygently.blogspot.com…)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday (Fleshbot.com)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
The Friday Night Bookstore Crowd (silent-porn-star.blogspot.com…)
A hundred blowjobs in one night? (www.katiegirl4u.com…)
Poly & Death (perverselypoly.blogspot.com…)
Polyamory from a Lesbian Point of View (practicalpolyamory.blogspot.com…)
“When he was just a word.” (un-cool.blogspot.com…)

BDSM & Fetish
Goldslut on Top (goldslutstandard.com…)
Featured Fetish - Good Old Fashioned Bondage - YAY! (www.quipsandchains.com…)
Flogger Session (www.sub-burbs.com…)
Game Type B (lolitawolf.blogspot.com…)
Happiness Is A Rosy Bottom (cherryredreport.blogspot.com…)
Ownership, sharing and monogamy (twentyfoursevends.blogspot.com…)
Pained need (insidedarkpixie.blogspot.com…)
The power of the Anakin’s paddle (darkside-journey.blogspot.com…)
What a weekend it has been… (everythingoze.blogspot.com…)
What vanilla guys can do when they try (kinkyfarmwife.blogspot.com…)

Sex Humor
At seventeen (hard-and-fast.blogspot.com…)
Isn’t That The Thing That Killed The Crocodile Hunter? (funnyextreme.com…)

Sex Work
Bad Call Breakdown (radicalvixen.com…)
Found in Translation (thismuse.blogspot.com…)

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Christine Vinson Nude (eroticandy.blogspot.com…)
Danae (Met Models) (viviane212.blogspot.com…)
Feeders (Tiffany Lynn) (pornster.blogspot.com…)
Friday’s Here…Time For Beer!!!!! (drtycplinva.blogspot.com…)
Giving Head (video) (kimandethan.com…)
Hegre Art’s Latest Nude Photo Shoots (www.taratainton.com…)
Nella and Simone (www.nellablog.com…)
Oily (myhotbox.blogspot.com…)
Summer Cummings - Red and Black Boots (video) (thebootcam.com…)

Sex News & Reviews
Pocket Rocket Plus Review (stilettodiaries.blogspot.com…)
Porn Star’s Claims Merit Trooper’s Suspension ( www.tarasnaughtyshop.com…)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
30-again (bikersballsandteacherstits.blogspot.com…)
Casual (sexcakes.blogspot.com…)
Charlie and Bess (in-your-pants.blogspot.com…)
The Cock Slayer (confessions112.blogspot.com…)
First Trip To The Nude Beach (watchingmywife.blogspot.com…)
On Living in the Moment… (whatmyfriendsdontknowcanthurt.blogspot.com…)
Put your hands on me…. fantasy friday (dirtylittlecockslut.blogspot.com…)
A saucy tale (erotischism.blogspot.com…)
Some Very Lovable Neighbors (4) (eroticjournals.blogspot.com…)
Up Against The Wall… (classyelegantlady.blogspot.com…)
Welcome To School…. (afterschoolmonologues.blogspot.com…)
When you need some time to play basketball (lastbreath.wordpress.com…)

Hanging Out at Nia's

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Not Worth Doing Unless Done Well

Planning my next meeting with Tourist:

White stockings and garter belt
Nurse smock with zip front
Nurse skirt hemmed above the knee
Nurse hat
Horn-rim glasses
Clipboard and pen
Medical forms with increasingly personal questions
White heeled shoes
Wrist restraints – blood pressure cuffs?
Patient gown
Thermometer
Tongue depressor
Stethescope
Access to rented medical office with examination table, counter, sink, etc.
“Secretary” to register “patient”

And that’s why your whore wants a deposit.

Osmosis

Another city. Another hotel. This one with a wide, lobby-like area on our floor, pleasant maybe later for lounging or fucking on a chaise.

Lover loves OCD, I hang clothes in the closet, set shoes in a line, refold two shirts in my suitcase and pose like a pinup as I tuck them back in the row, bent at the hips, chest up, rear up.

