I thought today of a girl I hadn't seen in half a lifetime. The year is ending-- the decade, too. That may have put me in a sentimental mood.
I was at a small deli near my lakeside flat and the young girl behind the counter reminded me of someone from my own past. I took the sandwich I'd ordered and smiled and tipped her well on my debit card and walked home in the cold with a lost name and face in my mind.
The girl I'm thinking of was named Toni. She lived next to me for a while just after I'd finished university. She looked like...hmmm...a young Aubrey Plaza. Dark brown hair in a short bob, blue eyes, glasses. Yes, the girl at the deli today had the same look.
Toni was maybe nineteen when I first ran into her. She was a neo-hippie girl. I do remember that, and I remember that she almost always had a guitar with her. She was always very serious and solemn, and she'd sit out on her porch and play guitar or read. There were always boys over there at her house. She had, I discovered, a reputation as an easy armful, but somehow she always looked quiet and introspective. We'd run into each other walking places along my street, and we'd see one another at the tiny coffee shop on the corner. Lovely eyes, lovely legs. The sort of girl who always had a sketch pad and a novel in her backpack.
The first time we went out was impromptu and awkward. I asked her to join me for a drink. The place was painfully hip, back in the day when date bars were transitioning from fern bars with lots of brass to a more exposed-brick look. The place was called...either the Square Peg or the Brass Button. I can't recall which, though eventually we were at both often enough. It was late spring, and she wore a longish peasant skirt I remember that. Drinks, yes, though I can't recall what we drank. Vodka, probably. We drank, talked, and flirted. I think maybe I was the one who was flirting--- she was always too serious for flirting, even when she was deciding to sleep with someone. We walked down to one of the city parks and went out by a lake. I remember undoing her skirt and kissing my way along her legs. She wasn't talkative during sex, though she liked stroking my hair while I talked and undressed her. I do remember her wearing a small ankle bracelet she'd bought in Belize, and I remember that she was bra-less that night, with a necklace of some kind that lay between her breasts. When she rode me and leaned down, the little locket on the necklace would fall into my face and I held it in my mouth. She did have underwear on, and I tossed them at the lake and told her she should never wear any when she was out with me. She came back to my house that night and stayed over. She did make a point of never wearing underwear when she and I went out.
We saw each other sporadically; we were never really a couple. Sometimes that summer she'd call and ask for a ride to places across the city--- open mic nights, poetry readings. She always made it clear that she'd trade me sex for a ride. She made a point of being transactional. She liked my company, I think, but she disliked emotions and expectations.
I remember a photo I took of her once. She was standing by her bed with her arms crossed. Tiny, faded denim cut-offs. A cropped blue-and-white halter tee. Deliciously barefoot. That pensive expression that I did fancy.
It's not much of a story--- an affair that lasted off and on from a May through mid-autumn. She stayed over a few nights; I stayed at her place after a few parties. Around my birthday that year she moved across town to share a house with her sister. There were highlights--- Toni bent over someone's car parked by the lighthouse park while I slid her denim mini up over her hips, Toni swimming naked at a motel pool while I handed her a bottle of vodka, Toni and I in a bathroom stall at Square Peg. Highlights, but nothing I suppose that's quite as good as any of the stories I posted here over the summer and early fall. Certainly nothing as good as anything my leggy blonde friend in New Zealand may have done in her own early twenties.
I have no idea whatever became of her. It's all half a lifetime ago. I hadn't thought of her in forever, or not until I was chatting today with the girl at the deli. I need to call up more memories. Toni isn't a bad one at all. A good mid-twenties affair, simple and uncomplicated, and one I had long before sex became something baroque and fraught.
Thursday, December 19, 2019
Sunday, November 17, 2019
Two Six Four: Champagne
A lovely blonde friend once made a list of champagnes for me, a list of champagnes that had meant something to her in her life, champagnes that had played parts in her adventures with various lovers. Champagne came to mind today because I was at brunch and had a couple of Mimosas made with fresh-squeezed satsuma juice.
If I had to list champagnes from my own life and past, I suppose they'd be:
- Veuve Clicquot
- Moët et Chandon
- Piper Hiedsieck
- Bollinger
- Taittinger
Nothing too out of the ordinary there, of course. My blonde friend added something called Daniel Le Brun, which seems to be a New Zealand local brand that she keeps on hand in Wellington as a champagne for "ordinary" drinking. I'll note that I never became enamored of either Cristal or Dom Perignon. Krug remains a mystery to me, as does Pol Roger, which I believe was Churchill's preferred brand.
Champagne for me was always associated with ritual. It was not so much the old, apocryphal quote (Buonaparte or Churchill, take your pick) about champagne--- "in victory we deserve it, in defeat we require it" ---as it was the idea that here was a drink that lent itself to ritual and symbolism. Absinthe does that, too, I suppose, but it lacks a certain clarity of meaning.
Champagne was and is something you open as part of the rituals of seduction. Champagne is what you kiss off a lovely young companion's lips--- or nipples. It's something for licking off bare hipbones. A drink for rooftop bars overlooking Manhattan or Shanghai or Paris. A drink for ritual nights, for birthdays and New Years Eve. A drink for celebrations, and for first nights together.
I've always believed that we need things like that. We need markers and symbols for things. Opening a bottle of Veuve for a young companion is a way of marking the transition from companion to lover, from balcony to bedroom. We need rituals for moving through the steps of relationship, we need symbols that establish what's happening between two people.
I believe in ritual; I've said that before. Ritual makes so much of life and love, of sex and romance easier. Begin the ritual and move through it. I keep comparing that to the Mass, or to a graduation ceremony, both things I know something about. And I do miss rituals, and it saddens me that we seem to be losing them.
There in my fridge tonight are two bottles of Piper. There's a bottle of Veuve and a bottle of Bollinger on my liquor shelf. The year is winding down, and what's left of it will pass through my birthday, through Christmas and New Years Eve. I do wish that I could open those bottles with someone elegant and clever, someone lovely and long-legged. Champagne calls for ritual, and I miss being abe to enact those rituals.
If I had to list champagnes from my own life and past, I suppose they'd be:
- Veuve Clicquot
- Moët et Chandon
- Piper Hiedsieck
- Bollinger
- Taittinger
Nothing too out of the ordinary there, of course. My blonde friend added something called Daniel Le Brun, which seems to be a New Zealand local brand that she keeps on hand in Wellington as a champagne for "ordinary" drinking. I'll note that I never became enamored of either Cristal or Dom Perignon. Krug remains a mystery to me, as does Pol Roger, which I believe was Churchill's preferred brand.
Champagne for me was always associated with ritual. It was not so much the old, apocryphal quote (Buonaparte or Churchill, take your pick) about champagne--- "in victory we deserve it, in defeat we require it" ---as it was the idea that here was a drink that lent itself to ritual and symbolism. Absinthe does that, too, I suppose, but it lacks a certain clarity of meaning.
Champagne was and is something you open as part of the rituals of seduction. Champagne is what you kiss off a lovely young companion's lips--- or nipples. It's something for licking off bare hipbones. A drink for rooftop bars overlooking Manhattan or Shanghai or Paris. A drink for ritual nights, for birthdays and New Years Eve. A drink for celebrations, and for first nights together.
I've always believed that we need things like that. We need markers and symbols for things. Opening a bottle of Veuve for a young companion is a way of marking the transition from companion to lover, from balcony to bedroom. We need rituals for moving through the steps of relationship, we need symbols that establish what's happening between two people.
I believe in ritual; I've said that before. Ritual makes so much of life and love, of sex and romance easier. Begin the ritual and move through it. I keep comparing that to the Mass, or to a graduation ceremony, both things I know something about. And I do miss rituals, and it saddens me that we seem to be losing them.
There in my fridge tonight are two bottles of Piper. There's a bottle of Veuve and a bottle of Bollinger on my liquor shelf. The year is winding down, and what's left of it will pass through my birthday, through Christmas and New Years Eve. I do wish that I could open those bottles with someone elegant and clever, someone lovely and long-legged. Champagne calls for ritual, and I miss being abe to enact those rituals.
Wednesday, October 30, 2019
Two Six Three: Despair
I've made this blog about being an aging roue. I've never hidden that. Tonight I am feeling my age, and not just my age. I'm feeling a certain kind of emptiness.
Time runs out. We all know that. And tonight I'm feeling that. I do feel as if a part of my life is closing out. There's a sense of loss here, a sense that there's less and less of a way for my life to involve either physical pleasure or any intimacy with a lover.
I have tried these last few years to avoid making this blog too personal or to use it to lament my own failings. Here in the last days of October, though, it's hard to avoid a sense of melancholy.
I've always hoped that this blog would generate comments and discussions, that there would be lovely interlocutors with whom I could talk about the ideas behind sex and social lives. There isn't an interlocutor tonight, and I feel that lack very deeply. I've never minded writing into the void. I've spent a great many nights pacing through my rooms talking to imaginary classes and audiences, telling stories and posing hypotheticals. I was an academic for a long time, and I've never lost the style.
The other evening I noted here that I find myself unable to talk to others any longer, that it's become harder and harder to imagine opening myself up to a young companion or a potential lover. Asking about likes and dislikes, about preferences and fantasies, seems increasingly dangerous in the age of the gender wars--- and in an age of social media and public shaming. Any kind of openness about those things, any sharing of your life and what it means seems far too dangerous these days. Conversation, let alone seduction, feels too much like a trap.
Fear of opening up, fear of asking, fear of conversations and seductions. There's that. And there's also a growing fear of and disgust with my own body. I am less and less willing to allow my body to be seen. I have less and less faith in my body. It's served me reasonably well all these years, but I find myself thinking that it's now a failure.
I have purchased several packets of "speed shower" body wipes, and I find myself compulsively swabbing myself down. I would never ask anyone to touch my flesh these days, and I would be far too terrified to ask anyone to taste or accept my flesh as part of lovemaking. I live in fear of having a smell, of having a taste, of having some disgusting texture. Hot showers all through the day, repeated body scrubs, antiseptic wipes. "Speed shower" body wipes whenever I have a few moments. I do live in fear of the moment when I'd see disgust and revulsion in a lovely young companion's eyes. Flesh is a failure. At least my flesh is a failure.
It's going to be that kind of November, and it's going to be that kind of life--- one where any ability to be with a lover, a partner, a young companion has been closed off.
Time runs out. We all know that. And tonight I'm feeling that. I do feel as if a part of my life is closing out. There's a sense of loss here, a sense that there's less and less of a way for my life to involve either physical pleasure or any intimacy with a lover.
I have tried these last few years to avoid making this blog too personal or to use it to lament my own failings. Here in the last days of October, though, it's hard to avoid a sense of melancholy.
I've always hoped that this blog would generate comments and discussions, that there would be lovely interlocutors with whom I could talk about the ideas behind sex and social lives. There isn't an interlocutor tonight, and I feel that lack very deeply. I've never minded writing into the void. I've spent a great many nights pacing through my rooms talking to imaginary classes and audiences, telling stories and posing hypotheticals. I was an academic for a long time, and I've never lost the style.
The other evening I noted here that I find myself unable to talk to others any longer, that it's become harder and harder to imagine opening myself up to a young companion or a potential lover. Asking about likes and dislikes, about preferences and fantasies, seems increasingly dangerous in the age of the gender wars--- and in an age of social media and public shaming. Any kind of openness about those things, any sharing of your life and what it means seems far too dangerous these days. Conversation, let alone seduction, feels too much like a trap.
Fear of opening up, fear of asking, fear of conversations and seductions. There's that. And there's also a growing fear of and disgust with my own body. I am less and less willing to allow my body to be seen. I have less and less faith in my body. It's served me reasonably well all these years, but I find myself thinking that it's now a failure.
I have purchased several packets of "speed shower" body wipes, and I find myself compulsively swabbing myself down. I would never ask anyone to touch my flesh these days, and I would be far too terrified to ask anyone to taste or accept my flesh as part of lovemaking. I live in fear of having a smell, of having a taste, of having some disgusting texture. Hot showers all through the day, repeated body scrubs, antiseptic wipes. "Speed shower" body wipes whenever I have a few moments. I do live in fear of the moment when I'd see disgust and revulsion in a lovely young companion's eyes. Flesh is a failure. At least my flesh is a failure.
It's going to be that kind of November, and it's going to be that kind of life--- one where any ability to be with a lover, a partner, a young companion has been closed off.
Saturday, October 26, 2019
Two Six Two: Silence
I've written about this before, but it's something I keep thinking about. It becomes harder and harder here in the age of the gender wars to tell anyone that you feel physical desire towards them. It becomes harder and harder to express not just underlying desire, but your own preferences.
Despite however many years of popular culture talking about "communication", it seems to be increasingly difficult to tell a potential lover what it is you actually like to do. It seems to be just as difficult to ask someone what she likes. I know that I feel far more afraid now of being mocked or attacked for my preferences than when I was, say, eighteen. I feel that telling a lovely young companion that I find her desirable or telling her what I like in bed is just a lot riskier than it was when I was an undergraduate. Desire itself feels somehow suspect.
I'm well aware that it could just be me--- a function of age and despair. Yet my reading of comments at articles and blog posts about sex and relationships makes me think that it's something more general. There's a spirit of disdain and mockery in the culture at the moment that's depressing and disturbing.
A few years ago, I felt that I had a reasonable grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses as a lover. I was clear on what I liked, and clear on what I'd like to learn and experience. My lovely blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud told me once that she couldn't imagine me ever being too shy or scared to tell a lover what I wanted. She may have been right once upon a time, but that's no longer so. She also told me that one of the things she liked about me was that I was willing to try whatever my partner thought would give her pleasure. She was (and is) right about that. Someone else, a lovely friend in Montreal, told me that one thing she liked about me was that I was willing to discuss the things that gave pleasure, that I wasn't shy about asking whether something pleased my partner. These days, though, I stay mute. I'm not about to ask anyone anything, and I'm certainly not about to make any revelations.
Over the last few months I've been posting stories here, trying to save stories girls have told me, ones that leave me excited and intrigued. I do wish I had newer stories to post. I sometimes fear that the days when lovely young companions and I could exchange stories and try to arouse one another are gone. Out there on the web, it seems less and less a Done Thing to tell stories. I miss listening to a lovely friend's tales of adventures. I miss the sense of sharing lives and Pasts.
I miss the days when it seemed easier to tell someone what I enjoyed, what I'd like to try with them. I miss the days when sex and romance involved constructing adventures and challenges, when lovers could risk being open to one another, when silence wasn't the default state for being out with someone.
Despite however many years of popular culture talking about "communication", it seems to be increasingly difficult to tell a potential lover what it is you actually like to do. It seems to be just as difficult to ask someone what she likes. I know that I feel far more afraid now of being mocked or attacked for my preferences than when I was, say, eighteen. I feel that telling a lovely young companion that I find her desirable or telling her what I like in bed is just a lot riskier than it was when I was an undergraduate. Desire itself feels somehow suspect.
I'm well aware that it could just be me--- a function of age and despair. Yet my reading of comments at articles and blog posts about sex and relationships makes me think that it's something more general. There's a spirit of disdain and mockery in the culture at the moment that's depressing and disturbing.
A few years ago, I felt that I had a reasonable grasp of my own strengths and weaknesses as a lover. I was clear on what I liked, and clear on what I'd like to learn and experience. My lovely blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud told me once that she couldn't imagine me ever being too shy or scared to tell a lover what I wanted. She may have been right once upon a time, but that's no longer so. She also told me that one of the things she liked about me was that I was willing to try whatever my partner thought would give her pleasure. She was (and is) right about that. Someone else, a lovely friend in Montreal, told me that one thing she liked about me was that I was willing to discuss the things that gave pleasure, that I wasn't shy about asking whether something pleased my partner. These days, though, I stay mute. I'm not about to ask anyone anything, and I'm certainly not about to make any revelations.
Over the last few months I've been posting stories here, trying to save stories girls have told me, ones that leave me excited and intrigued. I do wish I had newer stories to post. I sometimes fear that the days when lovely young companions and I could exchange stories and try to arouse one another are gone. Out there on the web, it seems less and less a Done Thing to tell stories. I miss listening to a lovely friend's tales of adventures. I miss the sense of sharing lives and Pasts.
I miss the days when it seemed easier to tell someone what I enjoyed, what I'd like to try with them. I miss the days when sex and romance involved constructing adventures and challenges, when lovers could risk being open to one another, when silence wasn't the default state for being out with someone.
Saturday, October 5, 2019
Two Six One: Beliefs 5
A lovely blonde girl down in the Land of the Long White Cloud wrote me about this story a few years ago. I'll note that there are two competing versions of it. I'm having a difficult time believing in any of her stories now:
amazing weekend! the rugby sevens were in wellignton last weekend and there was a huge street party. i went in with caity and a few other friends...we drank shots all night long. i was wearing a very short black dress, jandals and my anchor necklace. we ducked into an underground bar where a bunch of kenyan players were drinking. they were very hot...we danced with them - caity got fingered on the dance floor.
you get kissing beads at the sevens, so we took theirs and ended up with quite a few more by the end of the night. they should have been re-named sucking cock beads! caity ended up back at a hotel with a kenyan. i went back to a different hotel with a manager of the scotland team. we met in the morning for coffee before heading back to bed together.
The second account is somewhat different. In this version, she and her girlfriend Caity left the club with the Kenyans and went to Oriental Beach---
we met them at a club in town and ended up taking them to oriental bay, a beach very close by. there were three, one was called daniel, not sure about the other two. we were both wearing very short skirts and singlets, no bras, no panties. caity and i were kissing in the cab...and caity was fingering my cunt. one of the kenyans was really into it...the other two were slightly shy initially.
