"My cunt throbs for you."
"Why do you tell me these things?"
"Because they are true." She was right, though, even if it was true I shouldn't have been telling her. Just a few days ago I had declared that I wasn't going to sleep with any of the people I was dating until I was serious about it. I had enjoyed the rock n roll lifestyle in Onehorse, but I am trying to be a different girl in Newcity. I have some regrets from Onehorse as well. I've sort of always felt that maybe if I had not been in raging slut mode the Italian Nuclear Physicist might have taken me more seriously. I don't want to fuck up a chance with another good catch by being too easy or too sleazy. I'm sure I will fuck it all up anyway. I am in the process of it right now.
I shouldn't be dating her at all. We both know it. All our friends think it is a terrible idea, but we are drawn to each other. After seven months of no communication what so ever she just showed up at my studio, seeking forgiveness, maybe something more. At that moment I was very, very single, hadn't dated anyone in a long time. Within a week of that moment I had two other girls who wanted me. When it rains it pours. I already know which one is the most trouble, I already know which one treats me best, I already know which one I am still sort of in love with. All I really need to figure out is which one of those options is the best for me. I'm sort of thinking none. I was better off alone, but my cunt does ocassionally throb. It was throbbing last night just from looking at her.
"Well," she said, "If I don't touch you, it isn't really sex, is it?" I wasn't sure exactly what she had in mind but I also didn't care, I wanted it, I wanted something, I wanted contact. It had been so long, and so long full of longing. I hadn't even given myself a decent orgasm in a while, I've run out of things to think about, and Lunar Park has almost no sex in it.
She told me I was not allowed to kiss her because she wanted me to talk. She wanted me to tell her what I felt as I touched my pussy. The lights were off, and within moments so were our pants, each of us using our own hands, my lips next to her ear, describing how I was already wet, how I had started masturbating when she went to get me a glass of water, before we had even decided to do this. Telling her how perfectly clear I could recall the color, the scent of her, how much I wanted to put my head between her legs and just breathe, inhale her, blow hot air on her, tease her to the point of distraction. She quieted me and told me to listen, I could hear her violently fucking herself, she said, "I won't touch you, but I know how you like to be touched, and I am touching myself that way right now. Can you tell, can you feel the shivers in my body as I fuck myself. I've got three fingers in there and I wish they were yours." I could, I could feel her hips quivering next to mine, and their vibration combined with the work of my own slick fingers lead me to an orgasmic cry matched by hers.
A moment of silence, tempered only by heaving breath.
"That is why I tell you those things."
We meet, and memorable, significant things occur. Our dedication to craft eventually pulls us apart; you are called to New York to write for Rolling Stone, I relocate to the Bay Area to pursue my masters. Two years after parting on mixed terms, as all partings truly are at the root, we unexpectedly meet again.
I spot you across the room at an art opening at the MOMA. There is a tug in my heart as I consider the context of this encounter, the crowd, the time passed, the comely woman with whom you animatedly speak. Is she your lover? The thought fills me with jealousy. I breathe away the anger and ponder if I should approach you. As my mind weighs the pros and cons a man draws near the woman from behind, and before his arm is wrapped all the way around her waist I have already taken steps in your direction.
The couple walks away, and you turn to find me so close that your hand brushes the silk of my dress. I grin, “Your face is just as I remember it, yet, somehow, brighter than I could possibly imagine.”
Surprised at my miraculous manifestation, you stammer, “BBBBunnie, what are you doing here?”
I quip “I came to see you.” Noticing your uneasiness follow it up with the truth, “I printed all the lithos in this show, so Gianni flew me out for the opening.” You seem a little confused, and I decide to take advantage of it, “Have you seen the show already?”
“Yes.”
I hook my arm through yours and begin to lead you towards the exit, “Excellent, then lets go have a drink and catch up.”
You come to your senses in the cab and query, “Why didn’t you call and let me know you were going to be in town?”
