Now it's time I told you about Lucas, the man who engineered my most positive and beautiful early sexual experiences.
I met Lucas through the group of friends I ran with for a few years in junior high and early high school. I have no memory of my first impression except for this: I thought that his face was both grotesque and irresistible. I could not stop looking at him. In fact, Lucas' physicality has made such a lasting impression on me that I think the half-conscious memory of him may have contributed to why I allowed myself to fall so quickly into bed with Damon. But that is a different tale.
Lucas had an enormous mouth with a tongue as long as Gene Simmons'; he seemed almost to navigate the whole world by the use of his mouth, shaping each word he spoke with relish, tasting every person and situation he encountered, listening for his own amusement to the echoes off the walls of the great cave in his head. His laugh was impossibly loud, huge booming reverberations that seemed to come from everywhere at the same time. I loved his laugh, though, and his monstrously wide grin. I loved his long hair that was always dyed too black and the way it would fall over the prominent ridge of his eyebrows, which he kept immaculately waxed. This always made me giggle--that such a terrifyingly formidable hunk of man flesh would be so vain.
He had other charming incongruities, as well. For instance, he loved horses, and he kept several in a field behind his house. The rapturous attention he paid to them was as tender and startlingly private as a lover's. He would all but disappear into the depth of his affection for one of his horses, his hands finding every contour of her neck and face, his lips moving along her skin whispering his worship, and seem to forget I was there. I have never forgotten the image of him, a tattooed, pierced, black-maned goth boy leading his horse towards me down the crape myrtle-lined path on a late summer afternoon.
He had acquired a reputation as a talented lover, and we all pitied the foolish girls who attempted to possess him because every woman knew--or should have known--that he had been created as a gift to all of us, even men. (I am fairly certain that he even served as a male escort for a period of time.) His body was our temple.
After a while, his piercing habit got fairly intense. That muscular expanse of flesh in his mouth started to collect decorations (or perhaps they are best thought of as tools) until he had five--count, FIVE--bars through his tongue. At the time when we were close, he only had one or two through the tongue, but he already had many other parts pierced: his septum, his cheeks, his le bret, his nipples, his scrotum, and his perineum. He also had surface piercings through the skin on the back of his neck and a ladder of four bars through the top of his shaft. Occasionally he would pierce himself on the surface somewhere random and then take it out a few weeks later, just for kicks. I know. Woah, right?
As much room in his psyche as I knew there was for the love of pain, rough dominance play, and humiliation in sex, he was always incredibly gentle and tender with me. He seemed to be motivated almost entirely by the desire to help me develop into a healthier young woman, and if he wasn't, then that was certainly a happy unintended outcome. He never once tried to penetrate me, and even gently refused to do so when I thought I wanted it. His project seemed to be making sure that I knew my body, knew what I wanted, and knew how men should be expected to behave in bed with me. Maybe I am completely wrong about this, but I am incredibly thankful for the memories and the personal growth he so kindly and selflessly brought into my life. He set the bar high--I still sometimes find myself comparing men to him--and equipped me with new self-respect.
You ask if I want to listen to music and I tell you of course because I know that it is your way of gauging what sort of mood I am in and I would like to tell you that I am never not in that mood when you are near but I don't want to make you worry that I am falling in love with you or anything even though I do love you so very much and thank you for making me shut up with that kiss.
And I loved him, and I still love him, but everything was always very clear. It was the weirdest thing. It's not like he was the wrong kind of guy for me to fall for, and it's not like all the ingredients weren't there. I had it all with him: love, mutual respect, sweet sweet lust, and lots to talk about. But I just couldn't bring myself to desire to possess him. I knew that none of the women who thought they owned him actually did, and I wished that they would see it the way I did: Lucas was serving his best and highest purpose when he was allowed to remain a communal resource. He lived to give of himself, and he had cured so many women (and men?) of their hangups, and there was plenty of him to go around. He was the true Love Doctor in the flesh.
Of all the naked fun we had together over those few years, the instance that I remember in the most vivid, panty-creaming detail occurred when we were both fully clothed. It is still one of the most terrifically, head-swimmingly intimate events of my life.
A bit of background and setting: One of our friends was the son of a very wealthy doctor. We usually ended up picking his house as our hangout spot because his parents left us alone to do as we wished in their enormous game room. Lucas, three or four other friends, and I were there on a weekend. I must have been about fourteen, and I still had impossibly thick hair that fell well past my breasts. I could wrap almost my entire torso with it.
I still felt very shy anytime I hung around these kids because I feared upsetting whatever magic made them accept me. I was two to five years younger than everyone in the group, and we had only recently begun to spend time together, so I kept my mouth shut most of the time. I had never had a serious conversation with Lucas before, only stared out at him from that deeply confused, impenetrable interior space that adolescence introduces to the psyche.
Ken had just turned on some music. The girls were distracted, chatting at the corner table with Tobias. I was reading something on the couch when I felt eyes on me, so I turned to meet them. Lucas had a musing expression on his face, and one corner of his broad mouth curled up in a devious little smile as he pulled himself up from his chair and began to walk toward me.
Towering over me, he extended his hand in a frank and commanding gesture that might have been translated: "You. Woman. Come." It was the sort of thing that I daydream about men being able to pull off. So simple, so complete. These days, when virtually no natural selection takes place any more among men competing for women, it takes a very rare and special mix of hormones and attitudes for a man to be able to communicate the most basic, ancient message to a woman without the assistance of words. The authenticity of Lucas' masculinity was like nothing my adolescent body had ever understood before, and like very little I have known after him. That feeling of surrender to the male animal mostly only ever comes up these days in fantasies involving tangles with men who use inappropriate amounts of force and whose faces I can't make out in the half-dark...
So, this was all that happened, all that I have been getting at: I took his outstretched hand and allowed him to pull me up from the couch. He led me through the hallway and into the bathroom, where he brushed my hair for a few minutes and only sortof kissed me. That's all. Really.
