Saturday, 30 August 2008

Bad sex

He rang me out of the blue on a Tuesday afternoon. I was grateful to hear from him, it had been a while and I'd missed him terribly. I agreed to him picking me up and taking me back to his house. He arrived on time and in the car we held hands all the way there, kissing at traffic lights; all smiles and laughing. He had soft hands and skin like velvet, he loved the way my hair smelt and thought my necklace was pretty.

When we arrived at his house it was already getting dark. A cold, dank January day, frost and rotting leaves in the air. We went straight to his bedroom. I'd never been in before. As he went in search of a condom I took my shoes off and looked around. An ashtray by the bed, tiny alarm clock, his girlfriend's earrings, a book with a black cover and neon blue writing. He couldn't find a condom, he said. "Doesn't matter," I said, "I'm on the Pill." (lying).

He pulled me down on the bed, frenetic kissing and moans. We were naked in a minute at the end of the bed, on top of the blankets. He kissed deeply. He was rough, forceful; Jesus, I loved this man. So kind, charming and lovely; a well-liked man, "Such a nice man," they said. His hands were in my hair, kissing my neck hard, he rolled over and pulled me on top. I cried out when he pushed his cock into me, "Shhhh," he warned; I wasn't ready, it hurt and he gripped me tight, thrusted deep in me once, twice, three times and came silently. He let me go and put his hands behind his head, smiling. I steadied myself from the sudden movement and looked down on him. Still smiling, his eyes closed. I nuzzled into him, kissed him and lay on his chest whilst his hands remained behind his head. The air grew cold again, it was dark outside.

He drove me home. No talking or laughing but he did smile at me. I put my hand on his knee, palm up. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and oh God, I wished that I would just fucking die.

New toy

I bought myself a present on Thursday.

I deserved it. I've been a good girl lately. Stayed out of trouble--not entirely by choice, but that's beside the point, right?

The OhMiBod plugs into your iPod or MP3 player and vibrates along with the music. Yes, I know. It's amazing.

It also makes it a bit more of a production than the usual toy that waits in a bedside drawer until you need it. The OhMiBod requires forethought, planning a playlist--you don't want it to stop on you at the end of a song when you haven't started singing yourself yet.

You have to take time out for yourself.

And I needed an extra excuse for that...

I crawled into bed early last night to try out my new little friend. After figuring out how to rig up the wires so as to plug into my toy and get the music into my ears, I queued up Nick Cave's "Lyre of Orpheus."

Cave's voice is the closest thing to audio sex I can think of, and this song has plenty of twisted ups and downs that translate well into shifts in speed and intensity. In other words, a great way to tease myself for a while, bring myself to the brink and then back off, and get used to a toy that thinks for itself. The volume wheel on the iPod controls the intensity of the vibes, carrying me further along, but Orpheus's lyre wasn't quite enough to send me over the edge.

The harsh, reverberating strumming and beats of "Supernaturally," however, were perfect. The throbbing in my ears echoing throughout my body brought out a truly intense solo orgasm.

The music simply adds that dimension that is usually missing from playing by yourself. Combine a great rock show, a great dance club, and actual stimulation....mmmmm.

I fell asleep after a few bodyshaking climaxes, and though I don't remember my dreams, I'll bet they were good ones, though perhaps a little violent as befits Mr. Cave.

In the morning, though, it was time for another test run. This time I reached for M.I.A., thinking her smooth voice and dirty beats would be another kind of experience. Suitable for the morning, sassy but mellower than Nick, who would be an aggressive lover I'm sure.

"Paper Planes" has the rhythm and consistency, with just enough changes, to provide the sort of lingering almost-there-almost-there-yes-god-don't-stop feeling that I only get most of the time from excellent head. The delicious shivers were too good and I had to hit repeat to keep the experience going just a little longer.

Somehow nighttime orgasms send me off to sleep purring happily, while morning ones drive me out of bed with an urge to write. I must say, though, that I've been tempted to take a break from the computer to try out more songs. Madonna? Prince? Mos Def? Some good old dirty-girl jazz? Hit shuffle and see what comes up?

Please, leave me suggestions. And enjoy my playlist thus far.

Toy purchased at Babeland, by the way, a sex toy shop that has the official Dirty Girl seal of approval.

via インスピレーション

Wednesday, 27 August 2008

your first time with me

I've already imagined it.

You'll be wearing black as you always do, one hand in your pocket, the other hand holding a cigarette. You'll look at me and this time I'll be certain. This time I'll not be too scared or too shy, I'll know you want me and I'll not be too nervous to make it happen.

