Wednesday, December 15, 2004
"The joys of exfoliation..."
(I wrote this a few months ago for Nanowrimo. Just felt like sharing. Disclaimer- lewd content!)
_________________________________________
I should get my head examined...
I reluctantly reach forward and unluck the door, all whilst curling the waistband of my grungy blue sweats over one roll so you can't see the pink underwear.
I am greeted by the pointy face akin to satan...cheshire (sp?) grin spreading to your bony cheeks as you clomp into the threshold with your skinny, slightly taller frame- wearing those boots that you wore when we were fifteen that I despised. I still despise them. You could afford better, but you think they look macho. They don't. Your grin is turning lugubrious as your eyes wander down my body, ripped teeshirt showing the undercurve of my breasts, and the dank hip hugging sweats. I can't help but smile at that greasy look as you take off your blue parka- the notion that you think you're hot shit. You're not, but I let you think you are. It's better that way- you're more inclined to show off things you think you know how to do.
"Hey sexy..."
Hello dick.
"Hey, quick get in here before the neighbors see..."
But I try not to think too far ahead as your small hands encircle my waist and pull me close for "the intent eye stare," before moving in for the kiss. Some disillusionment is imperative for this to be enjoyable. Your hands skim down my waist and caress my bottom, and you push me gently to the wall and slide your palm up my shirt. My body is a traitor, but I'd known it would betray me as soon as I woke up restless yesterday.
My id had disobeyed my thinking process as I picked up the phone and dialed you. Told you a time. Mind screamed at me : you are a weak stupid girl- control your fucking hormones for once- just say no to convenience- yes to meaningful. Id jumped back in and declared, "meaningful prospects are overrated and impossible- they're not here. In the now. We and he are in the now."
Told you a place. Cringed at your disgusting way of putting things. "Booty call" makes my life into a rap video- and me without my velvet sweatsuit.
We move into my bedroom, onto the hard bed. Things are progressing well. Your shirt falls like a plastic bag to the wind, revealing your crucifixion body. You don't like to be called Jesus, but apart from your face of nefarious origin, you look the part, and suddenly religion enters the bedroom as I think of things I know not of- I wonder if I go to hell simply for not believing.
You've gained a little weight, which is nice. As you lay back on the bed the power struggle begins. You don't like being out of control, but neither do I- it is like a physically intimate fight, to see who can subordinate the other the most. Neither of us will ever admit to needing someone else to each other, admit that we want to be used.
"You're such a bitch," you breath down my neck as I slowly undo your belt and change my mind halfway through. Retaliation is imminent and my shirt dissappears into the folds of the blankets. Subdued. Subordinated. But not conquered, and I come back swinging, render you helpless with useful oral administrations with the sole purpose of cutting to the chase. Your foreplay annoys me, and bores me. The "hot shit" complex kicks in and that idea of "the longer I dwell in one specific erogenous zone, the steadily more turned on she will get," takes some sort of eternal root in your mind.
You dumb fuck. If only you knew that complex was so completely indicative of how much you doubt your performance. What? Less work later with your insubstantial endowment? Not that size matters, but if nothing else matters with you, at least something should. So, I'll pick on the dick.
Always interested in this unique idea that all favors must be returned, my self-serving plans are thwarted for the moment as you stick your face in between my legs. It helps, but once again- too long, too long. Hotshot complex has some orgasm quotas you feel you must meet every step of the way.
Whoa...what are you doing there?
I sit up. You've just licked my anus. Gross.
I moon, "come here..." I wipe your face off with your black Iron Maiden teeshirt, and you- thinking that transitional administrations are necessary for fear of a turn-off (Oh, we are so far past that...) trail your fingers on the inside of my thigh. I turn the charm crank to the red-zone and nibble on your ear while pushing you onto your back. The condom under my pillow has not been dislodged and I slip it on you while you're pre-occupied with my breasts. Again.
Caution: drugs will make even the best attempt at an erection flaccid and floppy at best.
The sex itself is not good- though serviceable. Right after you come, I do the hardest kegel I can. You squeal like a pig and push me off you. I laugh, and you call me a whore from the bathroom. I notice that you run like an old decrepit and hobbling man.
Serves you right for licking my asshole. Asshole.
You phone me an hour after your departure, from your car. I am relieved to have gotten you out of the house so quickly- usually you want to stay for pillow talk about your girlfriend (you deny that she left you months ago, screaming your worthlessness from the front yard and breaking your television with a frying pan- after cracking every single dvd that you owned in half by hand and throwing them in the bathtub of water you were stoned in at the time). I admire her, but used to tell you that she was a nutcase to make you feel better.
"Hey, I think some of my cash may have fallen out of my pocket when we were fucking."
"So?"
"Well, I just phoned you to tell you not to worry about it. You can keep it. Hey, phone me again eh? I'll come over anytime you want me to- ha, get it? Come ov-." I hang up the phone, and shake my head in disgust.
