I had stopped at the pharmacy on my way home, buying some stomach stuff, antacids, floss, and as I turned to the lady on the other side of the counter I asked for a specification I had never had asked for before "Do you have extra large condoms?" The woman was over 50, with a very bad hair dye, and a facial expression that clearly depicted that not only had she never used extra large condoms, but that she hadn't even had the necessity of thinking of condoms in years. "And lubricant too?"
She walked away, into the abyss of medicine boxes and pharmaceutical smells.
I stretched myself over the counter, trying to look at the condom boxes on the other side.
The middle aged acid lady returned with boxes of flu and stomach and all sorts of boring things to put into the body.
"So, do you have extra large condoms?" I was ignored, once more, she gave me the meds, and then with a toss of her head, she pointed to a younger girl, the assistant, who would, from this point onwards, help me out in my condomnastic endeavors.
"Yes, so, I'm looking for extra large condoms." I had to repeat once more, the girl, with really highlighted highlights smiled, and said she didn't know. So there we were, looking at the durex and the trojan, the ultra-thin and the ribbed, the extra pleasure and the extra-protection, and all the candy-like-condom boxes looking for those specific ones. "The black ones, magnum, I think those are the ones" I told her. She smiled and gave them to me. "Yes, I think these are it." Great, I responded, and we exchanged smiles, again, "What about lubricant?"
"Oh, this one works wonders, its really fun." And she gave me a box with the corniest of the corny sunsets painted on it, the outline of a couple and the extra-pleasure legend tried to convince whomever had picked it up that that was it, the ultimate lubricant pleasure, what we had all been waiting for, but hadnt found as of yet.
Mmmmh, I thought and pondered. "And does it work with condoms?" I asked; such a responsible adult I'd become, not only was I looking for health and pleasure, but I wanted to combine them and be a real postmodernist kind of girl. We turned the box over and over, looking at the happily pleasured couple, and at the instructions, "Well, I don't know if they work for those condoms, but with others it does, and very well." and she winked. "Ha, well, I haven't tried these condoms either but the ones I have don't fit him..." and the complicity of the size of a penis was exchanged.
I took a box of extra large condoms and of a variety of lubricants home, you never know what kind of lubricant you might be in the mood for. Especially when you are using extra large sizes.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
books, emptiness and rainbows
He picked me up 10 minutes after the time he said he would. I made him wait ten more. We saw each other, measuring our sizes, our likes, our clothes. I realized that we had known each other in another life, when we were 9 years old, and he pulled my hair, and I had a crush on someone 10 years older than me.
He was handsome, in a darkish sort of way, he wore his suit, attempting to pretend that it was his normal attire, that he had been born to be elegant. I smiled. Elegance is carried within.
He didn't know where to take me, so I said, lets be adventurous and just drive around until we reach a restaurant we seem to like. It didn't work out. I took him to a place I knew.
we talked, he talked, he exposed all of his ego on the table. and I told him of the emptiness I sensed in him. He invited me to an adventure... he would take me to an amusement park, now? I asked with excitement. No, we would have to plan it. My disappointment seeped into the pasta I was eating.
All in all, I would have rather stayed at home.
I got home, and decided that I didn't want to date anymore (liar-liar, indeed, but hell, we can all lie to ourselves once in a while)... and I had my books and my poetry to protect me.
And I had just bought new batteries for my best friend, the one that made me see blue rainbows in bed. Sigh.
He was handsome, in a darkish sort of way, he wore his suit, attempting to pretend that it was his normal attire, that he had been born to be elegant. I smiled. Elegance is carried within.
He didn't know where to take me, so I said, lets be adventurous and just drive around until we reach a restaurant we seem to like. It didn't work out. I took him to a place I knew.
we talked, he talked, he exposed all of his ego on the table. and I told him of the emptiness I sensed in him. He invited me to an adventure... he would take me to an amusement park, now? I asked with excitement. No, we would have to plan it. My disappointment seeped into the pasta I was eating.
All in all, I would have rather stayed at home.
I got home, and decided that I didn't want to date anymore (liar-liar, indeed, but hell, we can all lie to ourselves once in a while)... and I had my books and my poetry to protect me.
And I had just bought new batteries for my best friend, the one that made me see blue rainbows in bed. Sigh.
