I know who I lost it with but can’t tell you if it was day or night, spring, summer or fall, weekday or weekend, here or there, or if I was fourteen or fifteen. However I do remember—in vivid detail—the first time I made a guy come.
Sun-kissed summer days spent on his parents’ boat had left my skin the color of golden honey and streaked my blond hair with white and cream tendrils. My breasts had blossomed into a c-cup over the winter making me look older than my actual thirteen years. He was seventeen, tall, athletic and had a wide easy grin. Stolen, closed-lip kisses had evolved into epic explorations of mouths, tongues, ear lobes, jaw lines
and necks. Continue reading →
Before you tease my glistening pearl with your swollen tip, before you slide your sculpted manhood inside my ready channel, before we thrust together becoming a whirlwind of hedonism, before we unite body and spirit aiming towards the same magnificent goal, before I shudder, arch and cry out, before you spill inside me, before we collapse on the bed with joy complete, before you run a finger along my cheek and kiss the tip of my nose, before I curl up against you and savor the music of your steady heartbeat, before we fall asleep together, I will get you ready with nothing more than… words.
It does fun little flips that make me catch my breath. It races in the heat of passion—even just thinking about the heat of passion. It breaks. It mends. It remembers the agony of the break, the ache during healing, but still loves. It refuses sit safely on the sidelines. It expands—doubling, sometimes tripling in size—making room for those needing love.
Does it always preform perfectly? No. It stumbles and falls. But it picks itself up, dusts off the drama, accepts the hurt and continues. These feats of my heart surprise me, because I haven’t always let it run free… I didn’t trust it, so I kept it locked away. Hidden. But even shuttered away in darkness it stayed soft and open. And I’m so thankful. Its capacity for love continues to grow and I believe it always will. It finds joy in the outpouring you see.
I don’t relish the pain that sometimes comes with an acrobatic heart, but I’m not afraid of it anymore. Because, like it’s jubilant opposite, the hurt proves I’m alive and capable of depths of feeling so beautiful and profound that to not know them would be like sleepwalking through life, numb to everything. And I choose to feel.
After my now former lover had called me a fucking whore (catch up here) I got in my car and drove into the night. Not ready to face an empty house I followed the double yellow lines past my turn, no destination in mind. When the open air had calmed me I looked for a place to stop, one where I could just be still for a moment.
Around the next bend, tucked amongst large live oak trees I saw a small white Catholic church. I pulled in the vacant parking lot, cut the engine and leaned back to look at the sky. The crescent moon paused close to Venus just above an oak’s canopy. In the recently mown field adjacent to the church a newspaper tumbled to and fro. Am I like that? Do I allow myself to get blown one direction and then another? Am I just drug along by this always-seeking wind that is at my core? And for what does it search? I breathed deeply and became more introspective than I’ve allowed myself to be in ages. Minutes ticked. Crickets chirped. I peeled back my layers and faced a side of myself I try to bury, a side that shames me, a side that refuses to go quietly into the night. Continue reading →
I broke up with my lover for a man I’ve never met. Well, technically I made him break up with me. I didn’t want to see Lover. But he kept pushing and then I hurt his feelings, so I felt guilty. It went like this:
“Come on, let’s go have sushi!”
“I think I’m staying in.”
“I haven’t seen you in weeks! You can see my new jeep.”
“I’m so tired I feel asleep while changing clothes and taking pictures of my boobs.”
It began innocently enough. The trip was billed as a cathedral tour after all. We touched down in Heathrow at 10:20 pm. My body thought it was late afternoon, so the next morning I was in the full throws of jet lag when we entered the first historic house of worship. I wondered away from the group, hoping some outside air would rid my brain of its
He sat cross-legged on the ground, his back against an ancient stone wall, a sketch pad in hand and half smile on his face—the kind one wears when amused at an inside joke no one else will understand. His fingers were stained with charcoal, especially the left pinky which he used to blend and shade the shadowed drawing. I wanted to see it. The way he studied the arched pillars as if they told him secrets and then copied down their tales in his little book was too much for my curiosity.
I was almost beside him, intending to take a quick look and be on my way before he noticed my spying. But he looked up. Continue reading →
Between my breasts you would fit so nicely. Straddle my abdomen, put your hands on their weight, thumbs on my nipples and push them together. Plunge your shaft amid their roundness. Push deep so that you’re no longer completely encased and watch as I lift my head, open my mouth and reach toward your tip with my wet tongue. Moan as you rock back and forth, meeting my lips with each thrust.
Feel my hips lifting, my back arching and answer my need. Drive deep between my spread legs until you feel me shudder and release. Take your fill of my silky channel until you reach the brink. Then pull out and with a roar, come between my breasts.
