Lapdance Monologues Intro

•May 24, 2010 • Leave a Comment

The air is musky, sweet and heavy with sweat and perfume. The low light that washes over the sticky bar and worn vinyl seats is as far from natural as possible. It is red, black, phosphorescent. The bartender never tires of comparing it to hell. “No matter the sun is shining or not, in here it is red and fiery” She says in an endearing Polish accent. As if to make up for the complete uncertainty of income, almost everything else about the strip club where I dance is consistent and predictable. The same songs, repetitive bass lines bumping and thumping day after day. The same girls primping and pruning and polishing the mask. The same spandex-nylon blend dress and thong crumpled in my locker. I even know that every day one of the girls will have the same diatribe about her dreams of making porn prepared for me. She’ll cast me as the star, of course.

“Veggie porn, Page. A cucumber! We can make a movie about a girl who will only masturbate with plant matter. And we can use carrots and eggplants as well. And veggie swimwear! That’s a great idea, too. And you can model it. And we’ll make carnivore porn too. We’ll use sausages! You couldn’t be in that since you’re a vegetarian. But I think vegetarians and carnivores can get along, Page. I’m going to start the veggie-carnivore alliance. Like the gay-straight alliance!                                                                                                                           

I hate vegetables, Page. I used to want to get a baby elephant so he could eat all my vegetables. I would name him Ganesh. You can eat all my vegetables until I get a baby elephant. You can eat veggie lasagna, too. And veggie ravioli. I went to a Thai restaurant where they had a whole veggie section! But they served meat too.

When I get the baby elephant, he’ll have to eat all my vegetables. When I was little, I thought the elephant’s trunk was his cock. I had a dirty mind! It is very phallic, though. Do you want to see a picture of me in my sari, Page?”

I can never decide if the repetitiveness is an anchor of sanity or if it pushes us all along the edge of insanity until one day we topple over. Of course, the most unchanging piece of any adult entertainment puzzle are the typical men lined up at the bar, one dollar bills stacked up in front of them, eyes glossed and palms heavy with expectation.

The men, alone or in groups, brash and boisterous or silent and sullen, reliable regulars or once-in-a-blue-mooners, they are what makes the place tick.

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Facebook Sex

•May 6, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Certainly not the most efficient way to go about things. I mean, there are certainly other faster means of chat out there. msn, google, skype. all better than facebook. But sometimes you just find yourself in a place and you’ve gotta go with it.

The Lady was on facebook today, just as I was pressing the seal on a loving, poetic, but far from erotic letter I’d written her. It started simply enough, how was your weekend and I’ve dreamed of you lately. In one nightmare, she told me I was a “crap lover.”  Her exact words, a british sort of phrasing that I wouldn’t sound quite right using myself.  Her reassurances were sweet, led to rememberances which were heavy with desire.

And then, suddenly, I felt the need to take my computer into my room, make my excuses to the room mate, and shut the door. Slowly our words undressed each other, tickled each others nipples, kissed each other’s bellies, and linguistically arranged the other in the 69 position. I paused from story telling, leaving her to count the strokes of her tongue against my vagina, while I breathed the heady fumes of orgasm.

Afterwards, I had to insist many times before she’d believe I actually came. And I had to contain my guilt at subjecting her to the torture of dirty chat while her best friend was in the room. All the while, a sneaky sadistic smile tickled my mouth at the thought of her intense unsatisfied longing for me.

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An improbable act of willpower

•April 20, 2010 • Leave a Comment

She’s sitting across from me at a table in a cafe. We both have computers in front of us. We absolutely had to leave the house in order to get any work done. So long as there were a door, a flat surface, and the slightest insinuation of privacy, i mean enough so that we wouldn’t get arrested, we couldn’t manage to keep our hands to ourselves long enough to put them on our keyboards. Without getting the computer sticky.