[When we got to the beach] caity and i started sucking one of their cocks, while the other two watched. we were topless, kneeling on the beach sucking his cock. the kenyan kept saying 'fuck yeah, suck it bitch'. he was loving it. caity and i were fingering each other while we sucked his cock, then his friends came over and joined in. the kenyan cocks were huge and uncut and delicious. they wanted us to stand, bend over so they could both fuck our asses at the same time. we both screamed, but fucking loved it. the one fucking me was so big and was fucking me so hard i couldn't stand, he had to hold me up. it felt amazing to just be fucked so hard by random cock. they did call us 'slut' and 'bitch', i don't recall them mentioning 'white', but we both wished they had said 'white slut' and 'white bitch'.
i haven't told you my favourite part of the night...after caity and i had been fucked in the ass by the two quiet ones we crawled away and held hands and had to shit out all their cum. it felt amazing doing that with caity rubbing my clit. we went back over to them and they gave us one of their beers.
then daniel fucked my ass and quiet kenyan 1 fucked my cunt. i fucking love being DP'd darling. i came so hard. quiet kenyan 2 fucked caity's cunt and came in her mouth. caity couldn't find her singlet afterwards and had to go home topless. we went home in a taxi from the beach. we were dripping with cum too. the taxi driver almost crashed because he couldn't stop watching us in his backseat. when he got home, we purged together, then drank some vodka, had a bath together then went to bed and licked each other's cunts.
The second version is basic porn, and harder to believe than the first, shorter account. I've no doubt she wrote it to impress me, or at least excite me, but I have to wonder why she chose the particular scenario. I'll also note that Sevens Week did exist in Wellington, so she may have been turning a weekend drinking bout into stories. But why those stories in particular? I'll also note that she didn't always use 'Kenyan'; for the more graphic bits she used a more racialized term. Again, is the word just less taboo in NZ, or was she hoping to excite me with another level of transgression?
I don't believe any of the second version, though I suppose that meeting a Kenyan rugby player named Daniel is at least a possibility.
I've known my blonde friend seemingly forever. I have emails from her dating back to 2006. After all these years, I do wonder if I can believe anything she's told me about anything at all.
amazing weekend! the rugby sevens were in wellignton last weekend and there was a huge street party. i went in with caity and a few other friends...we drank shots all night long. i was wearing a very short black dress, jandals and my anchor necklace. we ducked into an underground bar where a bunch of kenyan players were drinking. they were very hot...we danced with them - caity got fingered on the dance floor.
you get kissing beads at the sevens, so we took theirs and ended up with quite a few more by the end of the night. they should have been re-named sucking cock beads! caity ended up back at a hotel with a kenyan. i went back to a different hotel with a manager of the scotland team. we met in the morning for coffee before heading back to bed together.
The second account is somewhat different. In this version, she and her girlfriend Caity left the club with the Kenyans and went to Oriental Beach---
we met them at a club in town and ended up taking them to oriental bay, a beach very close by. there were three, one was called daniel, not sure about the other two. we were both wearing very short skirts and singlets, no bras, no panties. caity and i were kissing in the cab...and caity was fingering my cunt. one of the kenyans was really into it...the other two were slightly shy initially.
[When we got to the beach] caity and i started sucking one of their cocks, while the other two watched. we were topless, kneeling on the beach sucking his cock. the kenyan kept saying 'fuck yeah, suck it bitch'. he was loving it. caity and i were fingering each other while we sucked his cock, then his friends came over and joined in. the kenyan cocks were huge and uncut and delicious. they wanted us to stand, bend over so they could both fuck our asses at the same time. we both screamed, but fucking loved it. the one fucking me was so big and was fucking me so hard i couldn't stand, he had to hold me up. it felt amazing to just be fucked so hard by random cock. they did call us 'slut' and 'bitch', i don't recall them mentioning 'white', but we both wished they had said 'white slut' and 'white bitch'.
i haven't told you my favourite part of the night...after caity and i had been fucked in the ass by the two quiet ones we crawled away and held hands and had to shit out all their cum. it felt amazing doing that with caity rubbing my clit. we went back over to them and they gave us one of their beers.
then daniel fucked my ass and quiet kenyan 1 fucked my cunt. i fucking love being DP'd darling. i came so hard. quiet kenyan 2 fucked caity's cunt and came in her mouth. caity couldn't find her singlet afterwards and had to go home topless. we went home in a taxi from the beach. we were dripping with cum too. the taxi driver almost crashed because he couldn't stop watching us in his backseat. when he got home, we purged together, then drank some vodka, had a bath together then went to bed and licked each other's cunts.
The second version is basic porn, and harder to believe than the first, shorter account. I've no doubt she wrote it to impress me, or at least excite me, but I have to wonder why she chose the particular scenario. I'll also note that Sevens Week did exist in Wellington, so she may have been turning a weekend drinking bout into stories. But why those stories in particular? I'll also note that she didn't always use 'Kenyan'; for the more graphic bits she used a more racialized term. Again, is the word just less taboo in NZ, or was she hoping to excite me with another level of transgression?
I don't believe any of the second version, though I suppose that meeting a Kenyan rugby player named Daniel is at least a possibility.
I've known my blonde friend seemingly forever. I have emails from her dating back to 2006. After all these years, I do wonder if I can believe anything she's told me about anything at all.
Wednesday, September 25, 2019
Two Six Zero: Threads 4
In February 2011 my lovely, long-legged friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud emailed me to say:
darling,
its a rainy night here, and i'm texting a gorgeous girl who i'm meeting for a drink in an hour or so. i'm hoping to bring her home with me, and pass on some of my wisdom about corona bottles and pool cues. i shall share all details tomorrow!
She emailed me from her iPhone later that night to follow up---
her name is caitlin, she's 22. she's studying english lit & philosophy at uni. she drinks vodka tonics and smokes menthols. she carried 'the sun also rises' in her handbag.
In May 2011 she wrote this:
caity pissed right in my mouth when i was licking her cunt one time. she told me it was coming, she moaned 'i'm going to piss' and i just opened my mouth, i so wanted to taste her. i swallowed twice! a couple of small-ish mouthfuls.
By June 2011 she was writing to tell me that
Caity has a bright pink strap on, she loves fucking me with it. It's not huge, it's about 6 inches, but it feels amazing in your cunt. I love the look on Caity's face when she has me tied to the bed and just fucks me.
There were men involved, too--- most notably an ex of my friend's, someone with a beach house in a Wellington suburb called Seatoun, someone she described as "cute and stubbly" ---with whom my friend and Caitie had a few threesomes.
It ended badly, though. Caitlin/Caity was much more gay than my friend, whose tastes centered on older men. Caity wanted my friend to commit to the relationship, and while my friend enjoyed the sex and thought Caity was beautiful and bright, she wasn't going to be openly gay and/or monogamous. She'd had flings with girls since she was fifteen or sixteen, and she took having bi affairs as just part of being a posh party girl. But she wasn't ready to be as gay as Caity. Caity was heartbroken and bitter, and blocked my friend's phone number. As far as I know, they haven't seen each other since 2012. A sad ending, I know.
They had something just under a year together. There were stories in there--- the two of them at Wellington Sevens, adventures with Scottish and Kenyan rugby players, a 21-year old boy who claimed to be a virgin, possibly one of Caity's professors. Those are all stories I want to follow up on, threads I've needed to follow all these years. I'm jealous and envious, of course. Though perhaps more envious of the stories than of the adventures as such.
And I do wonder what other novels Caitlin / Caity kept in her handbag.
darling,
its a rainy night here, and i'm texting a gorgeous girl who i'm meeting for a drink in an hour or so. i'm hoping to bring her home with me, and pass on some of my wisdom about corona bottles and pool cues. i shall share all details tomorrow!
She emailed me from her iPhone later that night to follow up---
her name is caitlin, she's 22. she's studying english lit & philosophy at uni. she drinks vodka tonics and smokes menthols. she carried 'the sun also rises' in her handbag.
In May 2011 she wrote this:
caity pissed right in my mouth when i was licking her cunt one time. she told me it was coming, she moaned 'i'm going to piss' and i just opened my mouth, i so wanted to taste her. i swallowed twice! a couple of small-ish mouthfuls.
By June 2011 she was writing to tell me that
Caity has a bright pink strap on, she loves fucking me with it. It's not huge, it's about 6 inches, but it feels amazing in your cunt. I love the look on Caity's face when she has me tied to the bed and just fucks me.
There were men involved, too--- most notably an ex of my friend's, someone with a beach house in a Wellington suburb called Seatoun, someone she described as "cute and stubbly" ---with whom my friend and Caitie had a few threesomes.
It ended badly, though. Caitlin/Caity was much more gay than my friend, whose tastes centered on older men. Caity wanted my friend to commit to the relationship, and while my friend enjoyed the sex and thought Caity was beautiful and bright, she wasn't going to be openly gay and/or monogamous. She'd had flings with girls since she was fifteen or sixteen, and she took having bi affairs as just part of being a posh party girl. But she wasn't ready to be as gay as Caity. Caity was heartbroken and bitter, and blocked my friend's phone number. As far as I know, they haven't seen each other since 2012. A sad ending, I know.
They had something just under a year together. There were stories in there--- the two of them at Wellington Sevens, adventures with Scottish and Kenyan rugby players, a 21-year old boy who claimed to be a virgin, possibly one of Caity's professors. Those are all stories I want to follow up on, threads I've needed to follow all these years. I'm jealous and envious, of course. Though perhaps more envious of the stories than of the adventures as such.
And I do wonder what other novels Caitlin / Caity kept in her handbag.
Sunday, September 22, 2019
Two Five Nine: Threads 3
Another loose thread left from stories I've been told over the last few years---
Afterwards, i spent my nights with younger boys, drinking cheap bourbon and listening to loud drum and bass. Younger boys were the cure for the heartbreak caused by the older men in my life. They were wild but easy. We would drive drunk and do burnouts in their crappy cars at Skid Alley, an empty lot in an industrial part of town. We had tactical vomits together in carparks halfway through the night on our way between bars. But we spent most of our time at house parties or at the beach. Bars and clubs didn't give us enough freedom to smoke, for their scuffles, for our endless drinking games. The end goal was always to get as fucked up as possible. The day after our parties we smoked weed and and cuddled under blankets watching 90s kids' films. We would fall into bed together, drunk and high. sometimes we just slept it off, sometimes we would just talk for hours and trade movie quotes back and forth, sometimes we fucked. No matter how we spent the last part of the night, everything would be the same in the morning.
A lovely friend sent me this once upon a time when we were talking about our younger days. Her younger days--- the days she's writing about here ---would've been at the turn of the century, in the very early Noughts. She'd have been sixteen in December of 2001. My own younger days would've been much, much farther into the depths of the Long Ago. Her stories, the stories implicit in the quote, might've been anytime between 2001 and 2005 or 2006. Boys--- "younger boys" ---wouldn't have had cars until 2001 or 2002. She graduated from her posh school in 2003, and the stories might well have gone on through her years at university. I've no idea how easy it was for teens to get into clubs and bars and drink where she lived in those days.
As for my own life, I don't think I went to more than two or three house parties in my high school days, and even at university I never really went out in groups. I wasn't amongst the excluded or ostracized, but I was someone on the edges of groups, someone at a party who was there with a drink in his hand, but not part of conversations. I have never done a "tactical vomit"--- I will note that. Needless to say, I wish I knew more about her stories. I wish she'd given examples of the adventures she had in those days. And I envy her those days with the consuming envy of someone who thinks his own life and past (at least in the days that really count for purposes of stories years later) was never as good as my lovely friend's.
Afterwards, i spent my nights with younger boys, drinking cheap bourbon and listening to loud drum and bass. Younger boys were the cure for the heartbreak caused by the older men in my life. They were wild but easy. We would drive drunk and do burnouts in their crappy cars at Skid Alley, an empty lot in an industrial part of town. We had tactical vomits together in carparks halfway through the night on our way between bars. But we spent most of our time at house parties or at the beach. Bars and clubs didn't give us enough freedom to smoke, for their scuffles, for our endless drinking games. The end goal was always to get as fucked up as possible. The day after our parties we smoked weed and and cuddled under blankets watching 90s kids' films. We would fall into bed together, drunk and high. sometimes we just slept it off, sometimes we would just talk for hours and trade movie quotes back and forth, sometimes we fucked. No matter how we spent the last part of the night, everything would be the same in the morning.
A lovely friend sent me this once upon a time when we were talking about our younger days. Her younger days--- the days she's writing about here ---would've been at the turn of the century, in the very early Noughts. She'd have been sixteen in December of 2001. My own younger days would've been much, much farther into the depths of the Long Ago. Her stories, the stories implicit in the quote, might've been anytime between 2001 and 2005 or 2006. Boys--- "younger boys" ---wouldn't have had cars until 2001 or 2002. She graduated from her posh school in 2003, and the stories might well have gone on through her years at university. I've no idea how easy it was for teens to get into clubs and bars and drink where she lived in those days.
As for my own life, I don't think I went to more than two or three house parties in my high school days, and even at university I never really went out in groups. I wasn't amongst the excluded or ostracized, but I was someone on the edges of groups, someone at a party who was there with a drink in his hand, but not part of conversations. I have never done a "tactical vomit"--- I will note that. Needless to say, I wish I knew more about her stories. I wish she'd given examples of the adventures she had in those days. And I envy her those days with the consuming envy of someone who thinks his own life and past (at least in the days that really count for purposes of stories years later) was never as good as my lovely friend's.
Monday, September 9, 2019
Two Five Eight: Beliefs 4
My lovely long-legged blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud told me this story over a long period. She'd always hinted at having a dark secret, a shadow from her teens that carried over into her late twenties. This is what she finally told me, back in 2012:
I can't stop fantasising about my uncle (for clarification - he's my mothers cousin, but I shall refer to his as my uncle for convenience). He must be...62ish now. He's tall and tan and solid. He owns a pub in the outback in Australia. I first met him when I was in my mid teens, he taught me how to blow smoke rings, we drank sambuca and we fucked. Now I can't stop thinking about the last time I saw him...it must have been 2008? Or 2009? It was at a family funeral. When I saw him after the funeral I went up to him and hugged him. Brushing my hands around his waist, I felt something like an electric shock. 'Hey there, beautiful' he whispered in my ear, then kissed my cheek. An hour or so later I noticed him watching me, and nodding his head towards the bathroom. I swallowed the rest of my gin & tonic and walked ahead of him. I was wearing black heels and a black skirt. After he shut the door, he ran his fingers up my thigh, lifted my skirt and kissed my bare cunt.
I need him again.
And again, another story, some months later, in the spring of 2013---
it has been years. but there will never be anyone else. i met him when i was 17. not so young, i suppose. but give me a girl at an impressionable age and she is mine for life. cards on the table, right from the beginning. first cousin once removed is the technical term. and thirty-odd years between us. our first night together i was drunk. sambuca flowed through my veins. but it was electric. i knew at the time it was different to anything i'd ever felt before. i didn't know that i'd never feel anything like it since. it was a cheap motel room. we fucked countless times that night, then the next day he flew back to australia. a month later he flew me to his pub in the outback. we had a whole month together. to date, that was the longest time we ever spent together. i started to understand that it was love. we'd pour drinks at his bar all night, then take a bottle upstairs with us. we would drink and talk until dawn. the sex was amazing. he went down on me for hours. i'd had men before...but not like this. i felt so powerful, so needed, and so loved.
we've been together all over the place. vancouver, tokyo, auckland, sydney, the outback, fiji, wellington. we steal long weekends. we fly each other wherever, whenever we have the chance. for a long time i wouldn't let him cum in my cunt. my mouth was fine, preferred. i got over that though. its been ten years now. and nobody touches me like he does. nobody looks at me like he does. he is the only man i want, and i can never have him.
“The only obsession everyone wants: ‘love.’ People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The Platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you’re whole before you begin. And the love fractures you. You’re whole, and then you’re cracked open.”
and i have tried to not let it consume me. i slept with men his age. boys my own age. girls. there is only him. i've had long-term boyfriends, who thought nothing when i flew to fiji for a 'girls weekend' and spent four blissful days with his tongue in my cunt and his arms around my waist. when i flew to vancouver with friends he arranged to be there for a weekend too...i told them i was catching up with my uncle, and had his hand in my cunt in the lift up to his hotel room. another time we were together for four nights in auckland. we stayed at a house in devonport, and it was like this 'what we could have been' experience. we cooked for each other, and read aloud to each other. we played cards, and mixed each other drinks. we walked around naked. we bathed together. we came together all week. it was agony to catch the plane home after that.
he is my addiction. we're a chemical reaction.
“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”
some nights i stay up late, drinking straight bourbon and smoking. habits i learnt from him, of course. they aren't my only bad habits. on those same nights i might cut and purge. i didn't pick up those habits from him, but i'd say he inspired them. it would kill him to hear me say that. what we have together chokes me. it annihilates me. it is everything, yet it can never be anything. how did it end up like this? i was young and drunk, our first night together should have been just that, a drunken regret. not the start of an affair which would come to both doom and define me.
and a few weeks ago i got a text. i will see him soon.
this is my secret.
I told other, trusted girls about the stories, and they always doubted it. It was too pat, the said, too cliched. That my Wellington friend has always liked older men isn't open to doubt, but her "uncle" ('first cousin once removed') as the key affair in her life? Well...it is a bit too much like a soft-erotica novel, isn't it? And certain things don't quite hold up.