My list of chores stretches to the horizon and there I leave them, choosing instead to daydream and noodle among the clouds. I imagine I’m placing my lips at the waistband of your boxers, starting with feather-light kisses and then gently nipping at your skin before tugging them down a bit with my teeth. They slide down your hips easily, revealing the line of muscle that makes a perfect V, an arrow guiding me where I want to go. My mouth and tongue trace that line with painstaking deliberateness.
And then you’re in my mouth for the first time. My brain fights to stay in the moment while desperately trying to memorize your scent, taste and texture. Remember this. Remember how his skin warmed you to your bones. Remember the words he whispered in your ear. Remember the way he caressed your face. These things you mustn’t forget.
I pretend that you stroke my hair while I settle my head on your chest and let my fingers draw delicate patterns on your abdomen. I listen to your voice and quiet laughter rumble through your body while we rest in the aftermath of desire consummated, content to
A Ford Mustang (a classic one) Any American muscle car would be fine place for a steamy make out session. The Camaro, GTO and Charger have all seen their share of fogged windows, but I think the romance that follows the Mustang makes it the best choice for getting past third base. Sure it will require some contortionist-type moves to get slot A to into slot B, but have some faith. Horny teenagers have been managing it for decades.
A BMW M5 This car epitomizes understated luxury and power—a huge turn-on for me. It looks like a regular four-door sedan on the outside, but under the hood… dayum! The current model hides 560 horses under the sleek bonnet. It’s like that guy who’s super nice out in public, but transforms into a heavenly demon in the bedroom. The supple leather on the roomy bench back seat makes for comfy coupling in a variety of positions… or so I’ve been told. And the low profile console between the front seats doesn’t get in the way of the occasional blowjob either. Continue reading →
I don’t mean to be. It just happens! You’d think someone with chronic insomnia would have time to wash her hair, but I always find things I’d rather be doing—like reading your blogs! On top of that I rolled out of my tangle of sheets a little later than usual this morning and had exactly fifteen minutes to get out the door.
Fortunately I have a little secret… dry shampoo!
So if there are any other dirty girls out there that let hair washing go one (or two) day(s) longer than you should, give it a try. I’ve tested several and the dry shampoo by Frederic Fekkai is my favorite. Tresemme’s spray-in version is the best drug store brand I’ve tried. Seriously, my hair looks and feels clean even though it shouldn’t, while keeping a sexy “morning after” texture.
This is not going to turn into a beauty blog. I swear. Just a little public service announcement. Wait… when you read the post title you were expecting something different weren’t you? Well, OK then: 32E or 34DD depending on the brand. ; )
For your listening pleasure I bring you Bruce Springsteen’s Secret Garden. I know it’s an old one… but I’m letting these words wash over me this morning, shamelessly.
She’ll let you in her house
If you come knockin late at night
She’ll let you in her mouth
If the words you say are right
If you pay the price
She’ll let you deep inside
But there’s a secret garden she hides
She’ll let you in her car
To go drivin round
She’ll let you into the parts of herself
That’ll bring you down
She’ll let you in her heart
If you got a hammer and a vise
But into her secret garden, don’t think twice
You’ve gone a million miles
How far’d you get
To that place where you can’t remember
And you can’t forget
She’ll lead you down a path
There’ll be tenderness in the air
She’ll let you come just far enough
So you know she’s really there
She’ll look at you and smile
And her eyes will say
She’s got a secret garden
Where everything you want
Where everything you need
Will always stay
A million miles away
We made our way to the kitchen, him in boxers and me in a sheer black slip and rummaged until we found a nice cabernet. He uncorked it while I set out glasses, casting awed glances his way. It didn’t seem possible that we were in the same room together, so relaxed after so many years.
In unspoken agreement we walked together to the patio door, went outside and made ourselves comfortable on the teak outdoor furniture. I curled up in a chair, knees to breasts with one arm wrapped around them, and listened to him talk. It was as if no one had slowed down to listen to him for a very long time and once he started, the stories poured. I sipped, asked questions, sipped and listened some more. But when he returned to the kitchen to refill our glasses, I move from the chair to a low bench and sat, waiting.
He walked up to me smiling, his eyes fixed on my nipples which he could see though the gauzy fabric. I took my freshened glass from his hand and set it beside me. Then I touched his cock through the soft cotton of his boxers. He gave a low moan and bent to kiss me. I stopped him, preferring my mouth to occupy itself a little lower. He helped me pull his now hard shaft out of the confining fabric and watched me kiss the tip, gently, before opening my mouth and sliding him inside. I flicked my tongue in circles around the swollen head over and over until he pulled away. Continue reading →