So, sitting, typing, reading a bit, chewing a pencil or flicking her hair every now and then. I take a sip of tea, pour a bit more from the pot. All innocent enough. But it takes every ounce of effort I can muster to continue doing this. It puts a physical strain on my muscles to keep my butt in my seat.

Yesterday, she went to lecture. Her homework, from me, was to think of me on the way home and report to me every detail of those thoughts. She came home with lavish descriptions of my legs, their contours and texture from ankle to the pudgy bit right at the very top, and the delicious indentation just above that. Aside from that, she told me how she thought of fucking me in a chair. I took over from there, describing how I’d wrap my legs around the back of the chair so that I could press myself harder against her and arch my lower back so she had the perfect view of my breasts, and could grab them, pinch them, suck on my nipples in that perfect way she does.

Now this cafe, which is just adorable and does tea perfectly, loose leaf with two pots to pour the tea away from the leaves when it is done brewing, which I know by the hourglass they’ve given me to time the brewing, and has an amazing vegetarian menu, with homemade veggie bangers and mash coated with thick delicious gravy. This cafe has the perfect chairs for that activity.

All I want to do is throw everything off the table, the tray of two teapots, teacup, hourglasses smashing to the floor; our computers never to brighten again after crashing overboard, the table tipping as I crawl across it and find myself landing in her lap, twisting round to straddle her, pressing into her, moaning into her mouth before shoving my tongue into her throat and gripping the back of her soft blonde locks. The afternoon’s treat, a vanilla cupcake with lemony icing becomes aphrodisiac and wall paint as I scoop icing onto my hand, press in into her mouth, then mine, then smear it onto the wall which I use for support.

I applaud my self control, the teacups and salt and pepper shakers are somehow still intact. We’ve shared a brilliant lunch, several hours of productivity, and only a few stolen kisses on the way to the loo. We are now off for much deserved underwear shopping. Mmmmmmm….

Posted in Erotic Fiction
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Volcanic ash brings orgasm count to dizzying heights

•April 19, 2010 • Leave a Comment

An unpronouncable volcano has erupted in Iceland, spread ash and havoc through the airways, halting all flights in and out of the UK. I’m stranded, with nothing to do but stay abed. I have no idea how many days I’ve been here. Time passes and I don’t recognize it. Where as before, my eyes were always out, looking, searching for Time, keeping track of him, analyzing my use of him, at this juncture, I can barely think of him even when his demands are tugging urgently at my coat tails.

I have been here for tens of my own orgasms, dozens of hers. Yesterday alone she had 5. I was too exhausted by end of day to try and beat her solo record of 8, but I’ve certainly surpassed the previous partner experience.

We went to York. The Lady and I lay in the sunshine in the green grass in a park, a wedding just wrapping up nearby, the bride and groom taking photos outside the quaint English cottage with a bagpiper tooting away melodically. He started in on Amazing Grace and we started in on what we’d like to do with each other were there not children racing about playing catch and mums fanning themselves just up the slope.

Me: I’d run my hands down your throat and slip one under the top of your bra. I’d lightly trace my nails across the tops of your breasts, and make circles around your nipples. I’d press harder and slowly work my way in until I was pinching them, and when you arched your back, I’d take your nipple in my mouth and suck and bite hard. I’d run my hand down your back, scratching harder as I went, and then caressing gently along your tummy to play with the top of your waistband. I’d put my hand inside your pants, and rub you over your panties. Soft at first, then harder. After you begged me several times, I’d put my hand inside your panties, and put one finger on your clit. I’d make circles until you got really wet and turned on, then I’d slip that finger inside you…

Her: I’m so wet. You’re so hot. You’re so deep inside, you’re moving harder, faster, and when I came I’d moan just like this.

And she proceeded to moan so so quietly right into my ear just as if she’d come. When she’d finished, we lifted our heads to the sunshine and the birds and the families on picnic blankets and laughed hysterically.

