Me Big. You Little.

Desiree Burch is bigger and badder than you. Except when she's smaller and better (with more parentheticals than you can handle).

Monday, May 15, 2006

Kiss & Tell (this isn't a sex blog)

This isn't a sex blog.

Cause there are plenty of those, and I don't necessarily have a poesy for the erotic yet. Unless you find the funny and crude lyrical. But I seem to be talking a lot about sex lately. And more people are reading the fucking blog. So call it what you like.

Haven't been writing a lot lately, or ever, actually. Because my art comes out in fits and starts. I always feel like I am trying to puke little vignettes onto a tacky mounting sheet of plastic-protected paper. And between these glorious moments of creation there is the funk.

There is the big pink and orange funk that I hang out in with other artists. Jimmy Hendrix, Bob Marley, lots of weed. Stacks of creased books and eye goop. Reruns of Law and Order. Many reruns.

We occasionally stumble to the door to puke out a new creation, sign it, and ask for any admirers to come and tickle our pussy for a while until we don't feel so famous, and get back to work.

I'm not really in this funk right now. I mean, I am funktioning. I am doing important stuff, and figuring out who I am. I am being patient with my damn self. There are so many things in the works, I can't see straight. And what I am really good at is cleaning. Keeping my head down. Cleaning. I am getting just beyond the age of meaning. Where you are just starting to realize you are stuck here. And the revolution won't be happening. Or televised for that matter. And you gotta figure out how to tape your person together long enough for someone to say you've crossed the finish line and have won your own pine box.

Yes, it is beautiful.

And I say it is not a sex blog to somehow distance myself from the engorgements I discuss on it. Namely the sexual ones, because saying that I ate a pint of ice cream in a short sitting is not so very interesting. Even if I whine about the resulting explosive diarrhea a little bit.

But there is more sex.

Namely, the Worst. Sex. Ever.

Okay, overstatement. I watch enough Law & Order SVU to know what that actually is. We'll talk about that another time.

This sex was great. I mean, technically, it was average, but you know how sex is like tofu and can take on any flavor with the right tint?

Recently I have been having a lot of reflective sex. Not tantric and meditative, like Sting; not 80's style with a lot of coke mirrors about and a heart-shaped bed. Just reflective. That sex you have with people that provides so much time and space to think. There's always so much time to think around these people. You keep pushing in, and into their mouths and into their eyes, and into their flesh, burrowing, and then you get there, and it is a vast desert of white. Generally it's after you've come that you arrive. There. But not always. Sometimes it's right in the middle, while someone's still digging for treasure.

Sometimes both of you are there, in the blinding sunlight, reminding yourselves to continue rubbing one another. For the truth is very still and you will be there if you slow down.

There are all different kinds of spaces you can go to with sex--which is why sex is like music. Plus the best stuff happens while you're playing. I had a playful night recently. Date impromptu. I didn't even know to be nervous until I was doing retarded shit.

Admittedly, the whole evening was an arrangement concocted in the dark corners of the inter-web. Such things happen you know. Perfectly normal people hanging out, after having gotten out of the way the fact that they both want to fuck. In general. Then it is a matter of simply discovering whether there are, in fact, any reasons not to. Not the most romantic thing I have ever written, I know, but there are much more devistating ways to have the romance cupped, ripped out of you and smeared on a bedpost. Like that one, for instance.

So I had one of those anything goes types of hits with this one guy. Went into the heart of Brooklyn to meet him on a full moon. Didn't get to his house until 3am. Yeah, it's illicit like that... The oddity of this situation was not logistical circumstance, but just the random crashing of two fuzzy souls. I had a fantastic night, finding myself being easily wooed to a more grown-up bed than mine as the sun came up to the most aggressively peaceful blackbirds in brooklyn. And yet, everything was wrong.

Like, I kept awkwardly giggling and saying stupid things. Granted, we did get all blazed once I came over. But being a seasoned stoner, I have developed a little bit of grace with the situation through humor and coyness. So such luck in this situation. The whimsical sentence fragments I uttered, though insightfully intended, devolved into non sequitur smoke. I at least managed to answer an important boy-question properly. "Which is faster? The Millenium Falcon or the Starship Enterprise." Blatantly the Starship Enterprise, though many of his ex-Marine compadres would beg to differ. Regardless of the awkwardnesses felt, it was clear we were able to connect on a friendly, emotional comfort level. It was all the physical stuff...