He owns a pub in the Australian outback? Okay, fine. But her stories include tales of him taking her off for weekends--- or weeks ---in Fiji, Noumea, Japan, and every major city and beach resort in Australia (ten days in a rented villa in Noosa Heads, a week in Cairns), as well as a rendezvous in Vancouver and that rented house in Devonport, an Auckland beach suburb. He owns a pub--- a perfectly respectable social status, but how does he afford to fly her everywhere or fly to meet her? Three nights at the Fairmont Hotel in Vancouver? How did he--- and he is supposedly married ---afford that, or explain just suddenly needing to jet off to the States and Canada?
The affair has, according to my friend, lasted since since she was seventeen. That's almost half her life. No one has never discovered the affair. Not his wife, not her family. A month after they first fell into bed, he flew her to Australia for a month. How did she explain that--- at seventeen or eighteen ---to her parents? How did he explain to his wife that a blonde teen distant relative would suddenly be arriving and staying? How did she hide it from all her various boyfriends (and her supposed first husband) for sixteen or seventeen years?
She calls him B., though whether that stands for Bryan, Bob, or Bill I'll never know. She was claiming as recently as last summer to still be calling him frequently, to still be longing for him and planning or hoping to go with him to Mauritius or the Maldives. Nonetheless, it doesn't hold together. Too many security risks, too much time and money involved. As much as I care about my NZ friend, I can't believe the story. Her "uncle" B. would be almost seventy now. I don't know that he was ever real; I don't know what to think of any of this.
I can't stop fantasising about my uncle (for clarification - he's my mothers cousin, but I shall refer to his as my uncle for convenience). He must be...62ish now. He's tall and tan and solid. He owns a pub in the outback in Australia. I first met him when I was in my mid teens, he taught me how to blow smoke rings, we drank sambuca and we fucked. Now I can't stop thinking about the last time I saw him...it must have been 2008? Or 2009? It was at a family funeral. When I saw him after the funeral I went up to him and hugged him. Brushing my hands around his waist, I felt something like an electric shock. 'Hey there, beautiful' he whispered in my ear, then kissed my cheek. An hour or so later I noticed him watching me, and nodding his head towards the bathroom. I swallowed the rest of my gin & tonic and walked ahead of him. I was wearing black heels and a black skirt. After he shut the door, he ran his fingers up my thigh, lifted my skirt and kissed my bare cunt.
I need him again.
And again, another story, some months later, in the spring of 2013---
it has been years. but there will never be anyone else. i met him when i was 17. not so young, i suppose. but give me a girl at an impressionable age and she is mine for life. cards on the table, right from the beginning. first cousin once removed is the technical term. and thirty-odd years between us. our first night together i was drunk. sambuca flowed through my veins. but it was electric. i knew at the time it was different to anything i'd ever felt before. i didn't know that i'd never feel anything like it since. it was a cheap motel room. we fucked countless times that night, then the next day he flew back to australia. a month later he flew me to his pub in the outback. we had a whole month together. to date, that was the longest time we ever spent together. i started to understand that it was love. we'd pour drinks at his bar all night, then take a bottle upstairs with us. we would drink and talk until dawn. the sex was amazing. he went down on me for hours. i'd had men before...but not like this. i felt so powerful, so needed, and so loved.
we've been together all over the place. vancouver, tokyo, auckland, sydney, the outback, fiji, wellington. we steal long weekends. we fly each other wherever, whenever we have the chance. for a long time i wouldn't let him cum in my cunt. my mouth was fine, preferred. i got over that though. its been ten years now. and nobody touches me like he does. nobody looks at me like he does. he is the only man i want, and i can never have him.
“The only obsession everyone wants: ‘love.’ People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The Platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you’re whole before you begin. And the love fractures you. You’re whole, and then you’re cracked open.”
and i have tried to not let it consume me. i slept with men his age. boys my own age. girls. there is only him. i've had long-term boyfriends, who thought nothing when i flew to fiji for a 'girls weekend' and spent four blissful days with his tongue in my cunt and his arms around my waist. when i flew to vancouver with friends he arranged to be there for a weekend too...i told them i was catching up with my uncle, and had his hand in my cunt in the lift up to his hotel room. another time we were together for four nights in auckland. we stayed at a house in devonport, and it was like this 'what we could have been' experience. we cooked for each other, and read aloud to each other. we played cards, and mixed each other drinks. we walked around naked. we bathed together. we came together all week. it was agony to catch the plane home after that.
he is my addiction. we're a chemical reaction.
“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”
some nights i stay up late, drinking straight bourbon and smoking. habits i learnt from him, of course. they aren't my only bad habits. on those same nights i might cut and purge. i didn't pick up those habits from him, but i'd say he inspired them. it would kill him to hear me say that. what we have together chokes me. it annihilates me. it is everything, yet it can never be anything. how did it end up like this? i was young and drunk, our first night together should have been just that, a drunken regret. not the start of an affair which would come to both doom and define me.
and a few weeks ago i got a text. i will see him soon.
this is my secret.
I told other, trusted girls about the stories, and they always doubted it. It was too pat, the said, too cliched. That my Wellington friend has always liked older men isn't open to doubt, but her "uncle" ('first cousin once removed') as the key affair in her life? Well...it is a bit too much like a soft-erotica novel, isn't it? And certain things don't quite hold up.
He owns a pub in the Australian outback? Okay, fine. But her stories include tales of him taking her off for weekends--- or weeks ---in Fiji, Noumea, Japan, and every major city and beach resort in Australia (ten days in a rented villa in Noosa Heads, a week in Cairns), as well as a rendezvous in Vancouver and that rented house in Devonport, an Auckland beach suburb. He owns a pub--- a perfectly respectable social status, but how does he afford to fly her everywhere or fly to meet her? Three nights at the Fairmont Hotel in Vancouver? How did he--- and he is supposedly married ---afford that, or explain just suddenly needing to jet off to the States and Canada?
The affair has, according to my friend, lasted since since she was seventeen. That's almost half her life. No one has never discovered the affair. Not his wife, not her family. A month after they first fell into bed, he flew her to Australia for a month. How did she explain that--- at seventeen or eighteen ---to her parents? How did he explain to his wife that a blonde teen distant relative would suddenly be arriving and staying? How did she hide it from all her various boyfriends (and her supposed first husband) for sixteen or seventeen years?
She calls him B., though whether that stands for Bryan, Bob, or Bill I'll never know. She was claiming as recently as last summer to still be calling him frequently, to still be longing for him and planning or hoping to go with him to Mauritius or the Maldives. Nonetheless, it doesn't hold together. Too many security risks, too much time and money involved. As much as I care about my NZ friend, I can't believe the story. Her "uncle" B. would be almost seventy now. I don't know that he was ever real; I don't know what to think of any of this.
Sunday, September 8, 2019
Two Five Seven: Threads 2
There are a few more stories left whose endings and meanings and backstory I'll never know. Details matter, I've always said, and it's the context and the backstory that shapes and gives real value to the stories.
A message to me from March 2007:
I have a lot of stories. But I am 21. Too young for such stories perhaps? Or at least too young for the number that I possess. I spent some time with a very rich, rather lovely man last week. He is 60 years old. He called me a baby. He held my arm and got me a Jack Daniels and shook his head and said, you're just a baby. And I wanted him.
It would have been so easy to. He owns the hotel and bar that we drink at. I could have held his arm and he could have walked me through the bar, the restaurant, out a side door to the courtyard, past the pool and into his room. But that night, it didn't happen. Which is not to say that it won't sometime soon.
In January of 2008 there was one more mention of that night:
i looked below at what i'd written earlier this year. i wrote about the hotel owner that i wanted to fuck me. i spent my birthday with him a couple of weeks ago. we sat in a dark corner of the bar and talked. the drinks kept coming while we talked about affairs and money and our knees and hands grazed each others. my boyfriend was outside smoking and drinking, and if he hadn't been there i think i would have found it hard to resist going to his room.
However did that play out? Over the years the girl who wrote that message hinted that she did in fact sleep with the older man who'd bought her the drink. He may or may not have owned the hotel where the bar was, and five or six years later the girl may or may not have slept with his grown son, too. And who was the 'boyfriend' she was supposedly with. He appears nowhere else in her emails. Loose ends there, threads and random mentions that go nowhere.
And this one, from February 2007:
i am vaguely drunk. a friend and i have been sitting in my kitchen all night drinking beer, talking about men and writing lists. i feel slighly fuzzy, although not as bad as last night. it's only midnight, an early night for me to be heading to bed. not that i'm entirely sure that's what i'm going to do. i have a feeling i am going to leave the house, without changing my clothes, and see who is at the Angus. i want jim to be there. i've known him since i was 19. he is so familiar yet always exciting. he will probably have gone home by now. he will be too drunk to pick me up so he will walk to meet me. and we'll go back to his place and have a few more drinks and he will fuck me and i never know if it's him i'm thinking of or if it's mike.
So many loose threads there, too. I know what the Angus was--- a hotel bar that was her regular hangout, someplace close to where she was living while at university, someplace maybe halfway between her rented student's house and where she'd grown up. Jim? I have no clue. There was another Jim in her past, a "high-functioning alcoholic" she knew and had a disastrous affair with when she was 16 or 17. This post-19 Jim is someone new. Mike? Absolutely no clue. And..."not as bad as last night"? My friend was a party girl in her teens and early twenties, but I've no real idea as to how often she was out drinking while at university, and while I know her tastes--- Maker's, Jack Daniels, tequila shots ---I have no idea how many people she went home with. Or how her men broke down between the older men she always sighed over and the undergraduate boys she'd meet at parties.
One more passing mention of someone:
did i tell you about the gorgeous maori boy i'm fucking? he's tall, with short dark hair & lovely brown eyes, light brown-gold skin... he works at the doggy day care place max goes to, so he picks him up & drops him off every day... he was dropping max home one day, and i was sitting in the garden drinking a beer. we started talking, and he showed he how he has taught max to play dead. max was his last drop-off for the day, so i asked him to stay for a drink... and he stayed the night.
That mention was from March 2013. Max was (and still is) her much-loved golden retriever, and he'd still have been a puppy in those days. The Maori boy was never mentioned again, though her message makes me think he was in her bed more than once.
And then this, from January 2014:
Last night, smashing jack Daniels, riding a rough bogan boy so damn hard, kissing his neck tattoo & thinking is this how I live now?
A message to me from March 2007:
I have a lot of stories. But I am 21. Too young for such stories perhaps? Or at least too young for the number that I possess. I spent some time with a very rich, rather lovely man last week. He is 60 years old. He called me a baby. He held my arm and got me a Jack Daniels and shook his head and said, you're just a baby. And I wanted him.
It would have been so easy to. He owns the hotel and bar that we drink at. I could have held his arm and he could have walked me through the bar, the restaurant, out a side door to the courtyard, past the pool and into his room. But that night, it didn't happen. Which is not to say that it won't sometime soon.
In January of 2008 there was one more mention of that night:
i looked below at what i'd written earlier this year. i wrote about the hotel owner that i wanted to fuck me. i spent my birthday with him a couple of weeks ago. we sat in a dark corner of the bar and talked. the drinks kept coming while we talked about affairs and money and our knees and hands grazed each others. my boyfriend was outside smoking and drinking, and if he hadn't been there i think i would have found it hard to resist going to his room.
However did that play out? Over the years the girl who wrote that message hinted that she did in fact sleep with the older man who'd bought her the drink. He may or may not have owned the hotel where the bar was, and five or six years later the girl may or may not have slept with his grown son, too. And who was the 'boyfriend' she was supposedly with. He appears nowhere else in her emails. Loose ends there, threads and random mentions that go nowhere.
And this one, from February 2007:
i am vaguely drunk. a friend and i have been sitting in my kitchen all night drinking beer, talking about men and writing lists. i feel slighly fuzzy, although not as bad as last night. it's only midnight, an early night for me to be heading to bed. not that i'm entirely sure that's what i'm going to do. i have a feeling i am going to leave the house, without changing my clothes, and see who is at the Angus. i want jim to be there. i've known him since i was 19. he is so familiar yet always exciting. he will probably have gone home by now. he will be too drunk to pick me up so he will walk to meet me. and we'll go back to his place and have a few more drinks and he will fuck me and i never know if it's him i'm thinking of or if it's mike.
So many loose threads there, too. I know what the Angus was--- a hotel bar that was her regular hangout, someplace close to where she was living while at university, someplace maybe halfway between her rented student's house and where she'd grown up. Jim? I have no clue. There was another Jim in her past, a "high-functioning alcoholic" she knew and had a disastrous affair with when she was 16 or 17. This post-19 Jim is someone new. Mike? Absolutely no clue. And..."not as bad as last night"? My friend was a party girl in her teens and early twenties, but I've no real idea as to how often she was out drinking while at university, and while I know her tastes--- Maker's, Jack Daniels, tequila shots ---I have no idea how many people she went home with. Or how her men broke down between the older men she always sighed over and the undergraduate boys she'd meet at parties.
One more passing mention of someone:
did i tell you about the gorgeous maori boy i'm fucking? he's tall, with short dark hair & lovely brown eyes, light brown-gold skin... he works at the doggy day care place max goes to, so he picks him up & drops him off every day... he was dropping max home one day, and i was sitting in the garden drinking a beer. we started talking, and he showed he how he has taught max to play dead. max was his last drop-off for the day, so i asked him to stay for a drink... and he stayed the night.
That mention was from March 2013. Max was (and still is) her much-loved golden retriever, and he'd still have been a puppy in those days. The Maori boy was never mentioned again, though her message makes me think he was in her bed more than once.
And then this, from January 2014:
Last night, smashing jack Daniels, riding a rough bogan boy so damn hard, kissing his neck tattoo & thinking is this how I live now?
I got dragged to drinks at an apartment in the city by a friend who wanted to score some eccies. I was seriously not in the mood, but I know how it is when you need to score, and figured I'd go along for a little bit. We got buzzed up to the apartment floor, and as soon as I walked in I got a really great vibe. This was a seriously expensive apartment, huge, with a great view over the city and waterfront. There were heaps of people there...this bogan boy from up the line was doing the rounds of the room...I think he had some other stuff besides eccies, I wasn't paying too much attention. My friend paid for her eccies and we left. We'd just gotten into the lift when he came out of the apartment and called out 'Hey darlin', come for a drink with me?' We ended up at an irish pub, doing shots of jager & jack daniels. He took me back to his hotel room, and we did a few lines. I felt really hot, so just took my top off, kicked off my ballet flats and sat on the floor looking at him, topless, legs wide open. I can still picture the exact look in his eyes as he fell to his knees and grabbed my anlkes, lifting my skirt, then pulling my legs as far apart as they would go. He went down on me until I came twice, hard. I took his cock out of his jeans and started sucking him there on my knees. He came hard in my mouth, I swallowed most of it but some came spilling out my mouth and running down my chin. I wiped it with my finger then licked it clean. I could tell he loved that. We had a few more JDs, sitting naked facing each other on the floor, until he said if he didn't fuck me soon he was going to explode. I pulled him onto the bed and rode him hard, my cunt almost aching from it. He came deep inside me, his teeth around my nipple. He wanted me to stay the night, said he needed more. I shook my head, pulled my top & skirt back on, kissed him on the lips & cock and went to leave. He told me to wait, and gave me a hundy bag, and $50 for a taxi. He wrote his number on my upper thigh, and told me he'd hook me up anytime he was in Wellington.
Again, one single story. Did she ever say that he'd come back into town and given her a couple of more bags of weed or MDMA? I can't recall. No names, no details, and maybe no second act to the play.
Threads that hang loose from stories, pages missing at the end of the book--- stories I'll never get to really know or analyze. And...these days...stories whose believability I'll never be able to really assess.
Saturday, September 7, 2019
Two Five Six: Threads
I need to find more essay topics for this blog.
When I first started writing here, I wanted to devote myself to writing about issues of sex and its social penumbra here in these latter days. I wanted to write essays about what sex, romance, and all the associated rituals were like nowadays. My idea was to write as myself, as a gentleman of a Certain Age looking at the new world. I wanted to do social commentary, or at least record my own thoughts about things. I'd hoped when I began that I might attract comments and responses and find interlocutors with whom I could have long, rambling discussions about the subjects in my posts.
I still hope for that--- for followers and civil yet in-depth discussions. But I need new essay topics. My hope is that lovely readers will offer up suggestions, that they'll suggest things I might write about. Over the last three years we've all moved away from writing about sex and romance and begun writing about the nightmare of American and global politics. I can understand that: we live in a nightmare time. Yet sex and romance do still exist, and they remain as major topics in people's lives. So I hope that my readers out over the aether will leave suggestions. What should I write about? Are there books, articles, films, events that should become the topics of essays here? I am open to suggestions.
There are still stories that I want to use here, to save here, things I want to remember. There are stories that follow a classic narrative arc--- stories whose endings I know, stories I can see as a story. And there are stories whose full arc I'll never know, whose endings remain elusive. Let's look at a couple. The first one is something a friend wrote me four or five years ago.
The guy with the yacht was Jonny. He lived on his boat at the marina. I really liked him, and wanted him to be an 'official boyfriend'. He was smart and funny and cute. He had a science degree, and had worked all over the world as a boat builder. I desperately wanted things to work out between us, and at the time really thought he would make a great partner (maybe this was just compared to the other men in my recent past). But...he did have a few issues -- alcohol abuse, depression. He drove his car into the harbour in a suicide attempt a year or so after we broke up/stopped sleeping together. He was ok, but got sent to the psych ward and charged with dangerous driving. We are still friends and catch up for coffee now and then and I only want the best for him.