Henrietta rides again! In fact, several times again. I’ve gotten better. I can keep the thing in me for most of our lovemaking, but just as it gets good, and we’re sweating and grunting like good little lemons, she wiggles her little kidney shaped butt right out of me. The laughter never ruins the mood, I’m happy to report, and the delay of orgasm invariably makes them stronger when they come, but damn if I couldn’t use a good harness right now! The Lady ordered this toy online, the local shop is a chain and carries nothing resembling a strap on. For my part, I’m ready to try an equestrian shop and a riding bit.

There is so so much more to report, but my mistress only allows me momentary recess from a ceasless duty. More to come…

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Manchester, England, England

•April 15, 2010 • Leave a Comment

Day four of romantic get away to england. day two in manchester, the first two being spent in london at the Lady’s father’s place. Which was very nice, the family was very nice, but being there had the obvious draw backs. For instance, at one point we were asked to withdraw to her little brother’s room so Pops could have access to the office/guest room where we were staying. Which meant that we ended up rolling around squashing many stuffed animals on the poor boy’s bed. But, I mean, really, what 12 year old boy has that many stuffed animals? Maybe it’s a British thing.

Four days in England, 3 of which found the both of us conveintly bleeding at the same time, both started on Friday before I arrived. The Lady calls sex without toys Vanilla sex, which I always thought was more a term used in the kink community for non-kinky sex, but fitting here as well. Four days and at least 6 vanilla sex sessions.

Four days and last night I got my first experience with a strap on. Twice. Slight correction, though. It’s not quite a strap on. Slight sigh of dissapointment. I was so looking forward to those leather straps. It’s one of those double pieces of business, with a fat sort of garden gnome head shaped bit for the giver and a giant long penis for the receiver. It’s fantastic. It feels great. It’s purple, which is all I could ask for. It’s silicone, mmmmmm. There’s a flat pad at the base that rubs just right on my clit. And I quite like the feeling of power in the weight of such huge schlong.

But of course, what do you expect to happen with a thing not tied in place when you start moving and squirming all about. It falls out. A lot. I felt the need, as the one more experienced with real penises, to reassure the Lady that this also happens with real penises, and more often in your first time with a specific one. Appropriate giggling ensued. I tried it on top, on bottom, missionary, and with legs intertwined. I tried leaning forward, back, hovering, pressing, flexing, releasing. It still fell out. Now, don’t let’s go jumping to conclusions. I do my kegels and though I won’t ever deny having a wealth of experience, things are just as gripping as they need to be in the area. I’m sure it just needs practice. Yes, I need practice. Will do and report back later.

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Venutian Night

•March 22, 2010 • 1 Comment

It’s official, I want a girlfriend. Not a straight girl on a boy fast, a boy with effeminate qualities (though I’ll definitely take a boi), or more random hookups with girls that are friends.

Last night I had a first date (second encounter) with Soccer. It was lovely, he dressed nice and smelled great, and we were comfortable enough to joke about how you’re never supposed to talk about exes on a date. Then we talked about exes.

We found a cozy booth in the back of my favorite authentic Italian caffe/bar. He was just the right balance of decisive and flexible. He suggested a bottle-great sign! Show’s he is committed to the evening and has no judgement against more than just light drinking. But tastefully, of course.  Also went right along with me, though, when I countered with a desire to order by the glass so we could try more than one wine.  We learned each other’s interests, I found the body language infinitely more interesting than the vocal, we kissed and it was just as hot as I remembered. All in all, fantastic date.

Here’s the thing. When we left our secluded booth world and went for the customary late night drunk slice of pizza, all I could see were women. There were more pairs of beautiful women holding hands, walking arm in arm, cuddling the the line at the pizza place than I ever remember seeing in the East Village on a Friday night before. What was going on here? Did I pull a Rip Van Winkle, fall asleep and wake up in pride week? Or some utopian future full of gorgeous young lesbians, many with skirts and long hair, and no hesitancy towards public affection?