“The whole thing was very last minute. Besides, I’d heard you were dating that girl from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. How can I compete with a real rock star?”
“Pretty easily when she is on tour all the time,” there is a touch of bitterness to your voice, “but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m pissed at you.” You turn your face towards the rain spattered window.
I move close and pull your hand into mine. We both feel an electric pop, but you won’t meet my eyes. “Honey, I’m sorry. C’mon, here we are, now, together, let’s just enjoy it.”
You pull your hand away, “You were always good at changing the subject.”
“You need a drink. Driver, are we almost there?”
A gruff voice fills the cab, “Couple more minutes.”
You ask the window, “Where are you taking me anyway?”
“We are going to the Waldorf-Astoria, where I’m staying.” Worried by your coldness, I plead, “They have a three piece jazz combo and great Manhattans at the bar.” You don’t respond. I feel my heart melt just a little, and am wracked with guilt at not having called, but I just couldn’t handle the thought of you with someone else. It was easier for me not to see you than to risk seeing you with her. I lean in to you, not touching, but lips close to your ear and whisper, “If you are really that upset I can take you home or back to the show, but it will break my heart to do it. I should have called, I’m sorry. If you let me buy you a drink I’ll take off my heels so you’re taller than me.”
You finally crack a smile and acquiesce, “Okay.”
Arms nestled, we step out of the cab and into the expansive lobby. The vaulted ceiling, richly textured fabrics and stature of the guests impart an unmistakable elegance. With the flowing golden silk of my dress and the fine cut of your suit we replicate the noir sense evoked by the art deco décor. I lead us towards the lilting strains of jazz piano, and we find seats at the dark oak bar. I order two manhattans and kick off my shoes. “That’s not fair,” you accuse, “I’m not really taller than you if we’re sitting down.”
“Then let’s dance.” I pull you off your chair and towards the intricate marble dance floor, leaving my shoes and our drinks behind. The bar is well populated but the dance floor empty. The band sees us moving to it and slows the pace, blending into a sultry rendition of “Girl Talk” I grow warm as your arm circles my waist and pulls me towards you with a teasing touch of force. The intensity with which you gaze into my eyes is a stark contrast to your attitude in the cab, and I am grateful to have broken through. Your stare is met with mine unblinking as we sway to the music. The time passed becomes moot, powerless in the face of the attraction, the passion that is still there, smoldering beneath the surface. Other couples are drawn to our concentrated presence and the floor begins to fill around us. I move closer into you, my head on your shoulder, and my hand in your hair. I tug at your earlobe with my lips and whisper, “I’ve missed you.”
The band picks up the pace but we do not register it, continuing our slow progression until a stranger’s poorly placed wingtip crushes my naked foot. I involuntarily pull away from you and exclaim, “Acch!” Aghast at his blunder he apologizes profusely and insists we charge a round to his tab at the bar. Giggling a bit at his awkwardness, we return to our seats to imbibe the manhattans earlier abandoned. The conversation is a paper boat effortlessly floating downstream, until my jealousy surfaces and we hit a log jam. “So, what is up with you and Karen O? I saw your photo together in Spin and I couldn’t eat for a week afterward.”
You deflect expertly, “It’s been two years Bunnie; don’t tell me you haven’t dated anyone that whole time.”
I motion to the bartender for another round, “I’ve had some fun. I do live in San Francisco, but I never,” I sigh deeply, having a hard time, as always, admitting my true feelings, “I never met anyone who got to me the way you do. I never met anyone who could make love to me the way you do.” You blush, I put my hand on your arm and it deepens. The drinks are set before us, and mine disappears quickly. “Listen, I don’t care about you and the rock star. That’s a lie, I do care, it drives me crazy, but I’m going to ignore it, and I’m going to go for broke. Stay with me tonight?” I do my best to force you with my eyes, willing you to give in to my need.
You look away. “I don’t know. I mean, I’m not sure if I want to open that back up. It took me a while to get over you, and even seeing you tonight, sitting here has been a little…unnerving.”
