**WARNING** SPOILERS... AS IN, THIS MIGHT SPOIL YOUR DINNER**
sometimes you just need it. so you can go back to writing in lower case. so your body knows to have hormonal changes because you spend too much of your life getting blazed on the glass dick and not enough time tending to your life screaming at you; your body which is just tired and unloved; your heart, which has broken through the charbroiled muscle shell around it and is using the tender chipped meat to clog your arteries... and the only way you know how to get out is transcend. with your body. not your soul. your soul is already trapped, and worried about the arteries. and herpes. and your cholestorol.
enough pontification. that's the point of fucking. doing shit and shutting the fuck up.
we all know that writing leads to deviance, right? you have to find different angles on what you are and have a discussion. you have to find your angle, you slant. you have to stare at the computer screen, stare at your fingers. stare at the letters you have to choose from, and think. and computer + fingers + thinking = internet porn and extensive self-diddling. but having been deeply entrenched in trying to write for the past two weeks, i have diddled my little orgasm button to exhaustion. the canyon still called for a visitor.
nothing really exciting happened. i just went trolling for ass on the internet. you can take the long route, which entails going to some chat room and talking to a bunch of 13-year-old douches who should be poster children for the no-child-left-behind act, as they keep calling each other "faggits" and "dikes,' or a bunch of guys who want you to watch them whack off in front of their little computer digicam. or you can just go where the fish are biting, make yourself the loser first and put up an ad on a dating site... obviously putting it in the "anything goes" category, or whatever the equivalent is (you have to be sure you are clear in your message).
generally out of the 80 people who respond in the first 10 minutes, you can throw out the uglies, the oldies, the shorties and any other categories you feel your right to sexually discriminate against (based on, not their sex of course, but rather, whether you want to have sex with them, which is the only discrimination that should be encouraged... okay, that's hypocritical... you should have sex with everyone. love has no color... these colors don't run... color me badd). you can look at some of them and tell they have a small dick. others will send you pictures and show you that they have one. in general all emails with dick picks get chucked. why would a guy send you, a woman, a picture of his dick. what the fuck is wrong with his face, that that is his most impressive feature. glistening amidst his little barbwire jungle downstairs. and then there's the people who just send a picture of themselves and don't say anything. like that is enough. like you will see them and part open like the red sea. these are people who are typically and generally (i say to warn you that i am stereotyping... but the problem with stereotypes is that they are true... just not for everyone) cocky and selfish lovers (see "small dicks" above).
then you have like two-four people. and you send an email back to each of them with your picture, talking more about you, what you're into, what you're looking for, blabbedy blah. teasing, yet standoffish. the point of this is to get them to be like, "fuck this ugly bitch, i don't really care that much. i already jerked it to the picture she sent me of her at six flags anyway." at least one is going to do this. you have to be comfortable with the fact that in this day and age of digital proliferation, your image has been all over the place, several hundred thousand times, and in at least one room in this world, your face is mounted to a wall with man-ranch. The other guy just didn't think you were hot, or fell asleep, or got caught by his wife or mom or something, but we never hear from him again and we don't send a search party.
alright, so that leaves 2 people. The one that you thought was hot has probably already weeded himself out of this bunch by saying something stupid, not liking you, or sending you another really weird picture. So you quickly rank up the last two, who are both spilling lovely bits of poison onto the page to lubricate your mind, and you talk with guy number one. don't worry, guy number two will still be there if you need him. this won't take long. if guy number one seems like the "normal guy who is just doing this crazy thing for the first time just like you are," you are on the right track... and then you get his digits. you call him in your sultry voice, and he is always like hey! as though you called him to go surfing or something. you act shy, get him to show his true colors. if they are hot, you get him to hop his ass over on the next subway to your house. but desiree, what about the psychos. i haven't met one. sure, i've met some weird people, but most metrosexuals are fairly domesticated, and most men in this town (at least the ones you are mostly attracted to) are metrosexuals. of course, now that i say that, i am going to start attracting people who want to dissect my brain and make a necklace of my vagina. i mean, not really. you can tell who's got fetishes and who doesn't when you talk at that wee hour of the morning. and, of course, you ask the guy 30 times if he's a psycho (as though men had that rule about entrapment that cops have).
and then he comes over. and he's a former high-school cheerleader from the Midwest. and he's 6'5" and blonde, and you know the sex is going to be good, because he satiates your need to have someone hot. why is fucking someone hot so much sexier that just fucking someone. what is that? what is my search for validation in people i that i think are better than me (ie. pretty white people). whatever. it's all social. i don't question it when i want to get laid. all of those hangups are all part of the tease, the wet, the coming together. it's those images, fears, desires, insecurities that determine what twitters your twatter. powerful men want to be dominated, geeky guys want their huge erect dicks looked at and laughed at by popular girls. Grad students with glasses want to pee their diapers and call you mommy in your lingerie. Hair little Jewish theater producers want big amazon women to twist their nipples until they look like pacifiers. Fear is titilating. The other is titilating. It's simply biological. How else would we mix together, find new things, evolve?
so anyway, adonis comes over, blonde, 6'5" (which makes him much closer to Jesus than any other men I have been with to date... God, I love tall men. And short men love me. Again, see above... somewhere between mommy and amazon), athletic (thin but meaty), and soaking wet from the rain. and i offer him a beer. and we sit side by side on the couch, and we talk. and i do my girly thing, which is the only way i know how to flirt (so sad, i wish i could command my look and just say "come here and fuck me now" cause guys love that shit), and i am witty and gay and let my head laugh with lightness, show myself intelligent by making jokes about his jokes. and he is pleasantly surprised by me. they always are. i sometimes give off a rather intelligent air of being dumber than i am. surprising is always good. unless you know, it's necklace of vaginas surprising.