You close the door click behind you and you turn around to face me. You spend a moment searching me, all of me, still trying to figure out what you intend to do. You seem to decide then and your hands go to my hips and slowly close around them. Slowly, firmly you pick me up by my hipbones, your thumbs pressing into my flesh, and I feel so small and deliciously helpless and you set me down gently on the sink, all the while staring, sometimes into my eyes but other times like a scientist dissecting me inch by quivering inch. You start opening drawers, rifling through tubes of ointments and boxes of dental floss until you find a hairbrush. The next five minutes seem to last for hours as you slowly, gently, painstakingly brush my hair while examining my face, my neck, my arms, and the world has receded and there is only your face, your hot, smoky breath on my ears, your fingers electrifying the skin at the base of my skull, the mad flutter of my heartbeat, and the burning and throbbing between my legs that gets harder and harder to bear. You are enraptured, worshipful almost, and your brow is furrowed in perfect concentration. Finally you stop, put down the hairbrush, and look at me. The furrow relaxes as you seem to remember time and space. Your thumb grazes my lower lip, and your two forefingers dig slightly into the soft flesh under my jaw, pulling my face into yours. Your big, soft lips find mine only for a moment, and I could scream with need for more of you but I know you won't, but anyway you're not completely cruel so you smile and help me down again, straighten my hair once more even though nothing is out of place, and then lead me out of the bathroom. The others turn to look from the other side of the room and I can feel them wondering, probing, and I can feel my face flushing even redder, but no one asks. It seems as if your sweeping look of brazen self-validation must have silenced their curiosity before it ever reached their throats. I go back to the couch, and you walk over to Amber and kiss her on the collarbone.
And that is one of the hottest things that has ever happened to me.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
In Which Carnita Writes a Letter to a Prospective Contributor and Outlines the Concept
Dearest Mr. LaDouche,
So I've been thinking a bit more about things that I would like to typify the blog posts on carnal porridge. If you're truly interested, then maybe it can help inspire some direction for you and this can be a mutualistic relationship. You're clearly talented and may benefit from a safe outlet for some impulses that fall outside the normal range of what society at large sanctions, and I would certainly benefit from having some trustworthy, (preferably) gifted, and motivated co-conspirators. If you decide you're not into it, then no harm done. In fact, I may end up re-posting what I write to you here because I'm trying to articulate something for myself as much as I am trying to explain it to you.
My husband and I were talking today about the things that we find to be lacking in most readily available mainstream porn and/or erotica--especially that which relies on images for its appeal, like video, visual art, and photography--and a few themes emerged. For example, both of us (and many people we know) are pretty grossed out by the practice of obsessive hair removal. It's not just about the fact that it betrays a disturbing fascination in our culture with childish bodies and denies something of the animals that we are, but also because it is just one more thing that tends to reduce the amount of variation that can be found in the human form. In a way, it represents a sort of McDonaldization of sex: pre-packaged ideas of what is attractive, what is "clean," what is sexy, etc. (The weird idea that hairless bodies are "cleaner" is especially irritating to me. Let's not fool ourselves here; there is nothing clean about sex, and in another way, there is nothing dirty about it, either.) This practice also precludes some of the intimacy involved in sexual acts, eliminating the mystery of the literally dark areas of the body that have to be revealed, and also discovered, incrementally. My personal choice not to shave some parts of my body is only distantly related to these ideas, since pornography, erotica, or whatever we're calling it is essentially performance and inhabits its own symbolic world, whereas this is my actual life.
One of the other major complaints I have about what I have been able to find so far--and mind you, I am a novice at finding the porn I want and really don't know where to look yet--is that when there is a subject-position or "observer" in the situation being portrayed in heterosexual porn, it is almost always the man. This is on the one hand a classic feminist concern about objectification, but for me, it is more a simple matter of never being able to assume the role of the viewer as a woman, the one experiencing the woman's position in the scenario.
It is true that it is somewhat more common for men to be interested in porn, but I wonder what that statistic would look like if there were more readily available material made for women. This does not mean that women would necessarily have to make it, but that writers and film artists would need to step up efforts to include women in the "protagonist" roles of pornographic art, photography, and video. Furthermore, I don't think that it's fair or accurate to assume that just because certain scenarios are portrayed over and over ad nauseum in porn made for men that these scenarios are the only things that men are interested in. So in general, my issue with porn is how homogeneous it is although human sexuality, even within the confines of basically heterosexual orientation, is incredibly diverse.
For instance, if you were an alien who had to find out everything you know about human sexuality by watching porn, you might end up thinking things like this:
- Women always love bigger, harder cocks. A man who cannot achieve these ideals at any time a woman wants him to is not worth fucking.
- All women love to be sprayed with lots of cum, especially in the eye, in the mouth, on the ass, or wherever else a man can make it shoot that is close to a vascular area.
- Women always get extreme pleasure from long, drawn-out, rough, and somewhat humiliating intercourse with sleazy guys who don't respect them.
- Women cannot seek their own pleasure; they get pleasure only by doing things that result in getting men off. Also, men only really care about getting off.
- Men can't stand dealing with women's bodies as they are; if she wants to attract a man, a woman must make endless modifications to her natural shape, patterns of hair growth, hair color, skin tone, etc.
- Women's assholes are always cute and pink.
- Only women are bi-curious. Men who are bi-curious are an anomaly and we don't care about them.
- Circumcision is necessary for a man to be sexually attractive.
- Venereal disease and unwanted pregnancy are myths. Safe sex is shitty sex, and if issues resulting from unsafe sex occur, it's the woman's problem.
...and you get the point. So my project with this blog is, at least in part, to be part of the resistance to all these porno lies and to more faithfully represent what is hot about our actual consenting adult sex lives. I am convinced that I won't be disappointed by the array of possibilities that I discover.