“Don’t think of it that way,” I get off the chair and stand between your legs, full of drunken courage, “don’t think of your feelings here…” I press my hand against your heart, sensing its accelerated throb, “think of your feelings here…” I put the hand between your thighs, exerting a gentle pressure on that spot, feeling the heat there. I watch your eyes close, and your head tilt back just a bit, powerless to resist my expert fingers. I lean in and address you quietly, “I know there is no one else who knows you there like I do. Come upstairs, give in to me, and give in to you. Let’s not think until breakfast.” I step away, giving you space to consider.
You reach for your drink, down it quickly, and ask, “What floor are you on?”
A dangerously sultry smile seasons my features, “Just follow me.”
The moment the elevator door closes I push you against the wall and fill your mouth with mine. We move with an urgency marinated by years apart. The door opens and the empty hallway finds a few buttons on your shirt already undone. Shoes in one hand and your hand in the other, we trot, laughing, down the hallway to my room. I fumble with the key, and we tumble in the door and directly to the king size bed.
Our pace becomes slower, deliberate. You throw your suit jacket on the floor and I continue my task of unbuttoning your shirt, each one undone followed by a kiss on the newly exposed flesh. Your hands work the zipper on the back of my dress, the widening silk gap exposing my lack of underthings. I step off the bed and out of the dress, tossing it lazily on a chair, revealing an unhindered landscape of sensuous curves. I crawl over to you, half sitting against the headboard, studying intently my approach. I peel back your shirt, and press our naked flesh together, my hand cupping your breast. Our lips become the nexus of desire. I sneak my hand beneath your belt, not bothering with the fly on your slacks.
My hand combs through your scant fluff and my ear senses your quickening breath. One finger parts the folds and traces from bottom to top and that first silk noise slips through your teeth now biting deep in my shoulder. My fingers undulate, middle index ring. Middle index ring. This goes slowly, not pushing for immediate pleasure, just building arousal until your body responds, naturally opening up, and providing me with a wash of musk. My fingers rearrange themselves in the folds of willing flesh and continue their slither. Your teeth release my shoulder. Pace quickens. Your steady pulse of sonance begins, starting high and weak, breathy, speeding forward into loud and deep and my fingers go from simple undulation to forceful rub until the sound breaks at its peak, the fingers are forced to stop by the collapsing thigh around them and the mouth that moments ago fed on my shoulder vengefully now meets the neck with soft murmurs of incomplete thoughts. My hand remains, cupping, sensing the tremors of aftershock.
We curl together and I bring my hand to my lips, sampling the sweetness of you. Your breath returns to normal and you turn to kiss me, grasping my body strongly, forcing me on my back. Your lips trace a path down my soft skin into the depths of my lust. Your tongue teases, flicking lightly, barely touching, and I squirm to bring you closer. You lunge and attack my clit with unbridled fervor; my body arches to meet you. Deep moans escape my lips, the sound building to a tremendous crescendo as your pulsing hand enters me. I clench, lost in the wave of orgasm, forgetting my surroundings, my name, everything, until my scream prompts wall pounding from the next room over.
You look up at me with a sly grin. I curl up into a crumpled ball of heaving breath but muster enough strength to motion you towards me. Once again you fall into my arms and our bodies together match pace of breath, enmeshed in naked velvet sleep, until a New York noise awakes us late in the night and we begin the dance anew.
lurk.
still I lurk, in other spaces, writing away with a more open face.
quite lonely, actually, pining away for the evil ex girlfriend, only because I have not found her replacement.
There is a beautiful black man who wants to fuck me hard every night and I have taken him up on it
once
or
twice
but he doesn't make me feel appreciated, more like
expected
so I don't go to him often anymore.