what's surprising in this case is that the guy is an asprining banker, which makes me so happy. not a fucking singer/songwriter, not an actor, not some douchy graphic designer who thinks he's too cute to work IT, but too socially climbing to ever do anything real. just a good looking banker with no desire to be on television. fanfuckingtastic.
and then there is that moment when the "so..." part of the conversation occurs. and you want to say something clever, to melt the ice, or rather the flesh. and you want to just kiss him. but you want him to do it. his hand is on your thigh. he knows you shaved. you both laugh about that. you know he showered too. it's all very nice. and you are about to try to tell him, but he kisses you, and instead of shutting up, you wimper like his new puppy. he's got you. and your willing his fingers up to your panties by melting into him. uh God, and he kisses so well too. fuck! pretty people have it so good. you'd think that God would give them all mouth herpes and make them bad kissers. but he doesn't. and their lips are perfect, and their touch is soft, and you feel like a 10 million dollar bill.
so the best part about this adonis is how communicative he is in bed. it's so easy just to be and do anything. and he asks what you like, and he tells you what he likes, and it's so much better getting intimate when people don't just assume. i mean, yeah, sometimes it's hot to do something impulsive. but other times, it just makes you think about that one thing the whole rest of the night, and the fun switch is off. it's so refreshing to just talk to someone who really communicates, and not in a "sexy way" ("you like when i spank your pussy, huh? you like that?") but just "mmm... i like it when you play with my nipples. i am going to eat you out. would you suck my cock? will you swallow please?" it's nice to be treated like an interesting, ingelligent human being. and not a girl.
and he kisses like a dream, and he throws you down on the bed, forces your arms up, because he listens, and can tell you would like that (plus it's an oldschool move, most girls like that), attacks you with kisses, and it's great. and he goes down on you with such skill. some men just love vaginas, and those are the only ones i ever want to be with. he relishes his time with you, and every noise you make to let him know when you are happy. and you are me, and your bedroom faces the street, and your windows are wide open and you make some damn noise, so everyone on your block knows that someone is hitting it. hard. and you get your bed sopping wet.
his dick curves to the left. in your body. in your throat. and he kisses you a lot while you are making love. which is what people are supposed to do. which is what people forget to do when they are just casually hooking up. but whatever, there are a million ways to say it's fantastic, but the best way is to guzzle his semen down your throat and think about him the next day when it's the only thing bubbling in your stomach.
if you need to have a mind-blowing, earth shattering orgasm, then you answer someone else's ad, very mechanically, as though you are looking for a summer internship. a man says: i have a sybian machine, and i am willing to let you use it if you let me watch. and you wonder about how much of a whore your are, or how much this would make you, until you remember that you've given up the kit and caboodle for 3 gin and tonics before, so there really is no benchmark and there is no dignity, there is just the fantasy of coming hard. over and over.
for those of you not familiar with the sybian... i just don't know how to tell you what you are missing. www.sybian.com
it's basically the greatest dildo in the world. it's probably what all those psychiatrists used to masturbate away women's hysteria in the 1800s. it's definitely worth it's weight in therapy, i can tell you that.
so yeah, i answered the ad, cause i couldn't deny the curiosity, the potential. and holy jeez does this fucker work.
basically the idea is the same as any vibrator. it vibrates. the high tech ones vibrate, rotate, and stimulate the g-spot... which this one does. only you can sit on it and straddle it, so it has some mass to it, and you can sit on top of it, so your g-spot is wide open to it, and you can go to town bucking away on it as well.
so there i was yesterday evening, in a lovely doorman apartment on the upper east side, fucking growling like Satan atop the magic carpet ride. i mean, granted, the guy was there to jerk it too, but being a former domme, i am used to men jerking off because i am in the room (it makes attending board meetings odd, but i digress), so no bother. and he wanted to hold me as i came. which was actually fantastic, because i needed the balance, the support, and something to wrench into as i came 6 times. and i wish i had the language to articulate an orgasm. the first one by surprise, the second one, worked into and almost painful. the third with the vibration up so high i thought he was going to whip up a smoothie inside of me or something. but that was the one that counted. the one where i start laughing uncontrollably. that's the one that tore right through me like the flush of an acid trip, where i looked into his eyes to show him where i was, and he saw me there, and i clutched his head as i laughed against his face, as he could feel the tension and sadness whipping out of me in an all-knowing laugh. and there were tears. there were tears all over my face and my entire life was being offered up to the pyre at that moment, and the earth growled out of me. not only growled, but sang. orgasms 5 and 6 were just me singing... the howl just turned into a pure note, with the elderly neighbors thinking that i was practicing for a recital of an aria called "oh god, oh jesus, oh yes."
sometime during that hour, there was thunder and lightning, and people screaming in a rainstorn. now while i can't verify the fact that my gutteral explosion of energy caused pressure fronts to collide, i mean, come on, who are you going to believe, me or the weatherman. that moment of arrival was too poetic not to be tied to this earth, and my hips rotated loosely in my skirt as i took my pretty rain-soaked body to a perfectly civil meeting of creative minds. part of me is still coming. there are new places for me to arrive. amazing.