The other major thing is more personal, more important than any sort of "work" I expect it to get done. My personal liberation is at stake here. I am a writer, I am a blossoming sexual creature, and my sex life is getting more interesting all the time. I want to challenge myself to embrace all of it and give myself a reason to keep generating good material by living it, if you know what I mean. Wink nudge.
I also have a basic and unsophisticated need to tell my story and validate myself in so doing. I want to see it written down, to force myself to tell it even when it makes me uncomfortable, and to make a commitment to myself to keep at it for a while instead of dropping it like I have dropped every other thing that has gotten difficult in my life. It's one among many other lessons in commitment I am trying to teach myself right now.
One idea, as I mentioned before, is to try to find others who might want to contribute as guest bloggers. I am not planning on asking many people I know in my day-to-day life since this could present a conflict of interests. I don't want to walk down the street and worry that I've been cast as "that sex blog girl," and I want others who contribute to be similarly protected from worries about their privacy.
So I hope that you might decide to keep working on your concept. Let me know what you think.
Sincerely,
Carnita
So I've been thinking a bit more about things that I would like to typify the blog posts on carnal porridge. If you're truly interested, then maybe it can help inspire some direction for you and this can be a mutualistic relationship. You're clearly talented and may benefit from a safe outlet for some impulses that fall outside the normal range of what society at large sanctions, and I would certainly benefit from having some trustworthy, (preferably) gifted, and motivated co-conspirators. If you decide you're not into it, then no harm done. In fact, I may end up re-posting what I write to you here because I'm trying to articulate something for myself as much as I am trying to explain it to you.
My husband and I were talking today about the things that we find to be lacking in most readily available mainstream porn and/or erotica--especially that which relies on images for its appeal, like video, visual art, and photography--and a few themes emerged. For example, both of us (and many people we know) are pretty grossed out by the practice of obsessive hair removal. It's not just about the fact that it betrays a disturbing fascination in our culture with childish bodies and denies something of the animals that we are, but also because it is just one more thing that tends to reduce the amount of variation that can be found in the human form. In a way, it represents a sort of McDonaldization of sex: pre-packaged ideas of what is attractive, what is "clean," what is sexy, etc. (The weird idea that hairless bodies are "cleaner" is especially irritating to me. Let's not fool ourselves here; there is nothing clean about sex, and in another way, there is nothing dirty about it, either.) This practice also precludes some of the intimacy involved in sexual acts, eliminating the mystery of the literally dark areas of the body that have to be revealed, and also discovered, incrementally. My personal choice not to shave some parts of my body is only distantly related to these ideas, since pornography, erotica, or whatever we're calling it is essentially performance and inhabits its own symbolic world, whereas this is my actual life.
One of the other major complaints I have about what I have been able to find so far--and mind you, I am a novice at finding the porn I want and really don't know where to look yet--is that when there is a subject-position or "observer" in the situation being portrayed in heterosexual porn, it is almost always the man. This is on the one hand a classic feminist concern about objectification, but for me, it is more a simple matter of never being able to assume the role of the viewer as a woman, the one experiencing the woman's position in the scenario.
It is true that it is somewhat more common for men to be interested in porn, but I wonder what that statistic would look like if there were more readily available material made for women. This does not mean that women would necessarily have to make it, but that writers and film artists would need to step up efforts to include women in the "protagonist" roles of pornographic art, photography, and video. Furthermore, I don't think that it's fair or accurate to assume that just because certain scenarios are portrayed over and over ad nauseum in porn made for men that these scenarios are the only things that men are interested in. So in general, my issue with porn is how homogeneous it is although human sexuality, even within the confines of basically heterosexual orientation, is incredibly diverse.
For instance, if you were an alien who had to find out everything you know about human sexuality by watching porn, you might end up thinking things like this:
- Women always love bigger, harder cocks. A man who cannot achieve these ideals at any time a woman wants him to is not worth fucking.
- All women love to be sprayed with lots of cum, especially in the eye, in the mouth, on the ass, or wherever else a man can make it shoot that is close to a vascular area.
- Women always get extreme pleasure from long, drawn-out, rough, and somewhat humiliating intercourse with sleazy guys who don't respect them.
- Women cannot seek their own pleasure; they get pleasure only by doing things that result in getting men off. Also, men only really care about getting off.
- Men can't stand dealing with women's bodies as they are; if she wants to attract a man, a woman must make endless modifications to her natural shape, patterns of hair growth, hair color, skin tone, etc.
- Women's assholes are always cute and pink.
- Only women are bi-curious. Men who are bi-curious are an anomaly and we don't care about them.
- Circumcision is necessary for a man to be sexually attractive.
- Venereal disease and unwanted pregnancy are myths. Safe sex is shitty sex, and if issues resulting from unsafe sex occur, it's the woman's problem.
...and you get the point. So my project with this blog is, at least in part, to be part of the resistance to all these porno lies and to more faithfully represent what is hot about our actual consenting adult sex lives. I am convinced that I won't be disappointed by the array of possibilities that I discover.
The other major thing is more personal, more important than any sort of "work" I expect it to get done. My personal liberation is at stake here. I am a writer, I am a blossoming sexual creature, and my sex life is getting more interesting all the time. I want to challenge myself to embrace all of it and give myself a reason to keep generating good material by living it, if you know what I mean. Wink nudge.
I also have a basic and unsophisticated need to tell my story and validate myself in so doing. I want to see it written down, to force myself to tell it even when it makes me uncomfortable, and to make a commitment to myself to keep at it for a while instead of dropping it like I have dropped every other thing that has gotten difficult in my life. It's one among many other lessons in commitment I am trying to teach myself right now.
One idea, as I mentioned before, is to try to find others who might want to contribute as guest bloggers. I am not planning on asking many people I know in my day-to-day life since this could present a conflict of interests. I don't want to walk down the street and worry that I've been cast as "that sex blog girl," and I want others who contribute to be similarly protected from worries about their privacy.
So I hope that you might decide to keep working on your concept. Let me know what you think.