Friday, February 13, 2009
the stare
I'm wondering if the encounter of the third type that happened a couple of days ago changed me completely...
I walk in the street, and they stare at me, men smile, smirk, do the elevator look, and continue walking.
Is it me? was it him?
I'm wondering what happened to me, was I this attractive before he seduced me and I just didn't notice, or do men smell the post-sex aroma on me? Do they want to fuck me? Do I want to fuck them?
I see them coming towards me, smirking, smiling, and I picture them kissing me, all of them at the same time, three, four, seven random men in the street, just hoggling over me in the middle of the sidewalk, caressing my post-orgasm aromatic skin, licking me... and I let them. I'm in a kind of euphoric trance, and everybody I see in the street, (almost everybody, at least), seems attractive, and I wonder if I would let them fuck me.
I'm wondering, and while I figure out what's happening around me, I enjoy the attention. Definitely.
I walk in the street, and they stare at me, men smile, smirk, do the elevator look, and continue walking.
Is it me? was it him?
I'm wondering what happened to me, was I this attractive before he seduced me and I just didn't notice, or do men smell the post-sex aroma on me? Do they want to fuck me? Do I want to fuck them?
I see them coming towards me, smirking, smiling, and I picture them kissing me, all of them at the same time, three, four, seven random men in the street, just hoggling over me in the middle of the sidewalk, caressing my post-orgasm aromatic skin, licking me... and I let them. I'm in a kind of euphoric trance, and everybody I see in the street, (almost everybody, at least), seems attractive, and I wonder if I would let them fuck me.
I'm wondering, and while I figure out what's happening around me, I enjoy the attention. Definitely.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
blushing
(A dress, opened with buttons, exhales a red bra with white lace, on top of it there is a brown sweater, big, soft... on the floor two pairs of underwear rest, one red and one gray... pants, socks, stockings... I didn't touch the evidence, it was too beautiful as it was.)
I see him, in my head, touching my skin, and I blush. I see him in my head, licking my back, beginning at the nook of my neck and then slowly, tongue by tongue, going down, between my legs, and I blush. I hear him groaning as I wet myself between his lips, and I blush.
His skin is silky, its plastic, its velvety, its just absolutely touchable. His skin blends into mine, his body, bittersweet, tastes like chocolate, lovely, just lovely to be in his arms.
He woke me up, he kissed me up, he sexed me up.
I think of all the things he did to me a couple of nights ago, and I pulse, I blush, I vibrate and my cheeks are red with the remembrance of his body on mine, his smell permeating into me...
He invited me to his house, he cooked soul food, we drank a bottle and a half of red wine, we talked about classic porn, there was a Spanish/ English dictionary lying around and I picked it up. "Ask a question", I said. He did, I opened up the dictionary at random, flipping the words between my fingers. "Proximity", I read. Good, he said, but who should go near who... The couch where he was lying was bigger, so I stood up and melted into his arms, feeling the wine, the desire and the sea food playing with my temperature...
We kissed, he touched me. We kissed, I touched him. I was amazed, he was so beautiful, and so touchable... I didn't sleep much, and when I could, I preferred to watch him sleeping as he wrapped himself around me.
The rest of the things we did, well, they are left to my blushing and to your imagination... but I can say that some nights later, as I remember instants of that memorable moon filled evening, I blush as if I were still a practicing virgin.
I see him, in my head, touching my skin, and I blush. I see him in my head, licking my back, beginning at the nook of my neck and then slowly, tongue by tongue, going down, between my legs, and I blush. I hear him groaning as I wet myself between his lips, and I blush.
His skin is silky, its plastic, its velvety, its just absolutely touchable. His skin blends into mine, his body, bittersweet, tastes like chocolate, lovely, just lovely to be in his arms.
He woke me up, he kissed me up, he sexed me up.
I think of all the things he did to me a couple of nights ago, and I pulse, I blush, I vibrate and my cheeks are red with the remembrance of his body on mine, his smell permeating into me...
He invited me to his house, he cooked soul food, we drank a bottle and a half of red wine, we talked about classic porn, there was a Spanish/ English dictionary lying around and I picked it up. "Ask a question", I said. He did, I opened up the dictionary at random, flipping the words between my fingers. "Proximity", I read. Good, he said, but who should go near who... The couch where he was lying was bigger, so I stood up and melted into his arms, feeling the wine, the desire and the sea food playing with my temperature...