We went on a few sailing trips together - down to the Sounds, each time in the summer. The Cook Strait crossing was a bit rough for me at some parts. But it was beautiful...we saw lots of dolphins, and it was just incredible to be out on the open water. Two of the trips we booked a house to stay at, and one trip we slept on the yacht. He loved going down on me, and was fucking good at it. For years after I wished we had become something more, and I was convinced I could have helped him. But I think sometimes you just have to help yourself and let people go.
She noted that on New Year's Day of 2013 she'd woken up in bed with him on his boat, and that four months later he'd tried to kill himself. I'm trying to decide if the story is a sad one. She ran into him again last year--- discovered he was project managing the renovation of a big house in her new neighbourhood. She said hullo--- they hadn't seen each other around in a while ---and everything was cordial, but she didn't discover whether he was still boatbuilding or still owned/live aboard a boat. I suppose I felt a twinge of jealousy reading about that (did they sleep together again, even if just for old times' sake?), but the other thing I felt was a kind of emptiness. Am I someone a lovely girl would remember years later? Would she say hullo to me? Am I--- have I ever been ---someone's story? I do want to have been important enough to be remembered, but I suspect I haven't been...and won't be. And of course I'll never know the full story of her adventures at the marina or in Marlborough Sounds.
From October 2012---
It's much less gloomy today.It has really brightened up actually! and i just had a lunch date, which was very fun.i Today I 'm wearing black tailored pants, a blue and white striped shirt, and a black cardigan...very officey. And he is a friend of a friend, up & coming young lawyer. I will probably fuck him, but i do think i like him more as a friend. Very funny and cute.
I never heard about her lunch date, never heard about the lawyer again.
She wrote me a year later about another lawyer, this one much older:
I did think of you on Friday night, drinking Makers that seemed to set my blood on fire. Lying naked in a strange bed, all I could think was this isn't really me. i'm not really here.
I stayed until the morning and walked home in the dawn light.
Drinking bourbon feels like coming home.
He was a lawyer. I was Alex the florist, sexy & simple & uncomplicated.
She saw him again a bit later:
After our wonderful wicked exchange, I ended up in town until 3am, then ended up at the apartment of the lawyer with the impressive library, got an hour of sleep then washed my face and went to work. Was asked to attend a meeting with the partners...I almost had a fucking breakdown.
I do wonder what became of him. She wrote that he'd made her reach orgasm five times one night and that his library was impressive. I have to know what "impressive" means--- if he really collected books or it that was a euphemism.
And I need to know if Alex the Florist is her usual club nights alias. I need to know how she created Alex the Florist and what personality she constructed for her alter ego.
She told me this fragment back in 2011, a story from when she was 17, back in 2002-2003:
I slept with this guy I met at a club...he was in his early 30s. He gave me E and took me back to his apartment. After we fucked and he fell asleep I stole 2 books and snuck out...
One of the two books was a Steinbeck; she remembered that. "Cannery Row", she thought, though she wasn't sure. Somehow it does matter to know what the other book was.
Stories here with loose ends, with endings that remain unclear. I hate story arcs that go nowhere. I wish that I could sit with her and pour drinks and ask her about these things. I love her stories, and always have. I just wish I knew more about contexts and settings and the way things played out in the long run.
When I first started writing here, I wanted to devote myself to writing about issues of sex and its social penumbra here in these latter days. I wanted to write essays about what sex, romance, and all the associated rituals were like nowadays. My idea was to write as myself, as a gentleman of a Certain Age looking at the new world. I wanted to do social commentary, or at least record my own thoughts about things. I'd hoped when I began that I might attract comments and responses and find interlocutors with whom I could have long, rambling discussions about the subjects in my posts.
I still hope for that--- for followers and civil yet in-depth discussions. But I need new essay topics. My hope is that lovely readers will offer up suggestions, that they'll suggest things I might write about. Over the last three years we've all moved away from writing about sex and romance and begun writing about the nightmare of American and global politics. I can understand that: we live in a nightmare time. Yet sex and romance do still exist, and they remain as major topics in people's lives. So I hope that my readers out over the aether will leave suggestions. What should I write about? Are there books, articles, films, events that should become the topics of essays here? I am open to suggestions.
There are still stories that I want to use here, to save here, things I want to remember. There are stories that follow a classic narrative arc--- stories whose endings I know, stories I can see as a story. And there are stories whose full arc I'll never know, whose endings remain elusive. Let's look at a couple. The first one is something a friend wrote me four or five years ago.
The guy with the yacht was Jonny. He lived on his boat at the marina. I really liked him, and wanted him to be an 'official boyfriend'. He was smart and funny and cute. He had a science degree, and had worked all over the world as a boat builder. I desperately wanted things to work out between us, and at the time really thought he would make a great partner (maybe this was just compared to the other men in my recent past). But...he did have a few issues -- alcohol abuse, depression. He drove his car into the harbour in a suicide attempt a year or so after we broke up/stopped sleeping together. He was ok, but got sent to the psych ward and charged with dangerous driving. We are still friends and catch up for coffee now and then and I only want the best for him.
We went on a few sailing trips together - down to the Sounds, each time in the summer. The Cook Strait crossing was a bit rough for me at some parts. But it was beautiful...we saw lots of dolphins, and it was just incredible to be out on the open water. Two of the trips we booked a house to stay at, and one trip we slept on the yacht. He loved going down on me, and was fucking good at it. For years after I wished we had become something more, and I was convinced I could have helped him. But I think sometimes you just have to help yourself and let people go.
She noted that on New Year's Day of 2013 she'd woken up in bed with him on his boat, and that four months later he'd tried to kill himself. I'm trying to decide if the story is a sad one. She ran into him again last year--- discovered he was project managing the renovation of a big house in her new neighbourhood. She said hullo--- they hadn't seen each other around in a while ---and everything was cordial, but she didn't discover whether he was still boatbuilding or still owned/live aboard a boat. I suppose I felt a twinge of jealousy reading about that (did they sleep together again, even if just for old times' sake?), but the other thing I felt was a kind of emptiness. Am I someone a lovely girl would remember years later? Would she say hullo to me? Am I--- have I ever been ---someone's story? I do want to have been important enough to be remembered, but I suspect I haven't been...and won't be. And of course I'll never know the full story of her adventures at the marina or in Marlborough Sounds.
From October 2012---
It's much less gloomy today.It has really brightened up actually! and i just had a lunch date, which was very fun.i Today I 'm wearing black tailored pants, a blue and white striped shirt, and a black cardigan...very officey. And he is a friend of a friend, up & coming young lawyer. I will probably fuck him, but i do think i like him more as a friend. Very funny and cute.
I never heard about her lunch date, never heard about the lawyer again.
She wrote me a year later about another lawyer, this one much older:
I did think of you on Friday night, drinking Makers that seemed to set my blood on fire. Lying naked in a strange bed, all I could think was this isn't really me. i'm not really here.
I stayed until the morning and walked home in the dawn light.
Drinking bourbon feels like coming home.
He was a lawyer. I was Alex the florist, sexy & simple & uncomplicated.
She saw him again a bit later:
After our wonderful wicked exchange, I ended up in town until 3am, then ended up at the apartment of the lawyer with the impressive library, got an hour of sleep then washed my face and went to work. Was asked to attend a meeting with the partners...I almost had a fucking breakdown.
I do wonder what became of him. She wrote that he'd made her reach orgasm five times one night and that his library was impressive. I have to know what "impressive" means--- if he really collected books or it that was a euphemism.
And I need to know if Alex the Florist is her usual club nights alias. I need to know how she created Alex the Florist and what personality she constructed for her alter ego.
She told me this fragment back in 2011, a story from when she was 17, back in 2002-2003:
I slept with this guy I met at a club...he was in his early 30s. He gave me E and took me back to his apartment. After we fucked and he fell asleep I stole 2 books and snuck out...
One of the two books was a Steinbeck; she remembered that. "Cannery Row", she thought, though she wasn't sure. Somehow it does matter to know what the other book was.
Stories here with loose ends, with endings that remain unclear. I hate story arcs that go nowhere. I wish that I could sit with her and pour drinks and ask her about these things. I love her stories, and always have. I just wish I knew more about contexts and settings and the way things played out in the long run.
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
Two Five Five: Beliefs 3
Let's consider another story from my leggy blonde friend in Aotearoa down in the Land of the Long White Cloud. This is something she told me in July of 2016--- not so very long ago. And it's not one that I believed then, and not one I believe now:
a contractor is here working on the ceiling tiles in our office.
he is wearing blue jeans, workboots, a long sleeve black top and a hi-vis vest.
and he is just my kind of dirty hot. you know the type.
wiry build, stubble, an ex-heroin addict aesthetic. mid to late 40s.
he actually looks kinda like bronn from game of thrones.
i made him a coffee on friday when he was working here. (side note - neither of the two receptionists offered him a drink, and he was working here for hours! i don't know if this is an age thing or what, they are very early 20s, a guy and a girl. obviously they look after clients with coffee/tea etc, but workmen & the IT guys all seem to get ignored!).
manners are important.
he was flirty and i was bored.
i may have found an excuse to make my way into the archive room he was working in, and quietly shut the door behind me...
he ran his fingers through my hair while i sucked him. he was big. i swallowed and sat in a meeting with cum on my breath.
And a bit later that night:
Yes, he was white not Maori, alas. And yes -- I did get his number. I didn't know his name (Rex) until he scrawled it on a piece of paper and handed it to me when he left the building a few hours later.
The lights were out in the archive room, as he was working on the light panels and ceiling tiles. He saw me come into the room while he was up his ladder. I smiled at him and shut the door behind me. He came down from his ladder and thanked me for the coffee. We didn't say anything else, really. I pulled him towards me by his belt and kissed him. We kissed for a while, and he had his hands down my shirt, on my breasts and nipples. I knelt and undid his jeans and took his cock in my mouth. He tasted clean, mild. After he came, I stood, kissed his cheek and left. I do want to fuck him...
She told me later that she did fuck him a couple of nights after that encounter, that she called him and got sloppy drunk with him at a bar on Cuba St. in Wellington and took him home. After that, he vanished from her stories. I can understand her being attracted to someone who looked like Bronn from 'Game of Thrones', but I don't believe the story at all. It's too cliched, too like something that Showtime or Cinemax would've featured on one of their late-night soft-core anthology programs in the 1990s. And I just can't believe in a character named Rex. I just can't.
There are stories she's told that are believable, of course. In March 2011 she did send an email from work that began simply enough: i had a delicious older man's cock in my mouth this morning. i love starting the day with a mouthful of cum. i missed my first class, i was having so much fun...
Her first class--- she'd have been finishing up an accounting degree in those days. She did take a degree in English Lit and then (practical girl!) go back to VUW to take accounting classes. She explained things a bit:
he's around 45. he's tall and strong. he has short dark hair and a cute, stubbly face. he owns a sand blasting and spray painting business and is a client. i'm not sure if its common practice in the US, but here young lawyers and accountants have to spend quite a bit of time out on secondment, getting to know the way their clients businesses work etc. so, thats how we met a few years ago. we ended up at the same function at the marina a few nights ago and one thing led to another.
the first time, he bent me over the bonnet of his car and fucked me from behind. it was so hot. he came in my mouth then carried me inside. he lives in Seatoun by the beach. his bedroom had big windows overlooking the sea. he had a beautful cock, big and thick and hard. it felt so good in my mouth and hands. he licked my cunt and i came so hard. he fucked my ass and cunt and told me i was beautiful.
i must have fallen asleep around 3, and had a terrible nightmare, because i woke up screaming and shaking. he pulled me towards him and whispered 'its ok, its ok' over and over in my ear. he ran his finger through my hair and spooned me for the rest of the night.
in the morning he was so gentle and lovely. i sucked his cock and he came in my mouth again. he made us both smoothies then fucked me in the shower and drove me to class. i'm meeting him for a drink after work tonight. he's gorgeous and funny and i want him.
So...he was around 45 in 2011--- in his mid-50s now. She'd have been...twenty-four? twenty-five? She added this later: This was Shane. He was gorgeous. I had a few nights with him and Caitie both. Do I believe that part, about the three-ways? Maybe. Maybe. But meeting him that way at a marina party and ending up in bed--- that's not implausible. The dirty-hot contractor? No--- I don't see that as plausible, especially since the risky-hot part, the risk of getting caught, would have meant losing a job and not just getting tossed from a bar.
One story I believe, and one I don't. Do we agree on plausibility? And...do comment and let me know what your own criteria for plausibility are. What things do make erotica plausible or implausible for you?
a contractor is here working on the ceiling tiles in our office.
he is wearing blue jeans, workboots, a long sleeve black top and a hi-vis vest.
and he is just my kind of dirty hot. you know the type.
wiry build, stubble, an ex-heroin addict aesthetic. mid to late 40s.
he actually looks kinda like bronn from game of thrones.
i made him a coffee on friday when he was working here. (side note - neither of the two receptionists offered him a drink, and he was working here for hours! i don't know if this is an age thing or what, they are very early 20s, a guy and a girl. obviously they look after clients with coffee/tea etc, but workmen & the IT guys all seem to get ignored!).
manners are important.
he was flirty and i was bored.
i may have found an excuse to make my way into the archive room he was working in, and quietly shut the door behind me...
he ran his fingers through my hair while i sucked him. he was big. i swallowed and sat in a meeting with cum on my breath.
And a bit later that night:
Yes, he was white not Maori, alas. And yes -- I did get his number. I didn't know his name (Rex) until he scrawled it on a piece of paper and handed it to me when he left the building a few hours later.
The lights were out in the archive room, as he was working on the light panels and ceiling tiles. He saw me come into the room while he was up his ladder. I smiled at him and shut the door behind me. He came down from his ladder and thanked me for the coffee. We didn't say anything else, really. I pulled him towards me by his belt and kissed him. We kissed for a while, and he had his hands down my shirt, on my breasts and nipples. I knelt and undid his jeans and took his cock in my mouth. He tasted clean, mild. After he came, I stood, kissed his cheek and left. I do want to fuck him...
She told me later that she did fuck him a couple of nights after that encounter, that she called him and got sloppy drunk with him at a bar on Cuba St. in Wellington and took him home. After that, he vanished from her stories. I can understand her being attracted to someone who looked like Bronn from 'Game of Thrones', but I don't believe the story at all. It's too cliched, too like something that Showtime or Cinemax would've featured on one of their late-night soft-core anthology programs in the 1990s. And I just can't believe in a character named Rex. I just can't.
There are stories she's told that are believable, of course. In March 2011 she did send an email from work that began simply enough: i had a delicious older man's cock in my mouth this morning. i love starting the day with a mouthful of cum. i missed my first class, i was having so much fun...
Her first class--- she'd have been finishing up an accounting degree in those days. She did take a degree in English Lit and then (practical girl!) go back to VUW to take accounting classes. She explained things a bit:
he's around 45. he's tall and strong. he has short dark hair and a cute, stubbly face. he owns a sand blasting and spray painting business and is a client. i'm not sure if its common practice in the US, but here young lawyers and accountants have to spend quite a bit of time out on secondment, getting to know the way their clients businesses work etc. so, thats how we met a few years ago. we ended up at the same function at the marina a few nights ago and one thing led to another.
the first time, he bent me over the bonnet of his car and fucked me from behind. it was so hot. he came in my mouth then carried me inside. he lives in Seatoun by the beach. his bedroom had big windows overlooking the sea. he had a beautful cock, big and thick and hard. it felt so good in my mouth and hands. he licked my cunt and i came so hard. he fucked my ass and cunt and told me i was beautiful.
i must have fallen asleep around 3, and had a terrible nightmare, because i woke up screaming and shaking. he pulled me towards him and whispered 'its ok, its ok' over and over in my ear. he ran his finger through my hair and spooned me for the rest of the night.
in the morning he was so gentle and lovely. i sucked his cock and he came in my mouth again. he made us both smoothies then fucked me in the shower and drove me to class. i'm meeting him for a drink after work tonight. he's gorgeous and funny and i want him.
So...he was around 45 in 2011--- in his mid-50s now. She'd have been...twenty-four? twenty-five? She added this later: This was Shane. He was gorgeous. I had a few nights with him and Caitie both. Do I believe that part, about the three-ways? Maybe. Maybe. But meeting him that way at a marina party and ending up in bed--- that's not implausible. The dirty-hot contractor? No--- I don't see that as plausible, especially since the risky-hot part, the risk of getting caught, would have meant losing a job and not just getting tossed from a bar.
One story I believe, and one I don't. Do we agree on plausibility? And...do comment and let me know what your own criteria for plausibility are. What things do make erotica plausible or implausible for you?
Monday, September 2, 2019
Two Five Four: Rough Coast
September is beginning, and I'd like to add this to my archives--- one more set of brilliant stories that I'd like to remember here in the latter part of my life.
More memories from my long-legged blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud, memories from the early teens of this century. Memories of a girl she dated for a while, a girl named Caitlin (or Caity or Caitie), a girl who was a Lit major at VUW. I can't recall that my friend ever told me how she first met Caitlin, whether it was at university or at a bar on Cuba St. in Wellington. I remember my friend telling me once that she had a date that night with a pretty blonde girl who studied Lit, and that when she got to the bar the girl was reading..."The Sun Also Rises", I think. I must find that first message.