Sincerely,
Carnita
Sunday, December 12, 2010
In Which the Protagonist Weathers Both the Snow Day That Ruined Final Exams and a Disgusting Head Cold
I am going to pause for a bit to pay some tribute, make some proclamations, and kill some time on a lovely snowy day! I am using lots of exclamation points because I took Sudafed earlier and I'm kindof all like woah! Look at that snow and my dog is so goddamn cute I can barely stand it and it feels funny to have plastic bags wrapped around your feet and ooooh, look, that's a pretty bird and yes Simon of COURSE I want a happy little drop of bourbon in my tea and why didn't I think of that sooner?!!
That's what it's like. We're both home sick today with no transportation and a couple of the biggest rutabagas I have ever seen. I think we also have plenty of condoms and a few logs to start a fire with later. What more could a girl need?
My poor students' exam schedules have been interrupted irrevocably by all this weather, and I know that they think they are happy about it, but it will not be fun for them to take these tests without a little bit more review. Plus, the car is in the shop and the mechanic appears to have gone on vacation. These are Carnita's troubles right now. Le sigh.
I have decided more about how this blog has got to work in order to work for me, especially regarding how to present time, structure, and internal logic. Even though I have decided to write a lot of smut on this blog, I am inspired very much by Hyperbole and a Half these days; the freedom Allie gives herself to slip and slide around in time as suits her mood on a given day keeps things much more interesting for both the writer and the reader than rigid chronology. The more I think about trying to start from the "beginning" of my story and arrive at the "end," the more I yawn, so that's not how I'm going to do it.
I'm not trying to write a cohesive novel here, alright? Just a little smut, laced with a lot of other stuff. But I understand that once it gets going, if anybody reads this blog, he or she is most likely to skip to the steamy parts first. Maybe only those parts. That is absolutely fine with me, but I have to be able to find a somewhat cohesive rhythm and voice for the rest of it for my own sense of purpose and vision or whatever the hell people say you need to create something of any interest to other people.
The problem is that I am a total mimic, and I go through these broad phases of fascination with certain styles and topics. Ever since I was very young. I have mimicked things for my own entertainment. I loved to imitate sounds made by different things around me, like dogs, cats, birds, people, machines, singers on the radio, television personalities, or my surly pony. Later I found that I had a knack for imitating images, too: drawing and painting things I saw, making stencils, or co-opting the styles of different artists.
Later, in college, the objects of my mimicry became writers and their styles. For instance, I was shameless about rocking an obvious William Faulkner/Gertrude Stein style of stream-of-consciousness prose poetry. If you've ever read either author, you may have noticed my hard-on for them. During senior thesis season, I nearly perfected my impersonation of a stodgy academic writer of Completely Inconsequential Literary Criticism. So the issue with trying to walk in too straight a time line with the plot that unfolds here is that it denies my own assets as a writer. That's my excuse!
So the point is that you must be patient with all the jumping around.
We're gonna watch a movie now. <3
That's what it's like. We're both home sick today with no transportation and a couple of the biggest rutabagas I have ever seen. I think we also have plenty of condoms and a few logs to start a fire with later. What more could a girl need?
My poor students' exam schedules have been interrupted irrevocably by all this weather, and I know that they think they are happy about it, but it will not be fun for them to take these tests without a little bit more review. Plus, the car is in the shop and the mechanic appears to have gone on vacation. These are Carnita's troubles right now. Le sigh.
I have decided more about how this blog has got to work in order to work for me, especially regarding how to present time, structure, and internal logic. Even though I have decided to write a lot of smut on this blog, I am inspired very much by Hyperbole and a Half these days; the freedom Allie gives herself to slip and slide around in time as suits her mood on a given day keeps things much more interesting for both the writer and the reader than rigid chronology. The more I think about trying to start from the "beginning" of my story and arrive at the "end," the more I yawn, so that's not how I'm going to do it.
I'm not trying to write a cohesive novel here, alright? Just a little smut, laced with a lot of other stuff. But I understand that once it gets going, if anybody reads this blog, he or she is most likely to skip to the steamy parts first. Maybe only those parts. That is absolutely fine with me, but I have to be able to find a somewhat cohesive rhythm and voice for the rest of it for my own sense of purpose and vision or whatever the hell people say you need to create something of any interest to other people.
The problem is that I am a total mimic, and I go through these broad phases of fascination with certain styles and topics. Ever since I was very young. I have mimicked things for my own entertainment. I loved to imitate sounds made by different things around me, like dogs, cats, birds, people, machines, singers on the radio, television personalities, or my surly pony. Later I found that I had a knack for imitating images, too: drawing and painting things I saw, making stencils, or co-opting the styles of different artists.
Later, in college, the objects of my mimicry became writers and their styles. For instance, I was shameless about rocking an obvious William Faulkner/Gertrude Stein style of stream-of-consciousness prose poetry. If you've ever read either author, you may have noticed my hard-on for them. During senior thesis season, I nearly perfected my impersonation of a stodgy academic writer of Completely Inconsequential Literary Criticism. So the issue with trying to walk in too straight a time line with the plot that unfolds here is that it denies my own assets as a writer. That's my excuse!
So the point is that you must be patient with all the jumping around.
We're gonna watch a movie now. <3
Friday, December 10, 2010
In Which Carnita, Simon, and James Become a Beast With Three Backs, and a Flashback Tells the Tale of When There Were Four
As long as the beast is a puppy, or something equally cute and vibrant. The threesome felt entirely natural to me--certainly a bit different from the last time I had been to Group Sexville. Uh oh, I sense a flashback coming on...