I used to think about all the literature I'd read that didn't really constitute as literature, after a time like this, that dictated that girls that did this sort of thing usually were feeling devoid of something after it, before it, or felt exceedingly dirty about it in general. I'd read all these tired old rehashings of "I felt like scrubbing every inch of my first four layers of skin off, to purge him from me- I felt so dirty." It sounded so terrible, like not having love with sex was going to be the undoing of any innocent young girl. And probably once it was- the awfulness that seemed to plague them seemed so raw that it scared me initially. I held my want for experience in. I was like, "this male rejection sounds terrible. Probably gonna happen to me. Take note: This happens to all girls if they don't find love. SOS pad exfoliation, or death by pink lady bic. Oh the melodrama of the non-commital, non entertaining sexual encounter."
As I sit by the phone, I find the only thing that enters my mind, is what I should make for supper. I'm an old hat at this by now. I broke your heart once, a long time ago, in the pre-battle times, in my impressionistic youthful times- always vowing to be the masher, and not the mashee. I've broken a lot of hearts, but yours was the first- and I wonder if I didn't get cheated of the victory because I let you into my bed many years later.
What eventually happens is that I get tired of the game. I get tired of cleaning up after my mistakes, doing damage control in messy situations. I do never call you again. You were the first and almost the last. The Russian was the last- an unprecedented moment accounted for by an infirm mind, something I wonder about everytime I start jonesing about for a lay -if my mind is sound, my judgement reasonable. It is, but there is always some unforseen consequence for me, whether it be about my health, my finances, or the lack of traction under my sneakers that may suddenly appear.
I derive a wonderful concept one day- a concept playfully dubbed "the boy sabbatical panties," that ultimately gets me out of trouble. I write only what inspires me, or spells me out, or makes me want to love, in the intimate creases, folds and seams of white cotton knickers tie-dyed in all the harsh colors of my personality. Vowing only to be with a man who reads them word for word, understanding the meaning behind the conquest before probing into my deep space.
And months pass. Sometimes I am so frustrated that I scream into my pillow. Ask my fingers for the instructions they know naught of, or gaze wishfully at strangers. Pretend to be purest of pure while thinking slimy earthy smelling thoughts and tangy tastes. The only thing that makes my year long now, is what I have gone so long without.
People are already crazy in July- if something major happened in July, it would just tip the scale completely and chaos would erupt. I do not think people pray in July either though. Summer is for sinning baby.
¶ 9:01 PM
_________________________________________
I should get my head examined...
I reluctantly reach forward and unluck the door, all whilst curling the waistband of my grungy blue sweats over one roll so you can't see the pink underwear.
I am greeted by the pointy face akin to satan...cheshire (sp?) grin spreading to your bony cheeks as you clomp into the threshold with your skinny, slightly taller frame- wearing those boots that you wore when we were fifteen that I despised. I still despise them. You could afford better, but you think they look macho. They don't. Your grin is turning lugubrious as your eyes wander down my body, ripped teeshirt showing the undercurve of my breasts, and the dank hip hugging sweats. I can't help but smile at that greasy look as you take off your blue parka- the notion that you think you're hot shit. You're not, but I let you think you are. It's better that way- you're more inclined to show off things you think you know how to do.
"Hey sexy..."
Hello dick.
"Hey, quick get in here before the neighbors see..."
But I try not to think too far ahead as your small hands encircle my waist and pull me close for "the intent eye stare," before moving in for the kiss. Some disillusionment is imperative for this to be enjoyable. Your hands skim down my waist and caress my bottom, and you push me gently to the wall and slide your palm up my shirt. My body is a traitor, but I'd known it would betray me as soon as I woke up restless yesterday.
My id had disobeyed my thinking process as I picked up the phone and dialed you. Told you a time. Mind screamed at me : you are a weak stupid girl- control your fucking hormones for once- just say no to convenience- yes to meaningful. Id jumped back in and declared, "meaningful prospects are overrated and impossible- they're not here. In the now. We and he are in the now."
Told you a place. Cringed at your disgusting way of putting things. "Booty call" makes my life into a rap video- and me without my velvet sweatsuit.
We move into my bedroom, onto the hard bed. Things are progressing well. Your shirt falls like a plastic bag to the wind, revealing your crucifixion body. You don't like to be called Jesus, but apart from your face of nefarious origin, you look the part, and suddenly religion enters the bedroom as I think of things I know not of- I wonder if I go to hell simply for not believing.
You've gained a little weight, which is nice. As you lay back on the bed the power struggle begins. You don't like being out of control, but neither do I- it is like a physically intimate fight, to see who can subordinate the other the most. Neither of us will ever admit to needing someone else to each other, admit that we want to be used.