And on Sat morning, I woke up not thinking of Soccer, though the kisses were hot and his hands were soft and his neck smelled spring clean. No, I awoke thinking of a woman. One I’m 99.999999% sure has a beautiful, amazing, wonderful girlfriend (I know the probable girlfriend and like her very much!) Nevertheless she never fails to make me laugh with every corny joke and trill with fucking bird song when she asks for a lipstick mark on her cheek or if I have a boyfriend. Or girlfriend.

I don’t want her, though her surreptitious psuedo-flirting is intriguing (and by intriguing I mean enough to drive a poor bisexual fuckin crazy. And by crazy I mean getting drunk and updating the OK Cupid profile.) I do want what she and her girlfriend have, I want a woman like her, I want the fucking lesbian mind meld and playdates for our cats, goddamnit!

Dyke of my readership (Or more accurately, friends of dykes of my readership) Take note! Now this is the time, now is the season. I’ve never asked this before, but for once in my life I’m ready to be set up.

Some qualifications:

-Between 5 foot and 5’10”

-Long red hair is really hot. Or short brown hair. Or short blonde hair. I like wavy. Or long brown hair thick enough to really grab a handful and tug. Slowly, steadily. Until she moans.

-Makes me laugh and is funnier than I am

-However, not a spotlight hog. Not louder than I am. Will let me take center stage when I need and knows when I don’t. Never jealous or insecure. Or really angry for that matter. At least not in the first two months. Generally happy and positive.

-Drinking: not too heavily. But enough to keep up with me. Adhering to her habits shouldn’t leave me feeling restricted

-Shoes: never slingbacks with pants or pointy toed boots. Shiny, well cared for sneakers are great. No steel toed boots, unless she is a manual laborer please.

-High sex drive. Sex positive. Loves food. Weight positive. Cleaner kitchen than mine, but doesn’t mind my splatter. Mess positive.  Likes dogs and cats, but never goes super mushy when seeing one on the street.

-Cute freckles/birth marks/dimples/scars are a plus.

My selling points:

-Great smile. And I use it with strangers on the street, often accompanied by a time of day appropriate greeting.

-I bring an upbeat, sunny, encouraging energy to almost any situation.

-Proportionate body. With plenty of curves.

-Loves eating, drinking, dancing and getting naked. And totally unashamed.

-Honest. Sometimes overly so, I make myself vulnerable intentionally. But then I take teasing really well. And I laugh at all the right times.

-I know all the best coffee shops in Manhattan and BK.

-Great traveller. Never forget to pack underwear. Decent collection of sexy underwear.

-Understanding and laid back about time constraints/busy schedule/punctuality.

-Cute freckles on my butt, and dimples on my face. Come to think of it, cute dimples on my butt and freckles on my face as well.

There you have it. Not too much to ask, really. Barring all success with aforementioned qualites, writer will content herself with scoping out local Lesbian parties when schedule makes such activity feasible. Next June, perhaps.

Posted in Dating, journal, List, Rant
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Right Now.

•March 19, 2010 • Leave a Comment

She has a blog too. Tornado, that is. I read it sometimes. It is updated sporadically. I am relieved to move away from the torrent of anxiety and uncertainty that overtook me in the few days that I fell head over heels with the possibility of my idea of her. At 1:47 in the morning, listening to the postal service, i wish i could have done it for her.

I wish I could have seen beneath and shown her more than the production of an idea of myself. My fantasies of her were sexual, to be sure. Those have dissipated and left in their place something aerial, a desire to share breath and space instead of pointless words and kisses.

Posted in Dating, Rant
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A boy! A train! A story!

•March 19, 2010 • Leave a Comment

I am currently playfully ignoring a boy visible across the train tracks of the 3rd avenue L station. You know how you can see the people on the other side, going the other direction? And we’ve all certainly been in the situation of parting with a friend only to find yourselves awkwardly waiting in view of but not speaking distance from each other.