I am shirtless with a bottle of bourbon in one hand, a cigarette in the other, back arched to expose the pale expanse of my belly and chest as I straddle them both. Reid and Tim under me on the trampoline, the last streaks of pink fading from the late summer sky. I move on top of them, almost imperceptibly but with all my energy, because I want them to want it. I think to myself what I would say to Liza if she were looking at this scene: I was just getting them ready for you, baby. But it takes her a few more hours and I try to keep the tension wound, even loosely, just to keep the magic wrapped around the ever lengthening moment until she arrives. I fear the return of the mundane world if she takes any longer and then the door creaks open. Her face her face her face seeing us all half-naked and so I pour her a drink and insist. Drink, girl. But then I change my mind and snatch it from her hand, tink it goes on the counter, my hands fluttering over her body to find seams, ends, anything to grab and I find the bottom of her t-shirt and let my eyes drift up to her face just to make sure and I see a yes. yes. yes. Her shirt collar catching on her chin, momentarily frustrating my goal but I manage to work her head free and now her shirt is across the room and did I do that did I really just open this box? And her lovely, slender arm so like a child's responds (like a woman), creeping up my spine and down it, and I pull her in and our pubic bones connect hard as our lips part and slide into each other. I slip my tongue deep into her small, warm mouth, thinking of what it will be like to kiss her cunt. Reid and Tim stand open-mouthed, trying to catch up to the reality of the scene, their jeans growing tighter. I throw them quick glances to make sure it is perfectly clear that this show is for them, too. They move closer, timorously reaching out one hand at a time to help me slowly work her into a frenzy. After a few minutes of this, they seem to finally allow it to be true, and now three pairs of lips are moving along Liza's sharp hipbones, her neck, her tiny, perky nipples...
I wonder for a moment if the full force of me will break Liza, shatter her tiny androgynous frame to bits, but it doesn't. She seems to unfold and open to the circumstance: on the most basic animal level, she is helpless to our whims, and she loves it. Overpowered but deliriously aroused--she is beginning to smell like the black upturned earth beneath a moss patch, a sign that I take as a sure indication of her consent--she holds on as I pick her up and walk towards the bedroom, reaching back to catch Reid's hand with one finger, which I slide slowly across his palm as an invitation to follow. Come. Come. And they do.
Still clothed below the waist, I fumble with the buttons of her jeans until I can get all my fingers into the open front and pull. She arches in a desperate gesture to make them come off faster, and I finally get them all the way over her little feet. Her tiny, pink, delicate cunt has barely any hair. I begin to wonder if she had lied to us about her age, but I know she could not have done that. To myself: She is twenty, Carn. You've checked her ID before, remember?
My conscience eased, I begin to explore her. As I wrap one arm behind her back on the bed, I slide my two fingers into her, her warmth and wetness welcoming me. She immediately moans from deep in her throat and arches to thrust up hard into my hand, her cunt begging for more of my fingers, faster, harder, but I make her wait because I want to have time to memorize the silken contours inside her, but more than that, I want to tease her desire out slowly until it it spins wide like a hurricane to sweep us all into itself. I know that if I am going to get everything I want, I will have to use her to create a center for the storm. She, however, will not require much sorcery. Writhing with blinding need on the bed, muttering wordless pleas, she surrenders utterly. Now I can release Tim and Reid on her.
I signal them to take her arms: hold her down. For a moment her eyes flicker open, then get wider, and she struggles only a little against their superior strength before I push her legs apart and drop my face into her cunt. For a moment I just hang there, mouth open, breathing heat onto her darkened clit. She whimpers--so pitiful, and I shudder with sadistic delight--until I part her pink trembling flesh, slowly, slowly trace a line up the inner lips with my tongue, and then suddenly flick across her clit. The tease is effective; she nearly screams, her voice rattling in her chest like the irate growl of a cat. She will not speak a word but I hear her: Give it to me now. Now. NOW.
Now I put my whole mouth over her trigger and dig in deeply with long, lush strokes of my tongue. Every once in a while, I come up for air and then slide my tongue deep into the hot cave of her cunt, my chin pushing hard against the flesh that triggers a woman's core of desire. Her lips shape a mmmmaaah, mmmmaaaahhhhhh. I can't help thinking how much I want a hard cock in me so that I can feel that some place unlock inside me, and so to mirror my own desire, I thrust four fingers deep into her. The corners of her mouth pull into an eee, eee, eee as she fucks my hand so hard I cannot even think about going down on her anymore. It is clear what we both want.
I look over at the boys. To my surprise, they are both completely naked, and Tim's cock is in Reid's mouth. I watch with intense interest for a moment. This drives me crazy; Reid knows I have always had a thing for watching men together. When he realizes I have been watching, he smiles and pulls Tim out of his wet, reddened mouth with a little pop. I grab him by the shoulders and pull him on top of me. That look of perfect alarm crosses his face as his cock breaches my boundaries in about two seconds. My hand on his ass pulls him, and his cock thrusts deep into me. Now it is my turn to let out an unintentional scream; I had not even realized how starved for cock I had become over the last few hours, and the feel of his head slamming against my organs felt as amazing as the first bite of a long-awaited meal. Beside us, Tim climbed on top of Liza...
Really, though, that scene was so much hotter to write about than to be a part of, especially after the above episode. It wasn't that things got awkward, but rather that a sort of boredom set in. Reid always came much too fast, and so history repeated itself, and I was left to watch two people I was only marginally attracted to fucking each other without passion. So the two of us ended up leaving them to it.
Anyhow, that's not what it was like to be with James.
I am rather enjoying teasing out the "main" timeline, skirting around it, jumping over it, sliding under it. I am beginning to think that describing it in detail won't actually happen for a while yet, until the distance in time has a chance to refine my memory.
And so I will leave you with this: we fucked, and it was hot.