"You're such a bitch," you breath down my neck as I slowly undo your belt and change my mind halfway through. Retaliation is imminent and my shirt dissappears into the folds of the blankets. Subdued. Subordinated. But not conquered, and I come back swinging, render you helpless with useful oral administrations with the sole purpose of cutting to the chase. Your foreplay annoys me, and bores me. The "hot shit" complex kicks in and that idea of "the longer I dwell in one specific erogenous zone, the steadily more turned on she will get," takes some sort of eternal root in your mind.
You dumb fuck. If only you knew that complex was so completely indicative of how much you doubt your performance. What? Less work later with your insubstantial endowment? Not that size matters, but if nothing else matters with you, at least something should. So, I'll pick on the dick.
Always interested in this unique idea that all favors must be returned, my self-serving plans are thwarted for the moment as you stick your face in between my legs. It helps, but once again- too long, too long. Hotshot complex has some orgasm quotas you feel you must meet every step of the way.
Whoa...what are you doing there?
I sit up. You've just licked my anus. Gross.
I moon, "come here..." I wipe your face off with your black Iron Maiden teeshirt, and you- thinking that transitional administrations are necessary for fear of a turn-off (Oh, we are so far past that...) trail your fingers on the inside of my thigh. I turn the charm crank to the red-zone and nibble on your ear while pushing you onto your back. The condom under my pillow has not been dislodged and I slip it on you while you're pre-occupied with my breasts. Again.
Caution: drugs will make even the best attempt at an erection flaccid and floppy at best.
The sex itself is not good- though serviceable. Right after you come, I do the hardest kegel I can. You squeal like a pig and push me off you. I laugh, and you call me a whore from the bathroom. I notice that you run like an old decrepit and hobbling man.
Serves you right for licking my asshole. Asshole.
You phone me an hour after your departure, from your car. I am relieved to have gotten you out of the house so quickly- usually you want to stay for pillow talk about your girlfriend (you deny that she left you months ago, screaming your worthlessness from the front yard and breaking your television with a frying pan- after cracking every single dvd that you owned in half by hand and throwing them in the bathtub of water you were stoned in at the time). I admire her, but used to tell you that she was a nutcase to make you feel better.
"Hey, I think some of my cash may have fallen out of my pocket when we were fucking."
"So?"
"Well, I just phoned you to tell you not to worry about it. You can keep it. Hey, phone me again eh? I'll come over anytime you want me to- ha, get it? Come ov-." I hang up the phone, and shake my head in disgust.
I used to think about all the literature I'd read that didn't really constitute as literature, after a time like this, that dictated that girls that did this sort of thing usually were feeling devoid of something after it, before it, or felt exceedingly dirty about it in general. I'd read all these tired old rehashings of "I felt like scrubbing every inch of my first four layers of skin off, to purge him from me- I felt so dirty." It sounded so terrible, like not having love with sex was going to be the undoing of any innocent young girl. And probably once it was- the awfulness that seemed to plague them seemed so raw that it scared me initially. I held my want for experience in. I was like, "this male rejection sounds terrible. Probably gonna happen to me. Take note: This happens to all girls if they don't find love. SOS pad exfoliation, or death by pink lady bic. Oh the melodrama of the non-commital, non entertaining sexual encounter."
As I sit by the phone, I find the only thing that enters my mind, is what I should make for supper. I'm an old hat at this by now. I broke your heart once, a long time ago, in the pre-battle times, in my impressionistic youthful times- always vowing to be the masher, and not the mashee. I've broken a lot of hearts, but yours was the first- and I wonder if I didn't get cheated of the victory because I let you into my bed many years later.
What eventually happens is that I get tired of the game. I get tired of cleaning up after my mistakes, doing damage control in messy situations. I do never call you again. You were the first and almost the last. The Russian was the last- an unprecedented moment accounted for by an infirm mind, something I wonder about everytime I start jonesing about for a lay -if my mind is sound, my judgement reasonable. It is, but there is always some unforseen consequence for me, whether it be about my health, my finances, or the lack of traction under my sneakers that may suddenly appear.
I derive a wonderful concept one day- a concept playfully dubbed "the boy sabbatical panties," that ultimately gets me out of trouble. I write only what inspires me, or spells me out, or makes me want to love, in the intimate creases, folds and seams of white cotton knickers tie-dyed in all the harsh colors of my personality. Vowing only to be with a man who reads them word for word, understanding the meaning behind the conquest before probing into my deep space.
And months pass. Sometimes I am so frustrated that I scream into my pillow. Ask my fingers for the instructions they know naught of, or gaze wishfully at strangers. Pretend to be purest of pure while thinking slimy earthy smelling thoughts and tangy tastes. The only thing that makes my year long now, is what I have gone so long without.
People are already crazy in July- if something major happened in July, it would just tip the scale completely and chaos would erupt. I do not think people pray in July either though. Summer is for sinning baby.
¶ 9:01 PM