I did a burlesque performance for a friend’s fundraiser earlier tonight, and the boy is a college friend of my high school friend that attended.

After the show, he showed interest as I demonstrated tassel twirling (such a given, it can’t be taken too seriously) and I showed interest by touching his arm as he shared his vodka spiked seltzer. (again, a given)

Me, the boy, the high school friend decided to leave for a dance club which I had free admission to. When we realized my free admission didn’t include skip the line privileges, we flipped a coin and ended up at a soccer bar. Boy is a soccer fan, so let’s call him Soccer. High School and I talked about high school. (The school’s claim to fame is having the movie “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” based on it) Soccer and High School talked about college.  However, we all carried on in an inclusive way for some time. Eventually High School brought up an apparently taboo topic with Soccer-“remember that thing we talked about last time I saw you?” They made cryptic secretive references for a while until he revealed they were talking about his quest for/experience with a sex club.

Whew! Being a slightly younger, slightly nerdy sort of boy (just my type!) I was afraid that Soccer would be like other boys I’d been disappointed by-small amount of sexperience and easily scared by the ever humorous herp. He may still be both or either of these, but a sex positive attitude is a great start!

After one drink, High School made her excuses and her exit to spend the night with her sweet and much older boyfriend. Soccer and I were left alone. We sat closer on our bar stools, tried each other’s beers, knees grazing, somehow my hand ended up clasped with his on his lap.

We talked about soccer (the game, not himself), zodiac signs (mine mostly), brewing your own beer.

Him: “Still want to go to Beauty Bar?”

Me: “Ah, I don’t know, it’s late”

Him: “Want to just skip the dancing?”  eyes down, sheepish grin

Me: (A moment to assess his assumptions. Deciding he was struggling to be honest and straightforward as opposed to thoughtlessly aggressive) “Your adorable!”

Which was exactly what I’d been thinking all night. I use our convenient hand hold to pull him in for a kiss.

EXPLOSIONS!!! in the sky, in my mouth, my belly, my sex. This is the hottest kissing in a loooooooooooong time.

Him: something like “A little inappropriate for a public place…”

Me: “No way, we’re just kissing. It’s fine!”

Some unknowable time later, I’m practically humping his knee to relieve the fire in my crotch and I excuse myself to get some water. I desperately needed the cooling down. After a bit more making out, he asks me to go home with him. I tell him “I don’t do casual sex.” I don’t tell him that’s because I have herpes, though I want to.

Posted in Dating, journal
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Of a recent Tuesday

•March 15, 2010 • Leave a Comment

I’d just wrapped up a busy day of aerial rope class, brunch with a friend (both of which are becoming part of a lovely weekly routine. Added benefit-friend is a goldmine of sexy material to impart with you later. We’ll even call her Goldie from now on for it) Then home for a quick bubble bath and a wank, back out for a theatre type meeting and delicious lychee-tini with a theatre type friend. I was done for the day, ready to go home, feed the cat, go to bed. Then I got a phone call from a friend. He lives in the Bronx, whilst I am in Brooklyn. He may as well be on Pluto. This night in was in my neighborhood, drinking wine, taking pictures of naked people, running around naked with said people. Come over, he insisted. You’ll have a blast, he proclaimed. When I got off the phone, my theatre type friend said “That’s how you know you’re an artist, when you have to ask if you HAVE to get naked before going to a party.” Bronx had assured me it was only if I wanted to.

I sploosh in the rain through nine or so extra blocks to get to the address Bronx had given me. He comes down to let me in scantily clad. I come up to find 4 young women in various states of nudity huddled around a computer you-tubeing 80’s music videos. There are magnum sized bottles of wine scatter about the room, some empty but many not. There are more bottles than people. I am given a large glass immediately by the only other man there, besides Bronx. He is wearing boxers and fairly drooling and the only thing I remember him saying that night is “It’s about time for that shirt to come off.” in reference to me. I am introduced to the girls, R, V, L, and E. L and I set our sights on each other immediately. She has a large tattoo on her chest, is wearing only girl boxers, smallish breasts and perfect thighs. Her hair is at least four different colors, all of them common to a fire or a sunset. Firehead kept my glass full and danced in a raverish way meant to be sexy but that only appealed to me in an awkwardly endearing way.