Memory says that Caitie and my friend dated for several months. My friend had had encounters with other girls before, all the way back to her friend Julia in high school, but Caitie was the first girl she'd actually dated. It lasted some months, but in the end Caitie was more lesbian than bi and wanted a more long-term commitment than my friend, who in the end preferred Older Men, was prepared to make. It ended with an angry and disappointed Caitlin not speaking to my friend and blocking her calls. Nonetheless, it was deeply passionate and carnal while it lasted, and they cut a wicked swathe through Wellington clubs and parties.
The most passionate memory my friend told me was this:
Caitlin and i went for a drive a couple of weeks ago, to the coast. it's a very rough beach, nobody swims there, but it's popular for bonfires and walks, things like that. Caitlin and i drove out there and smoked a joint and walked round to the rocks with a couple of beers. We started making out, lying on the sand when it started to rain. I got up to leave, but Caity pulled me back down and started un-doing my jeans. The rain was pounding down on us, the waves were crashing on the shores, you could hear the wind howling. but we couldn't stop. Her fingers were in my asshole, her tongue on my clit. I screamed and moaned so loud when I came. It was so fucking intense & so fucking hot. I couldn't move, I just lay there, getting drenched, Caity's head on my stomach.
I made a note about the date--- 9/18/11. Eight years ago. My friend would've been twenty-four or twenty-five. The rough beach was at a place called Wainuiomata, southeast of Wellington. The photos of the beaches at Wainuiomata I found via Google were wonderful. My friend described Wainuiomata to me like this:
Hmmm...on a late summer evening I would take you to one of my favourite spots from when I was a teenager. When everyone first started driving, we would go out to the deserted Wainuiomata coast, and drink and smoke weed and fuck.
At certain times of the year you could light bonfires, so we would do that and disappear in pairs...
It is a very rough and dangerous beach -- definitely not a swimming beach. But it's a nice drive out from the city and I have great memories from evenings spent there...
My friend was willing to try anything with Caity. She told me this, too--
Caity pissed right in my mouth when i was licking her cunt one time. She told me it was coming, she moaned 'I'm going to piss' and I just opened my mouth, I so wanted to taste her. I swallowed twice! A couple of small-ish mouthfuls. I've had bigger since... but that was my first time. Caitie loves licking and drinking piss, but I haven't tried boys' piss...
Her first time? Well, she didn't swallow really with Julia in high school, and she washed her mouth out with a few big gulps of tequila. So I'll go with "first time" here.
Other memories of Caitlin/Caity/Caitie... My friend told me that Caitie loved dildo play but didn't like random objects the way my friend did. And they did occasionally pick up boys--- a story dated 9/1/11: Caity & i took a cute little 20 year old home the other night & fucked his ass with Tyrone [her large black dildo]...God, he loved it!
There are other stories, too: my friend and Caitie going to the beach with a taxi-full of Kenyan rugby players one Sevens weekend in Wellington in early 2012--- with this addition: Caity ended up back at a hotel with a Kenyan. I went back to a different hotel with a manager of the Scotland team. We met in the morning for coffee before heading back to bed together. I'll have to archive the Sevens stories, and the tale of the Kenyans on the beach. That may be a bit awkward, since race was a big factor in the hook-up and both my friend and Caity loved using vocabulary during drunken sex that would get very awkward here in the States.
My friend's stories... Reading them now, I find myself looking at them with a hyper-critical eye, looking at them for inconsistencies and implausible moments. I no longer know what to believe, even though I very deeply care for my Wellington friend...and even though the stories are often so shatteringly wicked and hot.
More memories from my long-legged blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud, memories from the early teens of this century. Memories of a girl she dated for a while, a girl named Caitlin (or Caity or Caitie), a girl who was a Lit major at VUW. I can't recall that my friend ever told me how she first met Caitlin, whether it was at university or at a bar on Cuba St. in Wellington. I remember my friend telling me once that she had a date that night with a pretty blonde girl who studied Lit, and that when she got to the bar the girl was reading..."The Sun Also Rises", I think. I must find that first message.
Memory says that Caitie and my friend dated for several months. My friend had had encounters with other girls before, all the way back to her friend Julia in high school, but Caitie was the first girl she'd actually dated. It lasted some months, but in the end Caitie was more lesbian than bi and wanted a more long-term commitment than my friend, who in the end preferred Older Men, was prepared to make. It ended with an angry and disappointed Caitlin not speaking to my friend and blocking her calls. Nonetheless, it was deeply passionate and carnal while it lasted, and they cut a wicked swathe through Wellington clubs and parties.
The most passionate memory my friend told me was this:
Caitlin and i went for a drive a couple of weeks ago, to the coast. it's a very rough beach, nobody swims there, but it's popular for bonfires and walks, things like that. Caitlin and i drove out there and smoked a joint and walked round to the rocks with a couple of beers. We started making out, lying on the sand when it started to rain. I got up to leave, but Caity pulled me back down and started un-doing my jeans. The rain was pounding down on us, the waves were crashing on the shores, you could hear the wind howling. but we couldn't stop. Her fingers were in my asshole, her tongue on my clit. I screamed and moaned so loud when I came. It was so fucking intense & so fucking hot. I couldn't move, I just lay there, getting drenched, Caity's head on my stomach.
I made a note about the date--- 9/18/11. Eight years ago. My friend would've been twenty-four or twenty-five. The rough beach was at a place called Wainuiomata, southeast of Wellington. The photos of the beaches at Wainuiomata I found via Google were wonderful. My friend described Wainuiomata to me like this:
Hmmm...on a late summer evening I would take you to one of my favourite spots from when I was a teenager. When everyone first started driving, we would go out to the deserted Wainuiomata coast, and drink and smoke weed and fuck.
At certain times of the year you could light bonfires, so we would do that and disappear in pairs...
It is a very rough and dangerous beach -- definitely not a swimming beach. But it's a nice drive out from the city and I have great memories from evenings spent there...
My friend was willing to try anything with Caity. She told me this, too--
Caity pissed right in my mouth when i was licking her cunt one time. She told me it was coming, she moaned 'I'm going to piss' and I just opened my mouth, I so wanted to taste her. I swallowed twice! A couple of small-ish mouthfuls. I've had bigger since... but that was my first time. Caitie loves licking and drinking piss, but I haven't tried boys' piss...
Her first time? Well, she didn't swallow really with Julia in high school, and she washed her mouth out with a few big gulps of tequila. So I'll go with "first time" here.
Other memories of Caitlin/Caity/Caitie... My friend told me that Caitie loved dildo play but didn't like random objects the way my friend did. And they did occasionally pick up boys--- a story dated 9/1/11: Caity & i took a cute little 20 year old home the other night & fucked his ass with Tyrone [her large black dildo]...God, he loved it!
There are other stories, too: my friend and Caitie going to the beach with a taxi-full of Kenyan rugby players one Sevens weekend in Wellington in early 2012--- with this addition: Caity ended up back at a hotel with a Kenyan. I went back to a different hotel with a manager of the Scotland team. We met in the morning for coffee before heading back to bed together. I'll have to archive the Sevens stories, and the tale of the Kenyans on the beach. That may be a bit awkward, since race was a big factor in the hook-up and both my friend and Caity loved using vocabulary during drunken sex that would get very awkward here in the States.
My friend's stories... Reading them now, I find myself looking at them with a hyper-critical eye, looking at them for inconsistencies and implausible moments. I no longer know what to believe, even though I very deeply care for my Wellington friend...and even though the stories are often so shatteringly wicked and hot.
Sunday, September 1, 2019
Two Five Three: Blonde
Once upon a long ago time, my leggy blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud told me the story of her first time with a girl. I don't know how much faith to place in the account. After all, I don't believe her stories of travels all over Asia and the Pacific, and I have serious doubts that she was ever married to a wealthy businessman.
Nonetheless, this story has been something she's referred to for several years, and her various mentions of it have been consistent. I like the story, and I can see it as part of the autobiographical novel she's always talked about writing. So I will put some of the accounts she's sent me in my archives. The story is one worth saving, I think.
Long ago I asked her about her experiences with girls. She'd had a few, she told me. She defines herself as cis and hetero, she says, but she says that in her circle at school and after--- amongst upper-middle party girls in Wellington ---a "bit of bisexuality" was considered fashionable. Again, I can imagine arts girls saying that with a straight face. So let's see. When I asked her to tell me about her first encounter, this is how she responded over a few months' worth of exchanges:
Her first girl, she wrote, was a hippie girl named Julia:
i met julia when i was 13, at high school, and it would have been a couple of years later-ish.
Julia and I were at school together. Her mum ran off with another woman, leaving Julia and her sister Fran largely unattended. We had so many parties at their house, drunken all nighters. She is a single mother of two part-Maori boys these days and lives in a pretty grim council flat.
Julia was my age, and Fran was a couple of years older. We met at school. They lived by the beach - their parents were divorced and their mother was off living her new life as a lesbian, so the house was almost always free of adults. We always wagged school there. Julia and Fran were both hippy girls - no shaving, into natural remedies etc. Fran was seriously into drugs. Julia and I weren't as much, we just liked to drink and eat each other out. We had so many parties at that house. We never had 3 ways, but Julia and I fucked all the time. I may have eaten Fran out once. Fran would walk around naked, leave sex toys out in the lounge, have loud sex in the next room and come into the bathroom while I was in there. We did shower together once, and Julia, Fran and I swam naked together a few times. She had lovely big tits, and a hairy blonde cunt, just like Julia did. Now, Julia has 2 part-Maori sons, and I actually have no idea what happened to Fran.
hmm...i liked Julia's personality. she was up for anything. and maybe just that she was there. an unsupervised house, lots of booze and free time... she was pretty too, blonde and hippyish. she didn't shave.
first time with julia was at her house one day when we were supposed to be at school. we'd been working up to it for a while, flirting, taking things a little further each time. we were drinking wine, taking shots and taking an item of clothing off as we did. shots and wine led to kissing, led to fingering, led to us both naked in her room on the floor. i didn't tell anyone, i don't think, but her sister definitely knew.
this was either year 11 or year 12, so 15 or 16. julia had left school by year 13 so it was before then.
[That would've been 2001 or 2002 for the first time. By 2004 my friend was an undergraduate at VUW in Wellington, reading English Lit]
i remember one night with julia, an old friend from school. i was about 15 or 16 and staying at her apartment in town while her mum & her lesbian lover were away. we raided the liquor cabinet and were really drunk. we were out on the balcony and i was licking her clit and had my fingers in her cunt. she came and pissed at the same time, and a bit got in my mouth. i was not into it at all, and i grabbed our bottle of tequila and had a few big gulps. julia apologised several times...but also said how good it felt to cum and piss at the same time. i'm always very open to new experiences so i gave it a try...and it felt amazing. it made my orgasm so much more intense. julia loved it too...
later i discovered pissing while purging which is also amazing.
One night we found her older sister's sex toys and were up together until dawn just playing and experimenting. I loved that hairy little blonde cunt...
She noted that Julia was one of those girls who was beautiful and amazing at sixteen, but who burned out early. Currently the single mother of two half-Maori boys, though my friend didn't mention if the boys had the same father. The "grim council flat" idea is deeply depressing. She'd noted that she had no idea whatever became of Fran, but some months later she wrote to say that she'd heard Fran had died--- an epileptic fit at 29. I'll note that it's all-too-possible, especially if serious drugs were involved. It's a sad thing, and sadder still that I did raise a suspicious eyebrow.
My friend once mentioned buying weed in WGN from a hippie friend, and she later mentioned that a hippie girl she knew had been arrested for weed. I have no idea whether that was Julia or not, and no idea how long it's been since she's seen Julia, let alone since she slept with her.
I want this story for my archives. I want it to be something I can remember years from now. It's something worth saving, though I wish I could know more.
Nonetheless, this story has been something she's referred to for several years, and her various mentions of it have been consistent. I like the story, and I can see it as part of the autobiographical novel she's always talked about writing. So I will put some of the accounts she's sent me in my archives. The story is one worth saving, I think.
Long ago I asked her about her experiences with girls. She'd had a few, she told me. She defines herself as cis and hetero, she says, but she says that in her circle at school and after--- amongst upper-middle party girls in Wellington ---a "bit of bisexuality" was considered fashionable. Again, I can imagine arts girls saying that with a straight face. So let's see. When I asked her to tell me about her first encounter, this is how she responded over a few months' worth of exchanges:
Her first girl, she wrote, was a hippie girl named Julia:
i met julia when i was 13, at high school, and it would have been a couple of years later-ish.
Julia and I were at school together. Her mum ran off with another woman, leaving Julia and her sister Fran largely unattended. We had so many parties at their house, drunken all nighters. She is a single mother of two part-Maori boys these days and lives in a pretty grim council flat.
Julia was my age, and Fran was a couple of years older. We met at school. They lived by the beach - their parents were divorced and their mother was off living her new life as a lesbian, so the house was almost always free of adults. We always wagged school there. Julia and Fran were both hippy girls - no shaving, into natural remedies etc. Fran was seriously into drugs. Julia and I weren't as much, we just liked to drink and eat each other out. We had so many parties at that house. We never had 3 ways, but Julia and I fucked all the time. I may have eaten Fran out once. Fran would walk around naked, leave sex toys out in the lounge, have loud sex in the next room and come into the bathroom while I was in there. We did shower together once, and Julia, Fran and I swam naked together a few times. She had lovely big tits, and a hairy blonde cunt, just like Julia did. Now, Julia has 2 part-Maori sons, and I actually have no idea what happened to Fran.
hmm...i liked Julia's personality. she was up for anything. and maybe just that she was there. an unsupervised house, lots of booze and free time... she was pretty too, blonde and hippyish. she didn't shave.
first time with julia was at her house one day when we were supposed to be at school. we'd been working up to it for a while, flirting, taking things a little further each time. we were drinking wine, taking shots and taking an item of clothing off as we did. shots and wine led to kissing, led to fingering, led to us both naked in her room on the floor. i didn't tell anyone, i don't think, but her sister definitely knew.
this was either year 11 or year 12, so 15 or 16. julia had left school by year 13 so it was before then.
[That would've been 2001 or 2002 for the first time. By 2004 my friend was an undergraduate at VUW in Wellington, reading English Lit]
i remember one night with julia, an old friend from school. i was about 15 or 16 and staying at her apartment in town while her mum & her lesbian lover were away. we raided the liquor cabinet and were really drunk. we were out on the balcony and i was licking her clit and had my fingers in her cunt. she came and pissed at the same time, and a bit got in my mouth. i was not into it at all, and i grabbed our bottle of tequila and had a few big gulps. julia apologised several times...but also said how good it felt to cum and piss at the same time. i'm always very open to new experiences so i gave it a try...and it felt amazing. it made my orgasm so much more intense. julia loved it too...
later i discovered pissing while purging which is also amazing.
One night we found her older sister's sex toys and were up together until dawn just playing and experimenting. I loved that hairy little blonde cunt...
She noted that Julia was one of those girls who was beautiful and amazing at sixteen, but who burned out early. Currently the single mother of two half-Maori boys, though my friend didn't mention if the boys had the same father. The "grim council flat" idea is deeply depressing. She'd noted that she had no idea whatever became of Fran, but some months later she wrote to say that she'd heard Fran had died--- an epileptic fit at 29. I'll note that it's all-too-possible, especially if serious drugs were involved. It's a sad thing, and sadder still that I did raise a suspicious eyebrow.
My friend once mentioned buying weed in WGN from a hippie friend, and she later mentioned that a hippie girl she knew had been arrested for weed. I have no idea whether that was Julia or not, and no idea how long it's been since she's seen Julia, let alone since she slept with her.
I want this story for my archives. I want it to be something I can remember years from now. It's something worth saving, though I wish I could know more.
Friday, August 30, 2019
Two Five Two: Beliefs 2
I have this from the same girl I wrote about earlier in the month, the girl who was supposed to be going to Pitcairn Island and Patagonia and Lhasa and Victoria Falls this year.
She told me this back in June 2016--- three years ago now. She'd vanished for a while at the end of 2014 and stayed amongst the missing pretty much all through 2015. And then she messaged me one night to tell me this:
I have a few stories to tell! I decided this morning that, fuck it, it's time! I have a confession for you. I got married last year... It was such a whirlwind, running into him in Auckland when i was there for a long weekend, then spending every waking moment together, a proposal in Taupo, then married a month later!
It really was crazy... I didn't tell anybody. No one in my family knows, a couple of friends, that's all. It was never going to work long-term. and i knew that. he was a brilliant first husband though.
I was amazed at the story. She'd told me before she vanished that she'd flown north on a concert weekend and run into an old flame at a hotel bar. I'd thought she might be living with someone. But this was a confession worth following up. I did raise an eyebrow at the initial message--- a whirlwind marriage was one thing; a secret marriage was another. Just how would that work? How would she avoid telling family? How would she avoid telling HR at work? Wouldn't there be tax forms to change? How would she keep friends from spreading the story?
She told me more later--- that she'd recognized very early that the marriage wouldn't work, and they hadn't lived together for much of the time. She'd kept the house she was renting (or owned...which is another story) and went back and forth with her Golden Retriever from one house to the other. I might've have understood if she'd leased out (or sublet) her old house, but she was clear that she'd kept her house all for herself.
She never did tell me about any divorce. I looked up divorce law in the Land of the Long White Cloud, of course. It's a simple procedure, and inexpensive. You can get an order of dissolution if you've been separated for two years and apply for an order. The fee is something like $NZ 215.00. Which raises the question of whether she ever got a divorce and, if so, when? If they'd agreed to count the start of living separate and apart sometime early in 2015, one or the other of them could've applied for a dissolution order in 2017. She never mentioned it, never mentioned any divorce or any proceedings. I did think about so many questions. If he did indeed have (as she insisted) $10 million in the bank, wouldn't there inevitably have been a pre-nup? Were there community property issues? The purported husband was a successful businessman, which to my mind means that there would've been lawyers telling him that he needed to protect himself. But she never talked about any divorce or any aftermath.