You'll be looking at me, trying to read me. My lips will part slightly as I breathe in and you'll be certain too. You'll take one last drag and stub out the cigarette and you'll turn towards me once more. I'll be shaking slightly; you're going to come close, you're about to walk towards me and the hairs on the back of my neck'll stand up. A shiver will run through me and you'll hear me breath out. You'll smile slightly... yes... Yes, it's about to happen...

... and it will in such a rush; you'll grab me and we'll kiss, grabbing at each other and "mmmmm...", your tongue'll be in my mouth; I'll feel it against mine, and "oh god..." (Oh God, if you knew how much I wanted this...), the door, slightly ajar, will slam with a terrific bang as you push me against it, and I'll kiss down your neck to your chest as I unbutton your shirt, frustrated because I'll not be able to do it fast enough or get close enough to you, "please, please..." (please god, oh I need to be close to you) and I'll gasp as you push my skirt up and as I wrap my leg around you, you'll grip my hair tightly...

We'll be breathing heavily and your face'll be inches from mine. Our foreheads will touch and you'll look me in the eye, smiling slightly; we both will. Your shoulders will pin me to the door, heady smell of aftershave, perfume, cigarettes and damp. You'll run your fingers lightly down my neck and collarbone and you'll take your suit jacket off in one quick movement as my hands move up and over your shoulders under your shirt. You'll kiss me lightly, barely, and I'll hear you unbuckle your belt, I'll hear the metal parts chink against each other and then the zip, "Oh, yessss...". You'll be holding your cock against me, I'll feel it grazing my clit, "oh god, oh god yes, I can feel you, yes..." (I want you feel you now, oh god I need you in me). Your other hand pulling my leg back up so it's wrapped around your waist once more, in a second you'll be in me, I'll breathe in as your face changes (I want you so much, so fucking much...), I'll be dizzy with the heat...

... and you'll plunge deep in me: your entire length buried deep in me in one quick movement, you'll fuck me as hard and as fast as you can; I'll cry out again and you'll kiss me to silence me; my muffled cries in your mouth, my arms tight around your neck, reaching down, grabbing your arse, urging you faster, faster, you kiss my neck, as I grip your hair. I'll feel your teeth in my shoulder, feel you tensing, you'll grunt and moan with each thrust and you'll get louder; close - you need to come and you'll be desperate, I'll whisper your name, louder and louder, wanting you to come in me so I'll urge you on; the door'll shake, banging, moaning, shouting, crying out; you'll thrust into me faster and faster; you'll be frantic, you'll pinch my nipple so hard I'll scream in pain and that will push you over the edge...

You'll come loudly, you'll come with force: you'll come deep in me just as I imagined; the heat and wetness inside me, so different from my own. Your head will be down, forehead against my shoulder and I'll stroke the back of your neck. Your hand will move up my thigh letting my leg back down. Deep breaths, wrap your arms around my waist and you'll hold me tight. Kiss my temple, "Do you want to lie down?" you'll ask.

"Yes," and we will. I'm aching for you, and you'll know I am. Lying back, looking at each other and laughing and the speed and intensity of it all. Your hand on my face; you'll kiss me...

Tuesday, 26 August 2008

Creating myself

I put on makeup, lean into the mirror, examine my skin.

I make myself into something you think you can understand. Paint my lips, exaggerate my eyes, pour myself into tight things that you think you can get underneath by peeling them off, but what I've created instead is a shield that you can't quite get past, and underneath it is all my real feelings.

I kiss you and part of me is there, part of me is feeling your lips, your tongue, your hand sliding beneath my skirt and finding, slowly, what you're looking for.

And part of me is above, and watching, and recording.

I do these things for the story to tell later.

Story: A former friend, and more recent enemy, with his face between my legs on a kitchen countertop. It is my birthday. I am twenty-five. He loved me once. Part of him still does. And part of the ritual when we fuck is making each other come harder, better, longer than we ever have before. It's revenge, sort of. It's a point that we have to prove. He kisses me afterward so I can taste myself. And in the morning we wake up and it's not even really awkward so much as we simply know that it only works for those few hours in the night. We barely talk.

Story: Against a wall in the train station, around a corner. It's late. I am drunk. And his kisses are sweet, the sweetest I've tasted for years and thousands of miles. I can feel his cock through his jeans, but he can't have me. It's just a tease. His fingers teasing. We breathe heavy, against each other. What do we want?

Story: Two beds in a dorm room that smells of old sweat. They are so close I could reach out and touch the boy in the other bed, who is asleep, or pretending to be so. I am kissing a boy with skin so tattooed I can barely tell what color it was underneath, and his kisses are delicious, perfect--hard to remember this now--that his touch, so hesitant, and his whispers, slightly shy, kept me shaking on the brink for hours. It was all downhill once we actually had a room to ourselves.