“Do that again,” smiling. I do, and he comes behind me, I press into him as I press down the shirt. Suitcase goes by the closet, lid open, on the rack, bath stuff in the bathroom, sex toys in the bedside table drawer. Lover picks up the paper, special section of portraits and stats. “There are some homely women in the Indy 500.”

I come over to look. Danica Patrick needs more makeup, and Milka Duno is working it too hard hair in her face, she looks unprofessional. But the guys are no great shakes either, closer to a set of trim Jason Alexanders and British authors who dutifully belong to health clubs than dashing guys named Andretti should look.

Lover pulls me to him, holds me, kisses my neck, my hair. “Which bed is yours?” “That’s the one I’m sleeping in and that’s the one I’m fucking you on.” He pulls me down onto the bed, on top of him. My white linen skirt (I admired the demure knee-length in my reflection in the doors on the way in) rides up. I touch his chest, he holds my hips. We kiss, lightly and then less lightly. He reaches up beneath my skirt, beneath my soft t-shirt, holds my breasts in his hand. Off comes the shirt, over my head to beside him on the bed. We’re on top of the bedspread. Covered in hooker juice, no doubt. I realize too late that this is what I set up with clients, one bed pristine and one for spoilage. I think to say, “But maybe I’ll sleep here anyway,” but I don’t.

“Take me from behind.” “You want that a lot lately.” I do, because I’m in the habit – that’s the position you come the quickest in. They come the quickest in. He’s in me, I miss seeing his face, the little head duck, the sudden gratified delight when he finds himself there. It’s good, it hurts, it’s fine. He still has all his clothes, I’m naked but for thong panties pulled to the side, light blue cotton. I can feel the zipper bump me each time.

He wants me on top, I straddle him and ride, distant tremors coming closer. He pinches my left nipple, hard, the way that focuses me purely and tightly on this moment, this place, this feeling. Release. Pinch again. I ask for it, drawing closer, and I come in a haze of gentle sparks.

Afterwards, I’m close to tears, which is not uncommon, but I look down at him, gentle face, dark hair, light eyes, and the thought flashes, Our days are numbered.

I’m still jerking every time he touches me, sensitive to shock and movement. His turn, and the terrible crushing feeling of obligation, I want so bad to ask him to leave and I don’t even know why, but it’s so terribly selfish (I think) to come and not return the favor, I must, I must, I don’t know what it is but I have to…

Onward. Over him. Pausing for a minute to close my eyes and wish the tears back in their ducts, I’ve always been an easy cry, voice exercises that loosen the sinus resonator are Kleenex days for me, snot and salt everywhere. I wish you knew what was going on because I sure don’t. I wish I could put my clothes on and tell you to go. He says, “You have such a cute expression on your face – so uncertain.” The unintentional irony is a wall of water, this man who knows me almost-best, loves me almost-best, hurts me only in the ways I beg for, so good at watching for my edge, has no perception in this moment.

More. I sit up and back. “Raise your hands above your head.” I do, one hand half-holding the other wrist. He slaps my left breast, brushing across my tender nipple. Physically, it’s wonderful, shock and pain and yet it’s the intention and not the blow that stings. Mentally, I’m nowhere, the best part of D/s, I’m here. Again, and I flinch. My arms draw down and he tells me to put them back up again. Again he strikes, his eyes wide, his breath faster, too. I wonder why he doesn’t make me raise them higher, make me more his. Last one, that’s it, that’s all I can do. I curl down into his arms and he pats me and soothes me, knowing that for me, this is always what I want afterwards.

And then the tears come for real, I keep my eyes closed, I want this client to leave, I want to know why I fantasized about my husband right before I came, I want to know why the combination of stubble against my breast and coming and being fucked from behind is dirt under my nails, the cat refusing to use the box, waitressing when I’m not old enough to serve, being scolded by a boss.

“I need to go blow my nose.” And there I am in the bathroom, red nose, red nipples, eyes working towards unpretty. Blow, flush, snap out the light and back to bed. Got to give them their money’s worth.