So here we have another story, and one that strikes me now as deeply suspect. Moving in with someone after a whirlwind romance is one thing. A marriage where one party has ten million ($US? $NZ?) in the bank is something else altogether. And a divorce, however amicable, isn't just something one forgets. She'd have been twenty-nine or thirty when all this supposedly happened--- and a chartered accountant. She'd know how these things work, and known the legal and tax ramifications...and so would any husband's lawyers.
My blonde friend in Wellington is like me: we both grew up living inside books and stories. We've always wanted our lives to be crafted and shaped like stories. I can understand her longing for a doomed whirlwind romance and marriage. A bittersweet tale to tell later. I can understand all that. But what if she can't escape the stories she's crafted in her head? What if she made up a brief marriage just as I believe she made up trips to Buenos Aires and Mt. Fuji and Shanghai? How do I ever ask her?
I'd like to think that someone reading this out over the aether will have thoughts....
She told me this back in June 2016--- three years ago now. She'd vanished for a while at the end of 2014 and stayed amongst the missing pretty much all through 2015. And then she messaged me one night to tell me this:
I have a few stories to tell! I decided this morning that, fuck it, it's time! I have a confession for you. I got married last year... It was such a whirlwind, running into him in Auckland when i was there for a long weekend, then spending every waking moment together, a proposal in Taupo, then married a month later!
It really was crazy... I didn't tell anybody. No one in my family knows, a couple of friends, that's all. It was never going to work long-term. and i knew that. he was a brilliant first husband though.
I was amazed at the story. She'd told me before she vanished that she'd flown north on a concert weekend and run into an old flame at a hotel bar. I'd thought she might be living with someone. But this was a confession worth following up. I did raise an eyebrow at the initial message--- a whirlwind marriage was one thing; a secret marriage was another. Just how would that work? How would she avoid telling family? How would she avoid telling HR at work? Wouldn't there be tax forms to change? How would she keep friends from spreading the story?
She told me more later--- that she'd recognized very early that the marriage wouldn't work, and they hadn't lived together for much of the time. She'd kept the house she was renting (or owned...which is another story) and went back and forth with her Golden Retriever from one house to the other. I might've have understood if she'd leased out (or sublet) her old house, but she was clear that she'd kept her house all for herself.
She never did tell me about any divorce. I looked up divorce law in the Land of the Long White Cloud, of course. It's a simple procedure, and inexpensive. You can get an order of dissolution if you've been separated for two years and apply for an order. The fee is something like $NZ 215.00. Which raises the question of whether she ever got a divorce and, if so, when? If they'd agreed to count the start of living separate and apart sometime early in 2015, one or the other of them could've applied for a dissolution order in 2017. She never mentioned it, never mentioned any divorce or any proceedings. I did think about so many questions. If he did indeed have (as she insisted) $10 million in the bank, wouldn't there inevitably have been a pre-nup? Were there community property issues? The purported husband was a successful businessman, which to my mind means that there would've been lawyers telling him that he needed to protect himself. But she never talked about any divorce or any aftermath.
So here we have another story, and one that strikes me now as deeply suspect. Moving in with someone after a whirlwind romance is one thing. A marriage where one party has ten million ($US? $NZ?) in the bank is something else altogether. And a divorce, however amicable, isn't just something one forgets. She'd have been twenty-nine or thirty when all this supposedly happened--- and a chartered accountant. She'd know how these things work, and known the legal and tax ramifications...and so would any husband's lawyers.
My blonde friend in Wellington is like me: we both grew up living inside books and stories. We've always wanted our lives to be crafted and shaped like stories. I can understand her longing for a doomed whirlwind romance and marriage. A bittersweet tale to tell later. I can understand all that. But what if she can't escape the stories she's crafted in her head? What if she made up a brief marriage just as I believe she made up trips to Buenos Aires and Mt. Fuji and Shanghai? How do I ever ask her?
I'd like to think that someone reading this out over the aether will have thoughts....
Tuesday, August 27, 2019
Two Five One: Palimpsest
I was trained to do History, and I believe in keeping archives. I have paper journals dating back twenty-odd years, and notebooks that reach back to my undergraduate days. I have correspondence, including love letters, that dates back into the Eighties. And I have chat logs that go back a decade, filled with long exchanges with lovely young companions. I've never thought of purging any of those things. They're my past, my history, and they hold memories of places I've been, adventures I've had, and girls I've loved or desired. History matters, stories matter. I've lived my life through stories, and everything that I am is built up out of stories.
And yet there's something unsettling about going back through my past. My blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud told me once that she couldn't imagine me ever being hesitant to tell a lover or potential lover about my desires and preferences. That was one of my great skills as a lover, she told me: being willing to be utterly open, being able to show girls that there were so many ways to seek out pleasure and delight. It wasn't so long ago that she told me those things, and they meant a lot. These days, though, I'm starting to feel uncomfortable about that.
My friend down in Aoteoroa exchanged years worth of emails and chats with me. We explored a great many fantasy scenarios and fantasy worlds. We told each other all about our pasts and dreams and adventures and kinks. She'd write me to say that the two of us were able to do and try everything. No shame, no limits--- she'd tell me that all the time. But these days all our exchanges are beginning to worry me.
She's not the only one. Other lovely young companions have spent hours and hours on the phone with me, spinning out worlds and scenarios. Those late nights meant the world to me. We'd be inside each other's dreams and pleasures and desires and I'd feel alive and valued and able to explore whole new sexual and romantic worlds with girls in other cities and other countries. Tonight I have to wonder if I'd do those things now.
Here in the age of the gender wars the idea of having fantasies, let alone sharing them, is increasingly dangerous. I look back on the things lovers and I shared via email or chat or letters and I feel wary and something very close to miserable. Once upon a time, I'd never have been ashamed of any of the things I said or did with young companions. These days I'm deeply worried of being judged and mocked and condemned in ways I'd never have imagined a decade ago.
I look at the chat logs from what my Wellington friend and I talked about for years and what crosses my mind isn't that she felt safe enough and thrilled enough to say No shame, no limits to me, but that someone, somewhere, someday will use them against me. I'm beginning to feel the same way about the letters and emails archived over the years.
I can't decide whether it's all the Zeitgeist or if it's that entropy is winning and that I no longer have the energy to believe in pleasure and adventures. Whichever it is, I find myself not just afraid, but ashamed. Shame, unlike guilt, is external, socially-imposed. I'm becoming ashamed of all the ways lovely young companions and I found pleasure together. I'm becoming ashamed of the things that gave me pleasure. I'm becoming ashamed of having shared those things. I know that it's that there's been some sea-change in how we view pleasure and adventure, and I look at the things lovers and I said and did and feel...empty. I feel like I'm losing my past, that the age we live in is telling me that everything I desired and felt and enjoyed was wrong, contemptible, shameful. I hate thinking that the girls I shared all those things with now despise me and reject the things we did and said. I hate that, but there's nothing I can do about it.
And yet there's something unsettling about going back through my past. My blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud told me once that she couldn't imagine me ever being hesitant to tell a lover or potential lover about my desires and preferences. That was one of my great skills as a lover, she told me: being willing to be utterly open, being able to show girls that there were so many ways to seek out pleasure and delight. It wasn't so long ago that she told me those things, and they meant a lot. These days, though, I'm starting to feel uncomfortable about that.
My friend down in Aoteoroa exchanged years worth of emails and chats with me. We explored a great many fantasy scenarios and fantasy worlds. We told each other all about our pasts and dreams and adventures and kinks. She'd write me to say that the two of us were able to do and try everything. No shame, no limits--- she'd tell me that all the time. But these days all our exchanges are beginning to worry me.
She's not the only one. Other lovely young companions have spent hours and hours on the phone with me, spinning out worlds and scenarios. Those late nights meant the world to me. We'd be inside each other's dreams and pleasures and desires and I'd feel alive and valued and able to explore whole new sexual and romantic worlds with girls in other cities and other countries. Tonight I have to wonder if I'd do those things now.
Here in the age of the gender wars the idea of having fantasies, let alone sharing them, is increasingly dangerous. I look back on the things lovers and I shared via email or chat or letters and I feel wary and something very close to miserable. Once upon a time, I'd never have been ashamed of any of the things I said or did with young companions. These days I'm deeply worried of being judged and mocked and condemned in ways I'd never have imagined a decade ago.
I look at the chat logs from what my Wellington friend and I talked about for years and what crosses my mind isn't that she felt safe enough and thrilled enough to say No shame, no limits to me, but that someone, somewhere, someday will use them against me. I'm beginning to feel the same way about the letters and emails archived over the years.
I can't decide whether it's all the Zeitgeist or if it's that entropy is winning and that I no longer have the energy to believe in pleasure and adventures. Whichever it is, I find myself not just afraid, but ashamed. Shame, unlike guilt, is external, socially-imposed. I'm becoming ashamed of all the ways lovely young companions and I found pleasure together. I'm becoming ashamed of the things that gave me pleasure. I'm becoming ashamed of having shared those things. I know that it's that there's been some sea-change in how we view pleasure and adventure, and I look at the things lovers and I said and did and feel...empty. I feel like I'm losing my past, that the age we live in is telling me that everything I desired and felt and enjoyed was wrong, contemptible, shameful. I hate thinking that the girls I shared all those things with now despise me and reject the things we did and said. I hate that, but there's nothing I can do about it.
Monday, August 19, 2019
Two Five Zero: Leather
A lovely long-legged blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud told me once that a few years ago she'd had an affair with an older, moneyed businessman who was wealthy enough to be part of an Aston-Martin Collectors' Society. I've had serious doubts about her stories in the past--- and I continue to doubt many of her stories. This one is I think more plausible. She works as a chartered accountant in some boutique firm, and it's certainly possible that she could've met him through work. In any case, she does like older men, and she likes posh adventures. According to my friend, her older man had a bank account with $10 million in it (though she never specified whether that was in $US, $NZ, or $AUS) and an obsession with Aston-Martins. Well, I don't see the whole thing as strictly impossible.
I asked her once what her favourite high-end car was, and she responded instantly: an Aston-Martin V12 Vanquish. I don't know if that's the car the businessman had ( if he existed) or if it's something she learned about from brothers who had posters of expensive cars on their walls when they were at school. A $300,000 car, mind you--- and that's in $US. She has however hinted that she's been naked in an Aston-Martin, and it is a great image to imagine her curled up naked on the passenger seat while the Vanquish speeds up the highway along the edge of the Tasman Sea north along the Kapiti coast.
Naked on expensive upholstery--- I have to love that image. I can imagine her in the car, peeling down skinny jeans and pulling off a sweater (she rarely wears anything like bras or underwear) and feeling the coolness of expensive leather against bare skin. (What was that sensation like for her?)There are questions about that that immediately arise, however: would the businessman be thrilled...or worried about passing police cars? And more to the point, would my friend keep her Ray-Bans on? That second question very much intrigues me.
Also--- sex in the Aston-Martin backseat, or did she ride him while he was in the driver's seat and the Vanquish was parked at some overlook? Which is the hotter thing? I'll have to think about that.
She did tell me that once she came up from the beach at Wainuiomata, southeast of Wellington, one night, tossed her bikini into the backseat of her car and drove naked back to her girlfriend's nearby beach house just to see if she could do it. That's plausible, I suppose. In her younger days, she sought out risk and adventure. Wainuiomata is away from the city, and she did love the scene in Steve Erickson's "The Sea Came in at Midnight" where the heroine blithely drives a stolen car naked from L.A. to Vegas one night. Memory says that in the Wainuiomata story she'd have been twenty or twenty-one, still a co-ed at VUW, driving a dark grey BMW her father bought her. I think I envied her the BMW more than I wished I'd been the one she'd been driving to visit.
And many a year ago, a very lovely girl from outside Asheville told me about deciding to prove something to herself and pulling off her sundress and driving home naked in her battered old truck to her parents' house down backroads in North Carolina. High school days, she said--- she'd have been sixteen or seventeen. Why don't lovely long-legged girls tell me these stories any more? She told me that being naked in the truck felt deliciously free on an early-autumn night. It was only being barefoot on the pedals that felt odd. I laughed at that. She'd always focus on the oddest details in telling stories about anything at all.
The stories are wonderful, and I wish I'd been the one driving my NZ friend or that the NC girl had been driving to visit me. I'll laugh though at the idea that the two stories only work if they're about lovely lithe young girls. No one male could ever do those things without being tagged as a serious pervert. For girls, though, it's all about adventures and visual beauty. It's about empowerment and courage and risk and proving something to oneself. Males have to rely on other kinds of challenge.
I do wish, though, that lovely girls were still looking to me to be the designated audience for their rites of passage.
I asked her once what her favourite high-end car was, and she responded instantly: an Aston-Martin V12 Vanquish. I don't know if that's the car the businessman had ( if he existed) or if it's something she learned about from brothers who had posters of expensive cars on their walls when they were at school. A $300,000 car, mind you--- and that's in $US. She has however hinted that she's been naked in an Aston-Martin, and it is a great image to imagine her curled up naked on the passenger seat while the Vanquish speeds up the highway along the edge of the Tasman Sea north along the Kapiti coast.
Naked on expensive upholstery--- I have to love that image. I can imagine her in the car, peeling down skinny jeans and pulling off a sweater (she rarely wears anything like bras or underwear) and feeling the coolness of expensive leather against bare skin. (What was that sensation like for her?)There are questions about that that immediately arise, however: would the businessman be thrilled...or worried about passing police cars? And more to the point, would my friend keep her Ray-Bans on? That second question very much intrigues me.
Also--- sex in the Aston-Martin backseat, or did she ride him while he was in the driver's seat and the Vanquish was parked at some overlook? Which is the hotter thing? I'll have to think about that.
She did tell me that once she came up from the beach at Wainuiomata, southeast of Wellington, one night, tossed her bikini into the backseat of her car and drove naked back to her girlfriend's nearby beach house just to see if she could do it. That's plausible, I suppose. In her younger days, she sought out risk and adventure. Wainuiomata is away from the city, and she did love the scene in Steve Erickson's "The Sea Came in at Midnight" where the heroine blithely drives a stolen car naked from L.A. to Vegas one night. Memory says that in the Wainuiomata story she'd have been twenty or twenty-one, still a co-ed at VUW, driving a dark grey BMW her father bought her. I think I envied her the BMW more than I wished I'd been the one she'd been driving to visit.
And many a year ago, a very lovely girl from outside Asheville told me about deciding to prove something to herself and pulling off her sundress and driving home naked in her battered old truck to her parents' house down backroads in North Carolina. High school days, she said--- she'd have been sixteen or seventeen. Why don't lovely long-legged girls tell me these stories any more? She told me that being naked in the truck felt deliciously free on an early-autumn night. It was only being barefoot on the pedals that felt odd. I laughed at that. She'd always focus on the oddest details in telling stories about anything at all.
The stories are wonderful, and I wish I'd been the one driving my NZ friend or that the NC girl had been driving to visit me. I'll laugh though at the idea that the two stories only work if they're about lovely lithe young girls. No one male could ever do those things without being tagged as a serious pervert. For girls, though, it's all about adventures and visual beauty. It's about empowerment and courage and risk and proving something to oneself. Males have to rely on other kinds of challenge.
I do wish, though, that lovely girls were still looking to me to be the designated audience for their rites of passage.
Saturday, August 10, 2019
Two Four Nine: Belief
I've been presenting stories here, stories by friends and young companions over the years. The stories are things I've saved in my archives, things I want to keep. The stories are things I can read more than once, things I'll want to read again or cite from. Yet there's always the question of belief, of whether others' stories and memories are real.
My friend in London Town recounted what her friend there had told her, and then, after a couple of years of believing what he'd told her, found out (but how?) that the whole secret gay life her friend had revealed was made up. She still hasn't been able to talk to him, and she doesn't know what his reasons may have been. For me, the second issue is more interesting than his life--- what made him create this fake life, and especially this particular fake autobiography?
Friends and young companions have told me things about their past Adventures, and this afternoon I've been wondering about what to believe, and what levels of belief to assign the stories. Some stories--- Marta on the cruise ship, the girl in the kayak shop, the girl at SXSW ---are ones I've known for a while, and I have some faith in the girls' truthfulness. There's at least verisimilitude there, and I can imagine each of those girls seeking out new experiences and pushing limits. It may be only that if a girl has been involved with me, I take it as a given that they're willing to break certain social norms. But I do believe them.
Now I do have a friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud that I can't believe about things. She's told me about a new affair she's having, about being willing to follow her new man anywhere, and about how eager she is to follow him all over the Pacific on adventures. According to her, they went to Bangkok and Pattaya last October for ten days. And all over the South Island of New Zealand (Queenstown, central Otago) on hiking trips over the new year. She says that she went to Tokyo and Osaka with her brother at Easter, and will go back there with her new man at year's end to climb up Mount Fuji and ski in Hokkaido. She's supposed to have gone to Maui for a week in the spring. Her stories include going to Moorea this summer and then taking a boat to Pitcairn Island for a week. She tells me she's booked for Buenos Aires in late September, and that she's making reservations for Singapore. She says she and her man will go to Shanghai and take the high-speed train to Lhasa, then visit Everest Base Camp. She talks about making reservations to visit the Okavango River delta in Botswana and go on safari to Kilimanjaro. She assures me that she's been sitting up nights booking tickets and hotels.