Story: A boy I knew from when we were kids--literally kids, grade school boyfriend that I've found again through the magic of the Internet--kissing me in the back of a cab. I have driven several hours to be there, and I am beyond tired and into delirium. I want this moment to last. He tastes so good. The sparkle in his eyes, the crooked grin that I's a trip back in time. But it can't last, doesn't last. Just for the night, and not even then.

I can say no to most people easily, but a bit of history, a little weirdness, a taste of magic or the promise of getting caught and there's a story to tell, later. A piece of you I can use. And so I give you the piece of me that you want to see. The taste you want. The person you think I am.

Monday, 25 August 2008

Devils and Blue Angels

All I want is everything. I've never done drugs, but I know what I like. I like touch. I like taste. I like friction. There's so much I want to try.

One can't stay home and screw all day, though. One can't just... languish. "Elegant waste" I once heard it called. If you want to keep the body around to play with, you have to feed it and clothe it and shelter it.

So I take off the masculine polish, I stop growling and graveling and making eyes at any pretty thing that strikes me. I put on the plastic, raise my voice an octave, and put on some sweetness, put on some light. I bury my contempt for people who hit all the wrong notes and expect me to sing.

But never a moment slips by that it isn't on my mind. Every person I look at, I wonder what goes on in their mind, I wonder what they're concealing. I have to resist the urge to bare teeth and pick apart to get at the bones of every person I come across.

At my heart, I'm a corrupter. I break other people's diets, I'm the devil's advocate, I'm a stranger with very good candy, if you're a consenting adult, I can find a beautiful rhetoric to justify whatever you want to do with any other consenting adult. I can rationalize anything. I can take the guilt away and make sinners feel good about their sins.

There is no morality, only ethics, and I'm really only interested in the ethics of filth. I'll try it all, someday, repeat what feels good, repeat vigorously what feels bad in a very good way, and abandon the rest.

There is no reason in this world to resist.

And I'm always falling in love again, not with another person, but with another idea, another experiment, another concept to penetrate.

Sometimes I think my curiosity could change the world.

Sunday, 24 August 2008

"It's the good girls who keep the diaries...

...The bad girls never have time."

Tallulah Bankhead was one of the original dirty girls. Well, maybe not original--we'd have to go much further back in time for that.

I am not nearly as bad as she was, which is why, I suppose, I am writing this. Still, I will attempt to live up to the divine Miss Tallulah's image and write unflinchingly about everything naughty that comes across my path.

I like to talk about sex. Sometimes in places that it can get me into trouble. I'm fascinated by the subject, by men, and by glamour. I like black-and-white movies, ripped lace dresses, red lipstick, women who sing, honestly, and being kissed up against walls.

You may think you know me, but you don't.

The pseudonym I shall be using for this blog will be….

Joan. Joan after the beautiful Joan Fontaine, star of Rebecca, the most gorgeous film in the entire world.

I’m in my 20s and writing my thesis, so currently I spend an obscene amount of time at my desk. I love reading and I’m a book snob, so everyone assumes I’m a greater lover of written erotica. Not so; I’m more of a visual kind of girl. I like “man porn”. I don’t like being told as a consequence of this I support the rape and torture of women and children, but I deal with that directly elsewhere.

I don’t know exactly what I’ll come up with on this blog. A great deal of smut, I should think, and one or two notes on things I may have read or seen. I don’t intend to treat this as a formal project , it’s just, as the post below indicates, about writing freely, enjoying it, being open and being subversive. Shame it has to all be anonymous, but this is the way of the world right now.

Saturday, 23 August 2008

What this is, and what it is not.

This is not a feminist blog.

This is not a sex blog.

Well, not entirely. We (most of us) consider ourselves feminists, and yep, we're going to do a whole lot of writing about sex. Some of it's going to be explicit, some of it's going to be arcane, theoretical even. Sometimes we'll tell you who we are, and sometimes we won't.

There are several of us, and hopefully we'll keep adding more.

What we want is for this to be a 'safe' space where women can talk about sex. About what WE want. No one's going to be shouted down. Your opinions and feelings are welcome. You don't have to agree with us.

What is not welcome: slut-shaming, name-calling, personal insults or attacks, or general judgmental asshole behavior. We will moderate comments. We aren't going to engage discussions on whether or not heterosexual sex is feminist. For the purposes of discussion here, we assume that consensual sex between adults is not rape or an unfeminist act, no matter what that sex involves. We assume women have the agency to make up their own minds about the sex they like and want to have.

And we want to talk about it.