There was a photo-shooting area, a tripod aimed at a white wall with one studio light. We kissed against the wall Bronx took photos, both our exhibitionism inclinations rising, bubbling rapidly on our merging bodies. She took my shirt off. I’d been resisting, wanting to be the misfit in a pack of misfits. She choked me in the hallway, pressed so hard against the wall my feet almost rose off the ground. We paused to get more wine. She told me it would be so hot if she could shotgun pot smoke into my mouth. I thought one hit of second hand smoke wouldn’t do much.

Terrible mistake. My neck and ears went warm and tingly, a sure sign I am stoned. I whisper this to Bronx in an urgent way, but he laughs. He doesn’t understand the severity of this disaster. I can hold my liquor, I can stay up all night on coke, I can pop pills and wash ’em back with whiskey, I’ve enjoyed acid, ecstacy, and mushrooms.
But one hit of marijuana, and I’m anxious, paranoid, panicked and guilt ridden. William Burroughs called it simply The Fear and he got it from pot too. The most famous junkie of literature and I are kindred spirits.

Firehead thinks it would be a good idea to take me into the bedroom to cuddle and calm me down. Instead we start a session of very hard heavy petting, rubbing through our panties while my head spins into another universe and I barely notice that I’ve come.

I stop to make a painfully heartfelt confession to her about her beauty, her youth, the power dynamic of what’s just happened. She says she needs to sit up, and leaning over from the foot of the bed, she vomits all over the mixed up pile of 7 naked people clothes in a make shift coat check.

The silver lining is that my fear instantly sstops as I kick into caretaker mode. Clean up the puke, get her to the bathroom, clean her up, get her some water.

Once she’s safely in bed witha friend to tend to her, though, I panic. I put on the clothes that don’t have vomit on them, or perhaps only very little. These are rainbow striped long johns, a peacoat and a newsie cap. No shirt, no bra, no pants. It’s only 11 pm in California so I call my ex-boyfriend and hiss/wail into the phone “I just got stoned and made out with a teenager!”
Side note-Born in 1990 folks, I’m not a pedophile. He even pointed out that she could have been 20.

He laughs as I begin to hyperventilate, but agrees to stay on the phone with me as I take my half dressed ass out into the wiles of Brooklyn at 2 am, find a towncar, and take it home. I thanked him endlessly for talking me through what seemed like hours, but I realized the next day of course was under 20 minutes.

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Both Ways Part III

•March 12, 2010 • Leave a Comment

I think of how sexy the word plunge is, how intricate and intimate and tantalizing my fantasy story of us is. But the words that come so easily to build it are staunching the flow of my orgasm. I love your womanly body, your breasts-rosebuds; your vagina-precious jewel; you hips-conch shell to birth the universe; your soft blonde hair-a luminous halo of ideal beauty. But this body inspires poetry and poetry does not make me come.

I stop moving. I think of large, hairy, tattooed arms and a flesh cock, connected to a man. I reapply pressure to the plastic cock inside me, and move my body against it. He pushes aside my panties, he has no face. He growls in my ear “You have such a tight pussy” I rub my clit vigorously, he rams his giant cock into me. I pull the dildo out, ram it into my own ass. His hands grope my breasts, he slaps me. Two fingers on my clit, leave the dildo to function as a butt plug, rubbing the opening of my vagina with the other hand. I thrust 2 maybe 3 times. My right shoulder twitches as I come. The faceless man disappears and again you are beside me, baby tendrils stuck to your forehead.

Posted in Erotic Fiction, Sex, Uncategorized
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