He does, not much later, notice. “What are you thinking?” “I’m not thinking. I’m writing this in my head so that I won’t be thinking.” “I’m not sure that answer makes me happy.” I can’t tell him what is so terribly wrong, in part because I do not know.

He rubs my back. I tell him as much as I can. “Do you want to take a nap, or put our clothes on and go for a walk? Is there anything I can do?”

I need to write it out. We toss the bedspread on the floor. He curls into the sheets, curls around me and sleeps while I write.

Wake, Lover. Wake and read.

Dispatches From the Front

My Mother. Oh, My Mother…

I get a forwarded email from my mother. She got it from her friend Racist Homophobette (who hasn’t yet figured out why her oldest son is unmarried at 45 and doesn’t date).

It purports to be a screed by Andy Rooney. It’s not – Rooney’s quoted on Snopes saying he’d like to sue whoever started this nasty, racist piece as he feels it’s damaged his name.

The gist: why can’t white people have things for themselves if black people have special things like magazines and TV networks – isn’t that reverse racism? Followed hard upon by no girls in the Boy Scouts, guns don’t kill people people kill people, homosexuality is bad, why don’t those immigrants speak English and why do they get any social services, tattoos and piercings are bad (it’s pretty wide-ranging) and wraps up with, “since 86% of Americans believe in God” (which one?) we should tell the other 14% to “shut up and be quiet.” It concludes with “If you agree, forward this, if you don’t, delete.” Ah yes – speak up and be heard, unless you disagree, in which case shut up and be quiet.

And me, I can’t let it lie.

I address the misapplication of non-specific pseudo-statistics, point out that my brother is gay and my friends (I avoid the words ‘lovers’ and ‘clients’, tee hee) are black, mention that I’ve been beaten (briefly) by cops so maybe they’re not always right, and ask if Andy Rooney really said this, or did someone else throw his name on it and start sending it around?

I get personal:

…naming a majority as a reason for rightness reminds me of "well, all my friends are doing it..." …I'm a little embarrassed that my mother, who taught me to stand up for what is right instead of what is convenient and popular, would send me this…Up to you whether you forward this back to Racist Homophobette.

I, of course, cc it to all the family members my mother cc’d it to.

My brother points out it’s not Andy Rooney. My aunt replies back that it doesn’t matter who wrote it, it’s their opinion, “some valid points, some invalid.”

And you know, it occurs to me that it does matter who wrote it. If it's a
public figure, we weight their words more heavily than if it's just some internet nobody taking advantage of not having to spend money to spread around their words. Would Homophobette have sent it to all her friends if it was from Joe Blow she'd never heard of?

My mother is from a generation where the internet is a way to do business and a fun toy, but I get most of my news and information in this way. It personally benefits me to call people on lies, misrepresentations, and lack of accuracy in the emails they forward to all their friends, because I'd rather have an internet that's more of a library and less of a bathroom wall.

More importantly, it matters who forwards it. Would my mother – or even her friend – write in a public newspaper, with their name attached, the same sentiments? It’s safer to mass-forward an email supposedly written by a funny columnist without thinking very much about the subtle hate speech involved. When you forward an email, you endorse what it says. In this case, explicitly, as per the last line of the email. I'm not comfortable letting my family think I'm willing to go along with gay-bashing, immigrant-bashing, and racism, and "just delete."

I write to my aunt (cc-ing to everyone, why withhold the potential for family drama?)

…casual hate speech is worse than deliberate hate speech, because we take it in without thinking when it comes in a funny email instead of from a guy in a white hood. Maybe I'm one of the horrible PC people the original writer alludes to - but if he had the guts to sign his real name and stand up for what he believes, his polemic would carry a lot more weight.

Which leads me to think, am I the pot? You are, after all, reading an anonymous blog. But there is a difference, not only in that I am not claiming to be someone more important or more established to give weight to my opinions, but also that I have a persona you can use for context. You may not know Mandy, but you know “Mandy”, and she accepts comments, answers emails, and engages in dialogue when people disagree.

Feel free to forward...the name is Mandy Muse.