We kissed, he touched me. We kissed, I touched him. I was amazed, he was so beautiful, and so touchable... I didn't sleep much, and when I could, I preferred to watch him sleeping as he wrapped himself around me.
The rest of the things we did, well, they are left to my blushing and to your imagination... but I can say that some nights later, as I remember instants of that memorable moon filled evening, I blush as if I were still a practicing virgin.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Help Me Eros
He is smoking into the phone, on the other side there is a girl from the suicide line. He smokes into the phone, and she inhales the smoke on the other side, her cubicle is suddenly transformed into an erotic cube, her clothes barely cover her in the girlish school style, holding the phone with one hand, closing her eyes, she starts to touch herself...
She sees them playing pool, her husband and his lover, they play and she walks by, not creating any disturbance in the way they play. she walks away, with an Ice cream bucket cradling peacefully in her arms... the two men continue playing, the husband shows the lover how to aim, and as the balls touch, I can see that neither one of them has pants on, their buttocks stick out while they aim...
She has walked away. She enters teh bathroom and leaves the bucket of ice-cream aside, she looks into the tube, at the slithering beings that live there. They have been her silent lovers for a while, but just with the foot fetish. This time it will be different, she undresses for them, a bit shyly leaves her underwear on, her huge breasts storm freely into the water.
They cover her, and little by little, she takes her pantys off, she opens her legs, and they, all of them, caress her...
He smokes his joint, and breathes into her face. He smokes a joint, and breathes into her face. He smokes a joint, and breathes into her face. He has captivated them with his smoke. They are on the roof, three of them, the fourth, she stares at them from the staircase. The three of them on the roof, and the light that melts on their skins has figurines, designs, making them plastic, artifical, while the three of them make love and the fourth stares...
He makes love to her in a white room, black bed. The light comes from every corner. He makes love to her in a white room, holding her on top of a black bed. He carries her while makes love to her on a black bed, standing up, in a white room. He loves making love to her in a full light white room on top of a black bed, holding her, she floats... her hands touch the black bed... her feet never did.
A photograph oozes from each frame; texture stems from the struggle between eros and thanatos... the seemingly call girls sell cigarretes and seeds in glass frames, life sized dolls, as they struggle with their bodies and desires, being in this self-abandonement of the night. He sells his life, selling his things. A grain of rice as their metaphor, they sink into photographs that frame each of their seconds.
(Snowflakes made of days.)
Directed by Lee Kang Sheng
She sees them playing pool, her husband and his lover, they play and she walks by, not creating any disturbance in the way they play. she walks away, with an Ice cream bucket cradling peacefully in her arms... the two men continue playing, the husband shows the lover how to aim, and as the balls touch, I can see that neither one of them has pants on, their buttocks stick out while they aim...
She has walked away. She enters teh bathroom and leaves the bucket of ice-cream aside, she looks into the tube, at the slithering beings that live there. They have been her silent lovers for a while, but just with the foot fetish. This time it will be different, she undresses for them, a bit shyly leaves her underwear on, her huge breasts storm freely into the water.
They cover her, and little by little, she takes her pantys off, she opens her legs, and they, all of them, caress her...
He smokes his joint, and breathes into her face. He smokes a joint, and breathes into her face. He smokes a joint, and breathes into her face. He has captivated them with his smoke. They are on the roof, three of them, the fourth, she stares at them from the staircase. The three of them on the roof, and the light that melts on their skins has figurines, designs, making them plastic, artifical, while the three of them make love and the fourth stares...
He makes love to her in a white room, black bed. The light comes from every corner. He makes love to her in a white room, holding her on top of a black bed. He carries her while makes love to her on a black bed, standing up, in a white room. He loves making love to her in a full light white room on top of a black bed, holding her, she floats... her hands touch the black bed... her feet never did.
A photograph oozes from each frame; texture stems from the struggle between eros and thanatos... the seemingly call girls sell cigarretes and seeds in glass frames, life sized dolls, as they struggle with their bodies and desires, being in this self-abandonement of the night. He sells his life, selling his things. A grain of rice as their metaphor, they sink into photographs that frame each of their seconds.
(Snowflakes made of days.)
Directed by Lee Kang Sheng
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
it smells like...