I am shirtless with a bottle of bourbon in one hand, a cigarette in the other, back arched to expose the pale expanse of my belly and chest as I straddle them both. Reid and Tim under me on the trampoline, the last streaks of pink fading from the late summer sky. I move on top of them, almost imperceptibly but with all my energy, because I want them to want it. I think to myself what I would say to Liza if she were looking at this scene: I was just getting them ready for you, baby. But it takes her a few more hours and I try to keep the tension wound, even loosely, just to keep the magic wrapped around the ever lengthening moment until she arrives. I fear the return of the mundane world if she takes any longer and then the door creaks open. Her face her face her face seeing us all half-naked and so I pour her a drink and insist. Drink, girl. But then I change my mind and snatch it from her hand, tink it goes on the counter, my hands fluttering over her body to find seams, ends, anything to grab and I find the bottom of her t-shirt and let my eyes drift up to her face just to make sure and I see a yes. yes. yes. Her shirt collar catching on her chin, momentarily frustrating my goal but I manage to work her head free and now her shirt is across the room and did I do that did I really just open this box? And her lovely, slender arm so like a child's responds (like a woman), creeping up my spine and down it, and I pull her in and our pubic bones connect hard as our lips part and slide into each other. I slip my tongue deep into her small, warm mouth, thinking of what it will be like to kiss her cunt. Reid and Tim stand open-mouthed, trying to catch up to the reality of the scene, their jeans growing tighter. I throw them quick glances to make sure it is perfectly clear that this show is for them, too. They move closer, timorously reaching out one hand at a time to help me slowly work her into a frenzy. After a few minutes of this, they seem to finally allow it to be true, and now three pairs of lips are moving along Liza's sharp hipbones, her neck, her tiny, perky nipples...
I wonder for a moment if the full force of me will break Liza, shatter her tiny androgynous frame to bits, but it doesn't. She seems to unfold and open to the circumstance: on the most basic animal level, she is helpless to our whims, and she loves it. Overpowered but deliriously aroused--she is beginning to smell like the black upturned earth beneath a moss patch, a sign that I take as a sure indication of her consent--she holds on as I pick her up and walk towards the bedroom, reaching back to catch Reid's hand with one finger, which I slide slowly across his palm as an invitation to follow. Come. Come. And they do.
Still clothed below the waist, I fumble with the buttons of her jeans until I can get all my fingers into the open front and pull. She arches in a desperate gesture to make them come off faster, and I finally get them all the way over her little feet. Her tiny, pink, delicate cunt has barely any hair. I begin to wonder if she had lied to us about her age, but I know she could not have done that. To myself: She is twenty, Carn. You've checked her ID before, remember?
My conscience eased, I begin to explore her. As I wrap one arm behind her back on the bed, I slide my two fingers into her, her warmth and wetness welcoming me. She immediately moans from deep in her throat and arches to thrust up hard into my hand, her cunt begging for more of my fingers, faster, harder, but I make her wait because I want to have time to memorize the silken contours inside her, but more than that, I want to tease her desire out slowly until it it spins wide like a hurricane to sweep us all into itself. I know that if I am going to get everything I want, I will have to use her to create a center for the storm. She, however, will not require much sorcery. Writhing with blinding need on the bed, muttering wordless pleas, she surrenders utterly. Now I can release Tim and Reid on her.
I signal them to take her arms: hold her down. For a moment her eyes flicker open, then get wider, and she struggles only a little against their superior strength before I push her legs apart and drop my face into her cunt. For a moment I just hang there, mouth open, breathing heat onto her darkened clit. She whimpers--so pitiful, and I shudder with sadistic delight--until I part her pink trembling flesh, slowly, slowly trace a line up the inner lips with my tongue, and then suddenly flick across her clit. The tease is effective; she nearly screams, her voice rattling in her chest like the irate growl of a cat. She will not speak a word but I hear her: Give it to me now. Now. NOW.
Now I put my whole mouth over her trigger and dig in deeply with long, lush strokes of my tongue. Every once in a while, I come up for air and then slide my tongue deep into the hot cave of her cunt, my chin pushing hard against the flesh that triggers a woman's core of desire. Her lips shape a mmmmaaah, mmmmaaaahhhhhh. I can't help thinking how much I want a hard cock in me so that I can feel that some place unlock inside me, and so to mirror my own desire, I thrust four fingers deep into her. The corners of her mouth pull into an eee, eee, eee as she fucks my hand so hard I cannot even think about going down on her anymore. It is clear what we both want.
I look over at the boys. To my surprise, they are both completely naked, and Tim's cock is in Reid's mouth. I watch with intense interest for a moment. This drives me crazy; Reid knows I have always had a thing for watching men together. When he realizes I have been watching, he smiles and pulls Tim out of his wet, reddened mouth with a little pop. I grab him by the shoulders and pull him on top of me. That look of perfect alarm crosses his face as his cock breaches my boundaries in about two seconds. My hand on his ass pulls him, and his cock thrusts deep into me. Now it is my turn to let out an unintentional scream; I had not even realized how starved for cock I had become over the last few hours, and the feel of his head slamming against my organs felt as amazing as the first bite of a long-awaited meal. Beside us, Tim climbed on top of Liza...
Really, though, that scene was so much hotter to write about than to be a part of, especially after the above episode. It wasn't that things got awkward, but rather that a sort of boredom set in. Reid always came much too fast, and so history repeated itself, and I was left to watch two people I was only marginally attracted to fucking each other without passion. So the two of us ended up leaving them to it.
Anyhow, that's not what it was like to be with James.
I am rather enjoying teasing out the "main" timeline, skirting around it, jumping over it, sliding under it. I am beginning to think that describing it in detail won't actually happen for a while yet, until the distance in time has a chance to refine my memory.
And so I will leave you with this: we fucked, and it was hot.
In Which Carnita and Simon Lose a Friend and Acquire a Reprehensibly Slutty, Terrifically Sexy, Pitifully Lonely Lover
I know that I had said I wanted to start at the jacuzzi scene, but I'm not going to. Maybe I'll go back to it later. I desperately want to get to the part of this story that inspired me in the first place to risk my career, my privacy, and my marriage to start what is shaping up to be a smutty (adolescent) diary of sex and love.