I don't believe this. I don't believe it at all. Bangkok and the Tokyo visit I might believe, but not the rest. She's a successful professional, but the money does add up. More, the time adds up. Corporate life doesn't allow for random ten-day or two-week vacations, and her stories of 2019 add up to a long time away from the office. Her man is supposed to be moneyed, but is he paying for all of this? Is she a sugar baby now? Did she inherit a million or two she hasn't talked about? Even in a country that offers paid annual vacations, how does she maintain a job if she's not in her office for ten days at a time? There are no blog posts of any of her purported journeys, and no photos or postcards. That may be (at least for me) the most suspicious thing. Had I gone to some exotic locale, I'd have sent out postcards to friends and written up a travel memoir when I got back. There's no way I wouldn't have traveler's tales to tell.
Her stories from her teen and early twenties are wonderful. She has lots of Slutty Party Girl tales to tell of growing up in an upper-middle class NZ family. But she's stopped telling those, and while she tells me she's gone to Pitcairn Island and will be going to Buenos Aires and Lhasa, she's sent nothing that passes for evidence.
I was taught to do both History and Law, and looking at her emails as texts, looking with a critical eye, I can't believe her stories at all. What she's constructing it seems is a world as imaginary as the haut-gay life my London friend's acquaintance created. I do wish I knew what she was doing, and why.
My friend in London Town recounted what her friend there had told her, and then, after a couple of years of believing what he'd told her, found out (but how?) that the whole secret gay life her friend had revealed was made up. She still hasn't been able to talk to him, and she doesn't know what his reasons may have been. For me, the second issue is more interesting than his life--- what made him create this fake life, and especially this particular fake autobiography?
Friends and young companions have told me things about their past Adventures, and this afternoon I've been wondering about what to believe, and what levels of belief to assign the stories. Some stories--- Marta on the cruise ship, the girl in the kayak shop, the girl at SXSW ---are ones I've known for a while, and I have some faith in the girls' truthfulness. There's at least verisimilitude there, and I can imagine each of those girls seeking out new experiences and pushing limits. It may be only that if a girl has been involved with me, I take it as a given that they're willing to break certain social norms. But I do believe them.
Now I do have a friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud that I can't believe about things. She's told me about a new affair she's having, about being willing to follow her new man anywhere, and about how eager she is to follow him all over the Pacific on adventures. According to her, they went to Bangkok and Pattaya last October for ten days. And all over the South Island of New Zealand (Queenstown, central Otago) on hiking trips over the new year. She says that she went to Tokyo and Osaka with her brother at Easter, and will go back there with her new man at year's end to climb up Mount Fuji and ski in Hokkaido. She's supposed to have gone to Maui for a week in the spring. Her stories include going to Moorea this summer and then taking a boat to Pitcairn Island for a week. She tells me she's booked for Buenos Aires in late September, and that she's making reservations for Singapore. She says she and her man will go to Shanghai and take the high-speed train to Lhasa, then visit Everest Base Camp. She talks about making reservations to visit the Okavango River delta in Botswana and go on safari to Kilimanjaro. She assures me that she's been sitting up nights booking tickets and hotels.
I don't believe this. I don't believe it at all. Bangkok and the Tokyo visit I might believe, but not the rest. She's a successful professional, but the money does add up. More, the time adds up. Corporate life doesn't allow for random ten-day or two-week vacations, and her stories of 2019 add up to a long time away from the office. Her man is supposed to be moneyed, but is he paying for all of this? Is she a sugar baby now? Did she inherit a million or two she hasn't talked about? Even in a country that offers paid annual vacations, how does she maintain a job if she's not in her office for ten days at a time? There are no blog posts of any of her purported journeys, and no photos or postcards. That may be (at least for me) the most suspicious thing. Had I gone to some exotic locale, I'd have sent out postcards to friends and written up a travel memoir when I got back. There's no way I wouldn't have traveler's tales to tell.
Her stories from her teen and early twenties are wonderful. She has lots of Slutty Party Girl tales to tell of growing up in an upper-middle class NZ family. But she's stopped telling those, and while she tells me she's gone to Pitcairn Island and will be going to Buenos Aires and Lhasa, she's sent nothing that passes for evidence.
I was taught to do both History and Law, and looking at her emails as texts, looking with a critical eye, I can't believe her stories at all. What she's constructing it seems is a world as imaginary as the haut-gay life my London friend's acquaintance created. I do wish I knew what she was doing, and why.
Sunday, August 4, 2019
Two Four Eight: Southwest
I was spending the summer in Mallorca, in Deya, near the monastery where George Sand and Chopin stayed...
That's how Anais Nin's "Mallorca" begins. It's a very brief story, no more than three or four pages in the 'Delta of Venus' collection. The plot of it is simple enough. A young girl, the daughter of a local fisherman, is walking by the sea one evening, and a voice calls to her to come into the water and swim. She thinks the voice belongs to a beautiful and wealthy American tourist girl, and she goes into the water, shedding her white dress. In the water, it turns out that the voice belongs not to the American girl but to the American's younger brother. They swirl around one another, naked in dark water, learning one another's bodies, and have sex there and on the beach.
It's a story that would've made a lovely Zalman King vignette. King understood about sunlight and colours and how to film summer heat. He understood about wordless desire and the beauty of yielding oneself in silence. "Mallorca" should've been made into a 'Red Shoe Diaries' episode, and I'm sure there were episodes that followed similar plots. In another world, a better world, I'd have a complete set of 'Red Shoe Diaries' episodes on DVD.
My friend did write me about her adventure in Austin at the SXSW festival a few years ago. Details matter, I'd told her, and she did offer up the sorts of details I like. She's known me for a decade; she does have a good sense of where my interests lie.
It was March, she wrote. Warm for an early spring. She was in a sundress--- blue-and-white, summery-short ---and Keds. She was in one of the town's older venues, up on the balcony level, watching the band. She'd had a few, maybe a few too many, tequila shots. The club was crowded; there'd been a long line to get in.
What happened next was simple enough. She was leaning on the rail, looking down at the band and the crowds when someone brushed against her from behind. Nothing so unusual in a crowded club, and she thought nothing of it. Then something was behind her, and she could tell it was someone standing almost against her. A finger brushed along her back and side.
There had been boys on the balcony, one or two fairly attractive. She was startled by the touch, but she hadn't been touched in a long while. It just seemed like something that never happened to her, like something in a movie. She started to turn around, but a hand stopped her. She pushed back into him a little and kept looking at the band.
The finger made its way up along her shoulders, then down her side. She flinched when it touched her nipple through her sundress, but she willed herself not to move. I asked her if she'd been scared, and she told me that no, she hadn't felt scared. She'd thought about what people might see, but she felt--- and wanted to feel ---daring. She could hear him behind her, and he pressed his face into her hair. It was very, very important to her not to look and see who he was, she said. What mattered was just the feeling. She wore her hair long that spring, she said, down to her shoulder blades, and she turned her face to hide in her hair.
He held her hips against him, then slid his hands along her thighs under her dress. He worked her underwear down slowly, close enough against her to hide what he was doing. Not a thong, she told me, just basic cotton VS bikini. Sorry to disappoint you, she wrote, but I do wear underwear most of the time. She did wonder how far he'd go in public, if she was just going to be fingered, if she was about to be thrown out of the venue. What mattered, she said, was to just let it happen, whatever it was.
A bit awkward when her underwear got past her knees, she told me. Once she realized that they were coming off, there was the awkwardness of discretion: trying to use his body for cover, trying to step out them without being obvious, trying not to catch them on her Keds. She kicked them against the base of the balcony rail and felt the flat of his hand caressing her.
She didn't hear his zipper come down, but she knew it was happening. The diving board moment, she said. Like being on a diving board at a pool: there's a last moment before you have to just stride down the board and jump. He still hadn't said anything, and she was still keeping her face hidden in the fall of her hair. He ran a finger between her legs and then kissed the side of her neck. She imagined what they looked like, imagined them both as hidden in the shadows and as obvious to anyone who gave them more than a passing glance. Her mind kept jumping to possibilities--- was she wet enough for this to be easy, was he covertly spitting in his hand to lubricate himself? She tried to bend forward just a bit and get into position, and then he was inside her.
Writing about it years later, she told me that it all felt very...easy. She'd been wet enough, and he felt good inside her. No gasps from passers-by, no security guards. He had one hand on her hip and the other around her. He wasn't moving fast or hard--- nothing obvious ---but she did move against him. Like we were dancing, you know? Again, the hard part was willing herself not to turn, not to look. When she was with boyfriends, she'd always preferred face-to-face. But this wasn't about whoever it was behind her, and it wasn't about how he was looking at her or what he thought of her. What she wanted was for this to just happen, not for it to be about him.
It didn't take long. He came inside her, and she came a few moments later. Not any world-shattering orgasm, she said. Nice, but contained. Breathing hard, not screaming. He rested against her back for a bit, and she felt his chin on her shoulder. She kept her focus on the band. In a minute or two, he kissed her shoulder and neck and then moved away, She reached back and squeezed his hand once, and he was gone.
She was twenty-two when that happened. Friends would ask her later if she'd been worried about who he was. What if he'd been ugly or gross? What if he'd been fifty or married? Those things didn't matter, she told them. There was no reason to know. If she'd met him at the bar, or while standing on line for the venue, she'd have cared about all that. But not this way. This way was about the experience, not the person.
You understand, she wrote. You know what I'm talking about. I didn't want him, I wanted to know that I'd done it, that I could do it. I wanted to know what it would be like. I know you understand.
I do understand. And I envy her not so much the sex, but the lights and details and music that made it all into a story,.
That's how Anais Nin's "Mallorca" begins. It's a very brief story, no more than three or four pages in the 'Delta of Venus' collection. The plot of it is simple enough. A young girl, the daughter of a local fisherman, is walking by the sea one evening, and a voice calls to her to come into the water and swim. She thinks the voice belongs to a beautiful and wealthy American tourist girl, and she goes into the water, shedding her white dress. In the water, it turns out that the voice belongs not to the American girl but to the American's younger brother. They swirl around one another, naked in dark water, learning one another's bodies, and have sex there and on the beach.
It's a story that would've made a lovely Zalman King vignette. King understood about sunlight and colours and how to film summer heat. He understood about wordless desire and the beauty of yielding oneself in silence. "Mallorca" should've been made into a 'Red Shoe Diaries' episode, and I'm sure there were episodes that followed similar plots. In another world, a better world, I'd have a complete set of 'Red Shoe Diaries' episodes on DVD.
My friend did write me about her adventure in Austin at the SXSW festival a few years ago. Details matter, I'd told her, and she did offer up the sorts of details I like. She's known me for a decade; she does have a good sense of where my interests lie.
It was March, she wrote. Warm for an early spring. She was in a sundress--- blue-and-white, summery-short ---and Keds. She was in one of the town's older venues, up on the balcony level, watching the band. She'd had a few, maybe a few too many, tequila shots. The club was crowded; there'd been a long line to get in.
What happened next was simple enough. She was leaning on the rail, looking down at the band and the crowds when someone brushed against her from behind. Nothing so unusual in a crowded club, and she thought nothing of it. Then something was behind her, and she could tell it was someone standing almost against her. A finger brushed along her back and side.
There had been boys on the balcony, one or two fairly attractive. She was startled by the touch, but she hadn't been touched in a long while. It just seemed like something that never happened to her, like something in a movie. She started to turn around, but a hand stopped her. She pushed back into him a little and kept looking at the band.
The finger made its way up along her shoulders, then down her side. She flinched when it touched her nipple through her sundress, but she willed herself not to move. I asked her if she'd been scared, and she told me that no, she hadn't felt scared. She'd thought about what people might see, but she felt--- and wanted to feel ---daring. She could hear him behind her, and he pressed his face into her hair. It was very, very important to her not to look and see who he was, she said. What mattered was just the feeling. She wore her hair long that spring, she said, down to her shoulder blades, and she turned her face to hide in her hair.
He held her hips against him, then slid his hands along her thighs under her dress. He worked her underwear down slowly, close enough against her to hide what he was doing. Not a thong, she told me, just basic cotton VS bikini. Sorry to disappoint you, she wrote, but I do wear underwear most of the time. She did wonder how far he'd go in public, if she was just going to be fingered, if she was about to be thrown out of the venue. What mattered, she said, was to just let it happen, whatever it was.
A bit awkward when her underwear got past her knees, she told me. Once she realized that they were coming off, there was the awkwardness of discretion: trying to use his body for cover, trying to step out them without being obvious, trying not to catch them on her Keds. She kicked them against the base of the balcony rail and felt the flat of his hand caressing her.
She didn't hear his zipper come down, but she knew it was happening. The diving board moment, she said. Like being on a diving board at a pool: there's a last moment before you have to just stride down the board and jump. He still hadn't said anything, and she was still keeping her face hidden in the fall of her hair. He ran a finger between her legs and then kissed the side of her neck. She imagined what they looked like, imagined them both as hidden in the shadows and as obvious to anyone who gave them more than a passing glance. Her mind kept jumping to possibilities--- was she wet enough for this to be easy, was he covertly spitting in his hand to lubricate himself? She tried to bend forward just a bit and get into position, and then he was inside her.
Writing about it years later, she told me that it all felt very...easy. She'd been wet enough, and he felt good inside her. No gasps from passers-by, no security guards. He had one hand on her hip and the other around her. He wasn't moving fast or hard--- nothing obvious ---but she did move against him. Like we were dancing, you know? Again, the hard part was willing herself not to turn, not to look. When she was with boyfriends, she'd always preferred face-to-face. But this wasn't about whoever it was behind her, and it wasn't about how he was looking at her or what he thought of her. What she wanted was for this to just happen, not for it to be about him.
It didn't take long. He came inside her, and she came a few moments later. Not any world-shattering orgasm, she said. Nice, but contained. Breathing hard, not screaming. He rested against her back for a bit, and she felt his chin on her shoulder. She kept her focus on the band. In a minute or two, he kissed her shoulder and neck and then moved away, She reached back and squeezed his hand once, and he was gone.
She was twenty-two when that happened. Friends would ask her later if she'd been worried about who he was. What if he'd been ugly or gross? What if he'd been fifty or married? Those things didn't matter, she told them. There was no reason to know. If she'd met him at the bar, or while standing on line for the venue, she'd have cared about all that. But not this way. This way was about the experience, not the person.
You understand, she wrote. You know what I'm talking about. I didn't want him, I wanted to know that I'd done it, that I could do it. I wanted to know what it would be like. I know you understand.
I do understand. And I envy her not so much the sex, but the lights and details and music that made it all into a story,.
Friday, August 2, 2019
Two Four Seven: Handbags
I do have that SXSW story to tell. My friend did send me her handwritten account--- good stationery, good ink. We'll think of that as a gift to me. After all, paper and fountain pen ink have always meant a lot to me. The story itself is worth saving and recounting, and she writes well. It's something I'll try to get to over the weekend. It's something I would like to find comments on, too.
Let's go back to an entry I posted here not a few months ago, and entry about what girls I've known carried in their handbags on nights when encounters and adventures were a possibility. I began with this:
A lovely blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud told me once that from her teens into her later twenties, she habitually carried a flask with her. She'd have it in her backpack or her messenger bag, and it would be filled with Belvedere vodka or Maker's Mark bourbon. The flask itself was engraved, though I forget the exact motto. It may have been Ad Alta, To the Highest, the motto of her posh school, or Semper Paratus, Always Ready, which I suppose goes with the flask. I always admired her for that, and I rather envied her the flask and the party girl life it went with.
My friend told me about the flask, but I never asked her another party girl question. Did she carry condoms with her? She may not have. She once told me that she'd had so much unprotected sex in her teens and early twenties without any complications that she was afraid that she wasn't able to become pregnant at all. It is something I should ask her, though. I've known girls her age who carried a couple of condoms with them at all times--- just in case, they'd say, or you never know what you never know. I've known other girls who always regarded a condom or two as something that was an essential thing for going out. An ID card, $20 or $30 in emergency cash or taxi fare, a debit card, a lipstick, and a condom or two--- those things would be all they'd need for a night at their favourite local bar.
My friend in Wellington did get back to me to these issues. She agreed that her basic list, her basic Hook-Up Kit in her purse on a Friday night, would contain
--1 travel pk. of condoms (3)
--1 travel pk. of wet wipes
-- Small tube of lube
-- Travel toothbrush/toothpaste
That seems very minimalist but functional. I'm assuming she'd already have basic make-up (lipstick, at least) in her purse. She almost never spent the night at a hook-up's place, so minimalist would work: she'd be on her way home well before morning.
Those things would work for her on a night out downtown in Wellington. I did wonder what someone a bit more professional would carry, though. If ever you do wonder what escorts carry in their purses, well, there are lists to be found on-line.
Karley Sciortino at the Slutever website once interviewed a former high-end escort in Montreal whose carry list included:
-- 1 pr. clean underwear
-- A good book
-- Dry shampoo
-- Lube
-- Condoms (multiple sizes)
-- Phone and charger
-- Band-aids (in case you've been wearing stilettos all night)
-- Toothbrush and make-up
-- A sex toy (bullet vibrator or butt plug)
-- $US 500 cash
Other articles about escorts and their lives point out that the phone has a dual purpose--- enabling an escort to check up on her bookings and offering a way to be safe when with a new client. One article suggests chewing gum as well as a travel toothbrush; another suggests latex gloves.