I do
think
of you
still.
fuck her indeed! Wow, it was good to read that and realize how much she always pissed me off - that it is not just a post-breakup thing. Yes I dumped that bitch hardcore on March 27th, but there is still reverberating drama. She called me on monday and yelled at me for writing about her on my myspace blog, which I did, but I lied and told her it was about someone else. My writing is so cryptic anyway nobody but her would know it is about her. That is what prompted me to come here, as I wrote about her here in more vivid detail than I ever would on myspace. And I realized how long it had been since I had written all of you.
She has replaced me, tells me she is in love with the new one. Eh, I really don't feel anything but smug about the whole experiance, I am, after all, a non-emoting machine. I took a 100 day vow of celibacy of all types directly after the event, it ends july 6th, hopefully I will have someone to celebrate with. But quite possibly I will not. Art is good, better than ever actually and taking up more of my time and brain than anything else. Sorry, you knew it always came first. I like new city and plan to stay here for a while - it is hotter than the devil's balls but hipper than hell.
fuck her. fuck her for telling me she would take me any way I am and then falling in love with me and making me feel guilty for who I am. For what I am, for what I do. fuck her for running away crying and for being hurt and for springing all these suprise feelings on me when the terms were clear. fuck her for putting me through the drama and making me the bad guy and introducing me to all her friends so I like them and then making it hard, hard to tell her to fuck off because when she does fuck me its good. But she never fucks me enough, moody bitch won't let me touch her half the time and half the time she touches me is too rough, last three or four times it was my hands, not her tongue that did the trick. Fuck her for making me scream in my car when no one could hear so now I am coughing trying to revive my voice. Fuck her for feeling when I don't. Fuck her for wanting me when all I want to do is die. Fuck her for complications on top of complications. Fuck her for her lack of trust in me. That is really what it boils down to, I trust her to tie me up and put my nipples in between her teeth but she does not even trust me enough to go out to dinner with one person. Fuck her. I don't fuck her enough and that is half the problem. Fuck her for making me a problem when I know her life is already strectched to the limit and if she cut me loose things could be easier. Fuck her for not cutting me loose when we both had the chance, and fuck me for the same, for going along with it because it is easier to stay than to go. Fuck her because in an hour she is going to call me and she is calling right now.
still breathing.
everything has been too dark for too long to write about. there are still a few people who know me and know this place, if things get too dark here I get concerned phone calls. this right now might get concerned phone calls, but really, really hope not. concerned phone calls are unacceptable, the only way to possibly deal with them is to talk them off, just a bad day, just too much rain, just low blood sugar, just thyroid malfunction.
hoping the fact that it has been a month since anything was here, and more than that since anything was good here, might mean no one is reading anymore and I can return to anonymite. am i alone yet, is this portal empty once again?
been blacking out, and am afraid of myself lately. come to not knowing how i got where i am, wondering what i did after the last thing i remember, dirty and smelly and horribly bruised, in a cold car on the wrong side of town, man sleeping in his own vomit only feet away from me, fiberglass and meager income the only things separating us. not sure how this started, where was the line that was crossed from being in control to out of it. there are things at work here and i know what they are. it is not that i do not know. it is that they have found a way around protective measures that have been working for years now. 20 days from now it will have been ten years. did these prophylactics have a shelf life? i know what is happening here. it is not that i do not know. but knowing, knowing only makes it darker, more frightening.
being in love does not make a shit of difference. you can ask her. she is in love with me but still has anxiety attacks when she is alone in her apartment, still has night mares about places she cannot escape from. i broke first and told her one of those nights i blacked out, it is the only thing i remember from that night is telling her. i felt it (remember the maybelove? felt it so early on) but had vowed to never tell anyone that again. the words make no fucking difference and only mean that there is some sort of perception that things are stronger than they really are. besides, am in love with so many people, does my being in love with you make you special. no. right now it makes you one of at least three, as many as seven. so who cares if i love you. love pours out of this sympathetic heart like water from a faucet. it does not change a damn thing except that if i want to be alone for the night but you are in a bad place and need to be with someone i will let you come over and i will cheer you up. you could get a dog and it would do the same thing.