Hello, my love. Please don't read too much if it's torture for you. On the other hand, if you can find a place in you that can be turned on by it--and if anyone is that highly evolved, it's you--then maybe you can come home and take it out on me later. (Insert sleazy wink.)
The important thing about the jacuzzi scene as it pertains to me in my sexual world is this: at the same time as I found the amoral skeeze that James was shamelessly throwing at me completely abhorrent, I was wildly aroused. I made the right choice, resisting his attempts to sleep with me, but my body was screaming at me to make babies with him. This was the first time the desire to fuck a man other than Simon has been so difficult to resist. I had to crack my psyche into pieces to say no to him, while even his hand casually brushing against my back or my ankle was making my skin tremble on top of my flesh like a horse shivering a fly off its flank.
But it wasn't the first time because Isaac was just across the room, just five feet away every night for three weeks, sometimes right next to me breathing hot and rumsmelling on the hairs of my neck, behind my ears, his impossible greyhound expanse of torso arching, vulnerable and perfect as thin brittle glass, shivering slightly despite the heat and I breathing him, breathing him, and I would think about that other time when he thought I was Maria in bed with him like a normal night but I am not Maria and he put his hand up my dress and Reid just shrugged because he never loved me and said well Carn, he must really want to hold you, and then the bastard just rolled over. I couldn't sleep and I couldn't reach for him because he was not mine to touch and he wouldn't get off me either, literally laying on top of me like a liquor-soaked blanket with rocks in it, snoring loudly, and the whiskey had made him so unbelievably heavy and ohmyfuckinggod I loved him. So dark and sour-smelling in this attic, insect legs scratching on wood. My stomach still dives hard thinking about it. So stupid. I was so stupid. And still never kissed him and now he's killing himself with whiskey. Isaac. Isaac.
But I did the right thing, and I was as honest as I could be with Simon about the details of what had happened: James's hand between my legs, his snarling lust, the strange but not unkindly intentioned comments about Simon's estrogen levels, all of it. Lady Gaga reaches out of the stereo and grabs me by the throat: "That boy is a monster..." I mean nothing ambiguous about the word "could"; I am always rather brutally honest with Simon, and the terms of our discourse have always relied on telling and accepting the most naked version of the truth we can possibly manage, even if it is painful. Unfortunately for Simon, it's usually me delivering difficult news. But he knows that the only other option is an unacceptable one: being driven apart by some heinous betrayal. I will revisit this topic many times, I'm sure.
I met James through Craigslist when Simon and I were searching for a roommate. According to Elena (my best girl and the only person who knows about this diary besides Simon himself, and who already knows everything in it before it's written), James said that the real reason he came out to meet us was not actually to interview us as roommates, but to meet me. I had written a fairly clever ad, you see. I'm not sure if I buy this story, but then again, he did come over to the house the next day even though I could tell that he had clearly given up on the idea of living with us. Anyhow, Simon and I were both rather dazzled by his charmingly vulnerable brand of charisma, his ability to make us laugh until it hurt, and his outright flattering solicitation of our friendship. He had won us over with ease, grace, and what seemed an awful lot like sincerity. It didn't hurt, of course, that he is deliciously sexy--someone who is difficult for a red-blooded heterosexual woman to pry her eyes away from. Hell, it's hard to get the hair on your arms to stop standing up and pointing at him.
I was in contact with James a few times over the next couple of days, mainly by text message, and had made it clear that we very much wanted to see him again even though he probably wasn't considering moving in. I had assumed the role of the funnel for all of our communication with him. After a while, though, he suddenly stopped talking to me except through Simon. I was a little hurt, but mostly happy that Simon had a friend who appeared to truly care for him. I wanted badly to see Simon growing some roots in this new place where I had dragged him, and James had shown up in our lives at just the right time.
In the car, alone with me for the first time, he said, When he and I started...I stopped seeing you and talking to you because I just thought...I thought...I don't know what I thought but it was strange and is that girl coming too? I just thought it would be nice. You and me. She went the wrong way are you sure she's coming?
As a few more months went on, occasionally there would be some thinly veiled suggestion that the three of us would all end up in bed together, which of course we would laugh off. After all, James was always already fucking someone or other, Simon had never had any sexual experiences with men or with multiple partners, and the two of us, obviously, are married. MAAAAAAAAARRRRRRIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEED, get it? Do you hear the echo off the cement walls and bars? Ha.
Fast forward again, back to the main time line, where we have spent remarkably little, um, time.
Hwaet! The aftermath of the jacuzzi night rocked our little married world. See, it reminded me of an uncomfortable truth: that the wiser part of me has always doubted whether I am capable of pure monogamy. I have always been straightforward about this, and Simon has always been unequivocal about desiring monogamy, not so much because he can't stand the idea of me fucking someone else, but rather because he sees polyamory as a situation that can only steal energy from our partnership. His is a valid concern, but whenever this issue comes up, I keep thinking and expressing that there are aspects of my sexuality that demand to be explored, and that the discoveries cannot all occur with the same lone sexual partner for the rest of my life. I can commit my earthly fate and my soul to be bound up loosely with another's, but an excess of this bondage over time can only narrow me and confine me until I reach a dark, low point of a horrible psychic spiral into oblivion. And I also know that this is a worse fate than loneliness to me, worse even than losing the love of my life. So with this realization, something had to give. We talked for many hours over the course of a night and a day, and it was all very painful, confusing, and seemingly hopeless.
I am not sure when the idea to fuck James together came up as a serious option. We had been talking about a lot of options, and suddenly that one seemed very shiny among all the alternatives. It occurred to me that James had already jeopardized everything between the three of us, and that the situation could not possibly get any more awkward; therefore, what the hell have we got to lose? If there might be a way to let there be more winning going on in this situation by backtracking to a different plot point and replaying it differently, why the fuck not? Plus, it sounded hot hot hot.
So it happened. I had already put a spell on it, so it was no surprise to me...still, it happened. And hot hot hot it was.