Generally in these situations, if you know you are going to fuck, you just do it. That way, you don't have the chance to screw it up by talking, which in most cases (unless you are with the right person, which of course, is the actual condition under which you should be having sex) is what talking does, and sometimes is for (like sex antidote in case of emergency)

Well, we finally worked our way onto the same couch after 2 hours of getting to know you, getting to know all about you, getting to like you, and watching some Guy Ritchie. And then he was doing the petting stuff, and I was trying to maintain the whole talking pretense, so as not to go into straight wolverine devour mode on him (I mean, you want to tell a guy you're feeling it, without going into full animal mode and inciting him to fend for his life). And I am being jokey and coy, and say something, to which his response is tickling. Alright Father Knows Best, we'll play the tickle game. Of course, instead of acting like a sane woman in this situation, and squirming my way into a kiss, the tickling sends me directly to the floor, rolling about and squealing like a stoned potbellied pig, and knocking over the girly beer he had been so kind to procure for me at the local bodega before I'd arrived. Then I had to help him clean it up while still trying to look clever. Which is embarrassingly impossible.

And the kissing was all wrong We both had the right lips for it, and the appropriate amount of hunger, but it was our two perfect sets of teeth that wanted to meld together, and there was a terrible amount of thrashing and bashing in that department. We avoided a great percentage of the problem with a few interesting rounds of tongue jousting.

And then the sun was coming up, and the birds were singing and he was drawing me into his bedroom, and I was so excited because I actually liked him. Which sounds really pathetic, but not once you have adjusted yourself to the relativity of my sex life. It seems that I have always been stuck in this parallel universe, where it is never possible for me to have sex with people I actually like. At least not for long. I am constantly scoring in the friendzone, doing my touchdown dance, showing off my valuables to unsting hands that go home without me at the end of the night. The people who actually want me, want to get me off a chi-chi dessert menu on special occasions and rave to their friends. Sad sad cycle.

But this guy is part of moderate fraction of people I have been with that I actually want to be with in clothing as well. And we're getting naked and bashing teeth. He's rubbing between my legs, driving toward orgasm, but keeps taking the wrong turn on the get-offramp. Every time I am about to feel heavenly, he switches it up, and I just feel mildly chaffed. Enjoyably chaffed, but nevertheless. I am trying to give him one of my aforementioned signature beauties, but the angles of his erection and my face are not congruent. I feel like I am being all toothy and awkward. And he is very shy and silent, so I can't gauge how it's going at all. He is going down on me, and where I can normally be a pleasant squirter, I find myself just kinda peening on his bed, and probably his face a little. More rubbing and tooth bashing. I am trying to tell him in dirty coy ways what to do, but maybe he can't hear me, or he doesn't take requests. He is more interested in getting me off, which is a Godsend. And I am trying so hard to come for him. We are fumbling toward both ecstacy and daylight, and regardless, we have both satisfied each other when we go to bed at dawn. My arm is falling asleep under his as we cradle each other. He begins to snore and I like it. I feel kept and lovely, as I fall asleep and have a psychotic dream about angrily-yet-acccidentally punching his mother, and proceeding to engage in a cop drama after finding someone brutally raped on a marble floor (yeah, definitely watching too much SVU) I wake up in the middle of it coughing. Ain't life grand?

And the thing is, I am not being a smartass about my enjoyment of this. I feel great on this particular evening. I wake up in the afternoon and watch The War of the Roses with him. Anyone who can appreciate the magic of Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas together has a hallowed place in my heart. He bought me breakfast and paid for the cab I took to meet him. He gave me a hockey shirt to wear over a slinky-sexed body as we puttered around in the glow of a Saturday, and he walked me to the train in the unforgettable spring afternoon. And I think about him, all day. Wondering if he is thinking about me. And he emails me the next day... drunk, which is about as cute as it gets... And he wants to hang out again, and I say of course, while telling myself never for the sake of not hurting. It's not true. It's a pleasantry. But he actually calls the number I gave him a week later. As I was hoping somewhere that he would. And it's like being 17 with big fat grown-up feelings and holes to fill and defenses of not wanting to invest and wordlessly agreeing to be casual, but there's all this blueblack tenderness like a fathomless lake that ripples the full moon that watched over... And it's hard not to get romantic when lust is so silly and fun. Shit. I guess I feel like a virgin like that dumb song. And I guess that's the answer to that argument in Reservoir Dogs, that only the biggest of whores can utter that phrase and actually mean it.

So this blog maybe sounds like a cry for help... this beauty/needy combination is a little sad for some of you maybe. Please don't be so simple. For my sake. Do it for mama.

Obviously behavior, life, the sun and the moon--it's all cyclical. Hopefuylly now the 12 people who read my blog (see, sex sells people... where's my check?) have come to understand how I work in some kind of radical deformed ellipsoidal cycle, and because I am starting to see the need to even out the lumps, I am making myself accountable for it. To you, my sad audience. Thanks for feeling that, and not crying. It helps me laugh more.