He was perfect. Beyond perfect. Blue eyes, darkish skin, salt and pepper hair, doing a PhD in philosophy, read poetry, wrote stories, a stranger in this land... absolutely perfect.
So, after a few emotional crisis, I was able to see him, at his place; there is nothing sexier than letting a guy cook for you, so I did just that.
He hadn't finished cooking when I got there, lingerie touching skin ready, with a scarf that profiled my neck and a smile that didn't say too much.
He, lets say his name was J, so J acted the cutest way as he tried to cook for me. I had seen him before at a bar, we had talked for hours about poetry and religion, philosophy and contemporary art... the smoke of the cigarettes that passed in that conversation stuck to our skins and throats... two intellectuals trying to flirt and getting stuck in poses. Lovely.
This time it was different, we had talked on the phone a few times, we had confessed indecent things over the phone, and, despite all our mind masturbations, we were quite horny, and J was nervous and showed it with pots and pans, I just stood there, smoking, drinking, and smiling.
So he cooked and I watched, drinking my wine, and picturing him in my home... he would be cooking while I read some filthy poem from the Victorian era out loud, he would do the laundry while I recited a bit of Heidegger, he would fold my pantys while I wrote... It would be perfect... and there would be lovemaking in the morning and at night and in the afternoon, we would make love on top of our philosophy books, we would masturbate each other as we wrote the things we needed to write, we would write very deep intellectual letters and jerk off as we read them... he was perfect, and I thought about all of this as he cooked for me.
We ate, and had more wine, and I wet my lips thinking how perfect he was.
and then, then... it happened. He kissed me.
and my dream home, my dreams, my hornyness, it all went down a very existentialist drain.
I thought maybe it wasnt true, maybe it was me, maybe something was wrong with me... and I tried it again. But no. He smelled like Cheese. J smelled like hickory cheese, like blue cheese, like cheese. and seriously, who wants to smell cheese in bed?
I don't have the cheese fetish well developed, and was quite upset about that. I tried, I really did. Again and again, I smelled his neck, there was cheese, I smelled his bellybutton, cheese. I didnt go further south, because I didnt want to encounter Raclette or something even worse...
and the dream poped with the cheese smell. J was perfect, except for his natural B.O.
I am sure he is still searching for a mousy girl who will adore him.
So, after a few emotional crisis, I was able to see him, at his place; there is nothing sexier than letting a guy cook for you, so I did just that.
He hadn't finished cooking when I got there, lingerie touching skin ready, with a scarf that profiled my neck and a smile that didn't say too much.
He, lets say his name was J, so J acted the cutest way as he tried to cook for me. I had seen him before at a bar, we had talked for hours about poetry and religion, philosophy and contemporary art... the smoke of the cigarettes that passed in that conversation stuck to our skins and throats... two intellectuals trying to flirt and getting stuck in poses. Lovely.
This time it was different, we had talked on the phone a few times, we had confessed indecent things over the phone, and, despite all our mind masturbations, we were quite horny, and J was nervous and showed it with pots and pans, I just stood there, smoking, drinking, and smiling.
So he cooked and I watched, drinking my wine, and picturing him in my home... he would be cooking while I read some filthy poem from the Victorian era out loud, he would do the laundry while I recited a bit of Heidegger, he would fold my pantys while I wrote... It would be perfect... and there would be lovemaking in the morning and at night and in the afternoon, we would make love on top of our philosophy books, we would masturbate each other as we wrote the things we needed to write, we would write very deep intellectual letters and jerk off as we read them... he was perfect, and I thought about all of this as he cooked for me.
We ate, and had more wine, and I wet my lips thinking how perfect he was.
and then, then... it happened. He kissed me.
and my dream home, my dreams, my hornyness, it all went down a very existentialist drain.
I thought maybe it wasnt true, maybe it was me, maybe something was wrong with me... and I tried it again. But no. He smelled like Cheese. J smelled like hickory cheese, like blue cheese, like cheese. and seriously, who wants to smell cheese in bed?
I don't have the cheese fetish well developed, and was quite upset about that. I tried, I really did. Again and again, I smelled his neck, there was cheese, I smelled his bellybutton, cheese. I didnt go further south, because I didnt want to encounter Raclette or something even worse...
and the dream poped with the cheese smell. J was perfect, except for his natural B.O.
I am sure he is still searching for a mousy girl who will adore him.
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