Hello, my love. Please don't read too much if it's torture for you. On the other hand, if you can find a place in you that can be turned on by it--and if anyone is that highly evolved, it's you--then maybe you can come home and take it out on me later. (Insert sleazy wink.)
The important thing about the jacuzzi scene as it pertains to me in my sexual world is this: at the same time as I found the amoral skeeze that James was shamelessly throwing at me completely abhorrent, I was wildly aroused. I made the right choice, resisting his attempts to sleep with me, but my body was screaming at me to make babies with him. This was the first time the desire to fuck a man other than Simon has been so difficult to resist. I had to crack my psyche into pieces to say no to him, while even his hand casually brushing against my back or my ankle was making my skin tremble on top of my flesh like a horse shivering a fly off its flank.
But it wasn't the first time because Isaac was just across the room, just five feet away every night for three weeks, sometimes right next to me breathing hot and rumsmelling on the hairs of my neck, behind my ears, his impossible greyhound expanse of torso arching, vulnerable and perfect as thin brittle glass, shivering slightly despite the heat and I breathing him, breathing him, and I would think about that other time when he thought I was Maria in bed with him like a normal night but I am not Maria and he put his hand up my dress and Reid just shrugged because he never loved me and said well Carn, he must really want to hold you, and then the bastard just rolled over. I couldn't sleep and I couldn't reach for him because he was not mine to touch and he wouldn't get off me either, literally laying on top of me like a liquor-soaked blanket with rocks in it, snoring loudly, and the whiskey had made him so unbelievably heavy and ohmyfuckinggod I loved him. So dark and sour-smelling in this attic, insect legs scratching on wood. My stomach still dives hard thinking about it. So stupid. I was so stupid. And still never kissed him and now he's killing himself with whiskey. Isaac. Isaac.
But I did the right thing, and I was as honest as I could be with Simon about the details of what had happened: James's hand between my legs, his snarling lust, the strange but not unkindly intentioned comments about Simon's estrogen levels, all of it. Lady Gaga reaches out of the stereo and grabs me by the throat: "That boy is a monster..." I mean nothing ambiguous about the word "could"; I am always rather brutally honest with Simon, and the terms of our discourse have always relied on telling and accepting the most naked version of the truth we can possibly manage, even if it is painful. Unfortunately for Simon, it's usually me delivering difficult news. But he knows that the only other option is an unacceptable one: being driven apart by some heinous betrayal. I will revisit this topic many times, I'm sure.
I met James through Craigslist when Simon and I were searching for a roommate. According to Elena (my best girl and the only person who knows about this diary besides Simon himself, and who already knows everything in it before it's written), James said that the real reason he came out to meet us was not actually to interview us as roommates, but to meet me. I had written a fairly clever ad, you see. I'm not sure if I buy this story, but then again, he did come over to the house the next day even though I could tell that he had clearly given up on the idea of living with us. Anyhow, Simon and I were both rather dazzled by his charmingly vulnerable brand of charisma, his ability to make us laugh until it hurt, and his outright flattering solicitation of our friendship. He had won us over with ease, grace, and what seemed an awful lot like sincerity. It didn't hurt, of course, that he is deliciously sexy--someone who is difficult for a red-blooded heterosexual woman to pry her eyes away from. Hell, it's hard to get the hair on your arms to stop standing up and pointing at him.
I was in contact with James a few times over the next couple of days, mainly by text message, and had made it clear that we very much wanted to see him again even though he probably wasn't considering moving in. I had assumed the role of the funnel for all of our communication with him. After a while, though, he suddenly stopped talking to me except through Simon. I was a little hurt, but mostly happy that Simon had a friend who appeared to truly care for him. I wanted badly to see Simon growing some roots in this new place where I had dragged him, and James had shown up in our lives at just the right time.
In the car, alone with me for the first time, he said, When he and I started...I stopped seeing you and talking to you because I just thought...I thought...I don't know what I thought but it was strange and is that girl coming too? I just thought it would be nice. You and me. She went the wrong way are you sure she's coming?
As a few more months went on, occasionally there would be some thinly veiled suggestion that the three of us would all end up in bed together, which of course we would laugh off. After all, James was always already fucking someone or other, Simon had never had any sexual experiences with men or with multiple partners, and the two of us, obviously, are married. MAAAAAAAAARRRRRRIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEED, get it? Do you hear the echo off the cement walls and bars? Ha.
Fast forward again, back to the main time line, where we have spent remarkably little, um, time.
Hwaet! The aftermath of the jacuzzi night rocked our little married world. See, it reminded me of an uncomfortable truth: that the wiser part of me has always doubted whether I am capable of pure monogamy. I have always been straightforward about this, and Simon has always been unequivocal about desiring monogamy, not so much because he can't stand the idea of me fucking someone else, but rather because he sees polyamory as a situation that can only steal energy from our partnership. His is a valid concern, but whenever this issue comes up, I keep thinking and expressing that there are aspects of my sexuality that demand to be explored, and that the discoveries cannot all occur with the same lone sexual partner for the rest of my life. I can commit my earthly fate and my soul to be bound up loosely with another's, but an excess of this bondage over time can only narrow me and confine me until I reach a dark, low point of a horrible psychic spiral into oblivion. And I also know that this is a worse fate than loneliness to me, worse even than losing the love of my life. So with this realization, something had to give. We talked for many hours over the course of a night and a day, and it was all very painful, confusing, and seemingly hopeless.
I am not sure when the idea to fuck James together came up as a serious option. We had been talking about a lot of options, and suddenly that one seemed very shiny among all the alternatives. It occurred to me that James had already jeopardized everything between the three of us, and that the situation could not possibly get any more awkward; therefore, what the hell have we got to lose? If there might be a way to let there be more winning going on in this situation by backtracking to a different plot point and replaying it differently, why the fuck not? Plus, it sounded hot hot hot.
So it happened. I had already put a spell on it, so it was no surprise to me...still, it happened. And hot hot hot it was.
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