Of course, escorts have to have a much more professional set of concerns than someone like my NZ friend on a night where encounters might happen. She wouldn't have the problem of using cash so as not to leave a paper trail of any locations or deposits. I can see my Wellington friend carrying a small dry shampoo, though. She has always liked the concept of dry shampoo. I know her well enough to know that of she carried a bullet vibrator, it would be a Lelo Mia. She is always brand-loyal. A Dutch website for escorts also lists something called an "action tampon"--- something I wasn't familiar with. It's basically a sponge, designed to allow a woman to have sex during her period without ruining the sheets. The website suggests it's also useful in case there's any bleeding after rough sex or a more well-endowed client. Again, the lists for professionals tend to be much longer and more problem-focused than the Hook-Up Kits I've been asking girls about.
I do have to smile, mind you, since there's no equivalent for men. I suppose a gentleman could carry a condom or two, but that does look a bit predatory. Also, there's the problem familiar to teenaged boys throughout the last sixty years or so: where to keep a condom? I've never really dealt with condoms, but be damned to keeping one in a wallet like some hopelessly optimistic Grade 10 boy. And a condom case (yes, they do come in brass or sterling silver) is far too 1970s for words.
In any case, I do want to find out more from girls I know. I love checklists and inventories. I'll always go through any list of what's in purses, wallets, backpacks, briefcases, travel bags. Details always matter, and there's nothing like looking at lists and inferring lives from them.
Let's go back to an entry I posted here not a few months ago, and entry about what girls I've known carried in their handbags on nights when encounters and adventures were a possibility. I began with this:
A lovely blonde friend down in the Land of the Long White Cloud told me once that from her teens into her later twenties, she habitually carried a flask with her. She'd have it in her backpack or her messenger bag, and it would be filled with Belvedere vodka or Maker's Mark bourbon. The flask itself was engraved, though I forget the exact motto. It may have been Ad Alta, To the Highest, the motto of her posh school, or Semper Paratus, Always Ready, which I suppose goes with the flask. I always admired her for that, and I rather envied her the flask and the party girl life it went with.
My friend told me about the flask, but I never asked her another party girl question. Did she carry condoms with her? She may not have. She once told me that she'd had so much unprotected sex in her teens and early twenties without any complications that she was afraid that she wasn't able to become pregnant at all. It is something I should ask her, though. I've known girls her age who carried a couple of condoms with them at all times--- just in case, they'd say, or you never know what you never know. I've known other girls who always regarded a condom or two as something that was an essential thing for going out. An ID card, $20 or $30 in emergency cash or taxi fare, a debit card, a lipstick, and a condom or two--- those things would be all they'd need for a night at their favourite local bar.
My friend in Wellington did get back to me to these issues. She agreed that her basic list, her basic Hook-Up Kit in her purse on a Friday night, would contain
--1 travel pk. of condoms (3)
--1 travel pk. of wet wipes
-- Small tube of lube
-- Travel toothbrush/toothpaste
That seems very minimalist but functional. I'm assuming she'd already have basic make-up (lipstick, at least) in her purse. She almost never spent the night at a hook-up's place, so minimalist would work: she'd be on her way home well before morning.
Those things would work for her on a night out downtown in Wellington. I did wonder what someone a bit more professional would carry, though. If ever you do wonder what escorts carry in their purses, well, there are lists to be found on-line.
Karley Sciortino at the Slutever website once interviewed a former high-end escort in Montreal whose carry list included:
-- 1 pr. clean underwear
-- A good book
-- Dry shampoo
-- Lube
-- Condoms (multiple sizes)
-- Phone and charger
-- Band-aids (in case you've been wearing stilettos all night)
-- Toothbrush and make-up
-- A sex toy (bullet vibrator or butt plug)
-- $US 500 cash
Other articles about escorts and their lives point out that the phone has a dual purpose--- enabling an escort to check up on her bookings and offering a way to be safe when with a new client. One article suggests chewing gum as well as a travel toothbrush; another suggests latex gloves.
Of course, escorts have to have a much more professional set of concerns than someone like my NZ friend on a night where encounters might happen. She wouldn't have the problem of using cash so as not to leave a paper trail of any locations or deposits. I can see my Wellington friend carrying a small dry shampoo, though. She has always liked the concept of dry shampoo. I know her well enough to know that of she carried a bullet vibrator, it would be a Lelo Mia. She is always brand-loyal. A Dutch website for escorts also lists something called an "action tampon"--- something I wasn't familiar with. It's basically a sponge, designed to allow a woman to have sex during her period without ruining the sheets. The website suggests it's also useful in case there's any bleeding after rough sex or a more well-endowed client. Again, the lists for professionals tend to be much longer and more problem-focused than the Hook-Up Kits I've been asking girls about.
I do have to smile, mind you, since there's no equivalent for men. I suppose a gentleman could carry a condom or two, but that does look a bit predatory. Also, there's the problem familiar to teenaged boys throughout the last sixty years or so: where to keep a condom? I've never really dealt with condoms, but be damned to keeping one in a wallet like some hopelessly optimistic Grade 10 boy. And a condom case (yes, they do come in brass or sterling silver) is far too 1970s for words.
In any case, I do want to find out more from girls I know. I love checklists and inventories. I'll always go through any list of what's in purses, wallets, backpacks, briefcases, travel bags. Details always matter, and there's nothing like looking at lists and inferring lives from them.
Wednesday, July 31, 2019
Two Four Six: Readings
I may have told this story before. As a gentleman of a certain age, I have to worry about that. Memory, the old joke runs, is the second thing to go. If I've told you this before, my apologies. The issue does haunt me, though.
Now I'd want to be clear--- I'm using one experience with one person as a hook for the story, but that person, that individual, isn't herself at issue. What happened is only a point d'appui for launching off into something more abstract. I do hope you'll keep that in mind.
Some years ago I was exploring on-line erotica sites, and I found a site (stories + blog) by a writer who called herself Remittance Girl. Her site bio and some of her blog entries indicated that she was based somewhere in southeast Asia, that she worked (or had worked) as some kind of teacher. I liked that. I probably have a romanticized version of teaching English in Asia in my head, and that seemed like the sort of expat life I'd be leading in a better world. In any case, I liked her site and her stories. The writing was very good, and the tone was dark and transgressive and had a goth-s/m kind of focus. The first story I read was about some sort of sex vampires, and the opening scene in a Moscow aerodrome was very hot. There was a serialized novel, too, a very dark thing about an American hostess in Tokyo kidnapped and used/trained as a sex slave by a Yakuza boss. Again--- excellent writing, all very hot. I thought she was a fine writer, and I enjoyed her essays on expat life, erotica, and the culture wars around sexuality in the new century.
Be clear. I was never friends with her, nor did I try to be. I read along at her blog and left a handful of desultory comments. Again, this was never about the person.
What happened is that one day there was a discussion about the issue of product placement in novels. I forget how it all came up. I had to grin at the topic. I was remembering the so-called "sex and shopping" ("shopping and fucking") novels of the Eighties. Was the lead author of the genre Judith Krantz? The underlying appeal of the genre was that the novels were all about brand names. Not only were the male leads impossibly handsome and impossibly wealthy, the female leads all moved in a world of Rodeo Drive or Upper East Side boutiques. They wore lovingly-described designer dresses and shoes, wore specific kinds of make-up and perfume. The hotels where they conducted affairs all had specific names and well-cataloged amenities. I wasn't a fan of the genre, although the small bookstore where I worked in those days sold a lot of them. What I liked about the genre was the world-building and attention to detail. That's how things went bad,
I think that Remittance Girl was angered by the materialism in books like that. She may have disliked the late-capitalist shopping fantasy or the equation of shopping with orgasm. Anyway, I did comment that I liked details like brand names, that I liked erotica that was set in well-defined upper-class settings. Let's remember that back in the days of the Long Ago I bought copies of "The Official Preppy Handbook" and "The Official Sloane Ranger Handbook" and pored over the lists of class markers--- clothing brands, vocabulary, accessories. One of the great attractions for me in "Story of O" was that the novel required a hidden chateau as a set and moved its characters through elegant Paris townhouses. I commented that I'd always seen class as an essential part of sex. Part of the sexual allure of something like "Story of O" was the idea of life inside a better, more elegant world a few thousand miles from where I grew up. I expected sex, I wrote, to come with the chance to move into better worlds. Sex was always better if the accessories were right--- what the parties wore, what the wines and decor were like, what kinds of hotels or bars or residences were used. Sex itself might be good, I wrote, but it needed sets and settings to make it really work.
That got me blocked and banned. I was never sure why--- whether I was taken as defending late-capitalist materialism or taken as seeing my partners as no more than stage props. Well, it's been years now--- five years, I think. The event stays with me as a symbol. I'm not sure if Remittance Girl is still writing and blogging or if she's on social media--- not that those things matter, and here in 2019, erotica is the last thing people are worried about. Politics in what used to be the lands of liberal democracy has killed the idea of erotica and sex blogs.
I do see the world as made up of stories, not atoms. Details matter to me; they always have. I read to escape into other worlds, worlds that are crafted and shaped. The stories I'd like to be part of take place in a better world than the genteel poverty of my own. The idea of sex for me will always require not flesh as much as it requires sets and settings. Sex in my rooms here can never be as good as sex in stories, sex in a rooftop pool high above Shanghai or an alcove in the Great Hall at Trinity College Cambridge. Or even by a campfire on the Wainuiomata shore. I suppose I have always been attracted to s/m because it requires accessories and accoutrements. I rank-order the places, of course, and I ache with envy when a lovely friend tells me she's had sex in some setting (a hotel pool, the front seat of an Aston-Martin, the office of a distinguished faculty member). Sets matter, settings matter, costumes matter. I want sex to be shaped into a narrative arc, into stories I can tell, into films I can replay and relive in my head.
When I do read erotica, I want details. What did the girl wear exactly? What school or regimental tie did her male partner wear? Which hotel in Melbourne or Manhattan were they at? These things matter. If there's no crafted tale that can be told or relived later, what's the point?
Now I'd want to be clear--- I'm using one experience with one person as a hook for the story, but that person, that individual, isn't herself at issue. What happened is only a point d'appui for launching off into something more abstract. I do hope you'll keep that in mind.
Some years ago I was exploring on-line erotica sites, and I found a site (stories + blog) by a writer who called herself Remittance Girl. Her site bio and some of her blog entries indicated that she was based somewhere in southeast Asia, that she worked (or had worked) as some kind of teacher. I liked that. I probably have a romanticized version of teaching English in Asia in my head, and that seemed like the sort of expat life I'd be leading in a better world. In any case, I liked her site and her stories. The writing was very good, and the tone was dark and transgressive and had a goth-s/m kind of focus. The first story I read was about some sort of sex vampires, and the opening scene in a Moscow aerodrome was very hot. There was a serialized novel, too, a very dark thing about an American hostess in Tokyo kidnapped and used/trained as a sex slave by a Yakuza boss. Again--- excellent writing, all very hot. I thought she was a fine writer, and I enjoyed her essays on expat life, erotica, and the culture wars around sexuality in the new century.
Be clear. I was never friends with her, nor did I try to be. I read along at her blog and left a handful of desultory comments. Again, this was never about the person.
What happened is that one day there was a discussion about the issue of product placement in novels. I forget how it all came up. I had to grin at the topic. I was remembering the so-called "sex and shopping" ("shopping and fucking") novels of the Eighties. Was the lead author of the genre Judith Krantz? The underlying appeal of the genre was that the novels were all about brand names. Not only were the male leads impossibly handsome and impossibly wealthy, the female leads all moved in a world of Rodeo Drive or Upper East Side boutiques. They wore lovingly-described designer dresses and shoes, wore specific kinds of make-up and perfume. The hotels where they conducted affairs all had specific names and well-cataloged amenities. I wasn't a fan of the genre, although the small bookstore where I worked in those days sold a lot of them. What I liked about the genre was the world-building and attention to detail. That's how things went bad,
I think that Remittance Girl was angered by the materialism in books like that. She may have disliked the late-capitalist shopping fantasy or the equation of shopping with orgasm. Anyway, I did comment that I liked details like brand names, that I liked erotica that was set in well-defined upper-class settings. Let's remember that back in the days of the Long Ago I bought copies of "The Official Preppy Handbook" and "The Official Sloane Ranger Handbook" and pored over the lists of class markers--- clothing brands, vocabulary, accessories. One of the great attractions for me in "Story of O" was that the novel required a hidden chateau as a set and moved its characters through elegant Paris townhouses. I commented that I'd always seen class as an essential part of sex. Part of the sexual allure of something like "Story of O" was the idea of life inside a better, more elegant world a few thousand miles from where I grew up. I expected sex, I wrote, to come with the chance to move into better worlds. Sex was always better if the accessories were right--- what the parties wore, what the wines and decor were like, what kinds of hotels or bars or residences were used. Sex itself might be good, I wrote, but it needed sets and settings to make it really work.
That got me blocked and banned. I was never sure why--- whether I was taken as defending late-capitalist materialism or taken as seeing my partners as no more than stage props. Well, it's been years now--- five years, I think. The event stays with me as a symbol. I'm not sure if Remittance Girl is still writing and blogging or if she's on social media--- not that those things matter, and here in 2019, erotica is the last thing people are worried about. Politics in what used to be the lands of liberal democracy has killed the idea of erotica and sex blogs.
I do see the world as made up of stories, not atoms. Details matter to me; they always have. I read to escape into other worlds, worlds that are crafted and shaped. The stories I'd like to be part of take place in a better world than the genteel poverty of my own. The idea of sex for me will always require not flesh as much as it requires sets and settings. Sex in my rooms here can never be as good as sex in stories, sex in a rooftop pool high above Shanghai or an alcove in the Great Hall at Trinity College Cambridge. Or even by a campfire on the Wainuiomata shore. I suppose I have always been attracted to s/m because it requires accessories and accoutrements. I rank-order the places, of course, and I ache with envy when a lovely friend tells me she's had sex in some setting (a hotel pool, the front seat of an Aston-Martin, the office of a distinguished faculty member). Sets matter, settings matter, costumes matter. I want sex to be shaped into a narrative arc, into stories I can tell, into films I can replay and relive in my head.
When I do read erotica, I want details. What did the girl wear exactly? What school or regimental tie did her male partner wear? Which hotel in Melbourne or Manhattan were they at? These things matter. If there's no crafted tale that can be told or relived later, what's the point?
Saturday, July 27, 2019
Two Four Five: Sounds
So, in late May a dozen years ago a lovely girl at Cambridge was doing this:
This afternoon I lay on the floor of my room and touched myself as the notes of "Salvete Virgenes" moaned at me from across the room and the rain clouded my windows. What is it about sex and religion that really gets me going?
Divine
Divine
Dionysia.
It took me a while to discover that 'Salvete Virgenes' wasn't a piece of ecclesiastical ritual chant but rather a piece done by Hans Zimmer and Richard Harvey for the soundtrack of "The Da Vinci Code". Well, it is an eerie and lovely song--- haunting. I've never seen the film, and I have no particular interest in it. But the song itself has gone into my laptop iTunes. Very much the sort of night music I do like.
The image of a lovely, long-legged girl at Cambridge caressing herself in her college rooms while 'Salvete Virgenes' plays will stay with me today. It's an image that manages to trigger so many things for me, so many of the things that always form the scaffolding of my own fantasies. Once again, I wish I could hear her voice telling me all of her own memories of the afternoon.
She wrote this, too--- wrote it that same spring a dozen years ago:
I've been listening to that old Bright Eyes song, 'The Calendar Hung Itself'. I haven't done so in ages. It always brings out the worst (best?) recklessly passionate side of me no matter how sensible I might have been feeling just beforehand.
I think I'd like to dance with her to that song. I'd like to play it while we did vodka shots and she told me of all the recklessly passionate things the song had inspired her to do back in her days as a posh schoolgirl and an Oxbridge undergraduate.
She's quite tall and long-legged, my friend is. Dancing with her would be a lovely thing, and all the more so because of how painfully long it's been since I was on a dance floor. Too long as well since I've had a leggy posh girl explain--- and demonstrate ---what passionate and reckless mean to her.
This afternoon I lay on the floor of my room and touched myself as the notes of "Salvete Virgenes" moaned at me from across the room and the rain clouded my windows. What is it about sex and religion that really gets me going?
Divine
Divine
Dionysia.
It took me a while to discover that 'Salvete Virgenes' wasn't a piece of ecclesiastical ritual chant but rather a piece done by Hans Zimmer and Richard Harvey for the soundtrack of "The Da Vinci Code". Well, it is an eerie and lovely song--- haunting. I've never seen the film, and I have no particular interest in it. But the song itself has gone into my laptop iTunes. Very much the sort of night music I do like.
The image of a lovely, long-legged girl at Cambridge caressing herself in her college rooms while 'Salvete Virgenes' plays will stay with me today. It's an image that manages to trigger so many things for me, so many of the things that always form the scaffolding of my own fantasies. Once again, I wish I could hear her voice telling me all of her own memories of the afternoon.
She wrote this, too--- wrote it that same spring a dozen years ago:
I've been listening to that old Bright Eyes song, 'The Calendar Hung Itself'. I haven't done so in ages. It always brings out the worst (best?) recklessly passionate side of me no matter how sensible I might have been feeling just beforehand.
I think I'd like to dance with her to that song. I'd like to play it while we did vodka shots and she told me of all the recklessly passionate things the song had inspired her to do back in her days as a posh schoolgirl and an Oxbridge undergraduate.
She's quite tall and long-legged, my friend is. Dancing with her would be a lovely thing, and all the more so because of how painfully long it's been since I was on a dance floor. Too long as well since I've had a leggy posh girl explain--- and demonstrate ---what passionate and reckless mean to her.
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