Monday, January 09, 2012

I'm Back...

I've missed writing--and by taking a quick look at my last post, I am pathetically bad at consistency, so I'm taking the bull by the horns and coming back to my voice here.

Actually, it was a client who told me that I was "wasting my time in real estate and should write a book" instead. Her words, while complimenting me on the good stories that I have, read like a bad horoscopes. Little does she know that work is quiet and that always makes me very edgy. And it's precisely at times like this when an unexpected client calls and sets my work world on its ear and then I get swamped and I'm happy.

But now, my friend, I am not happy. I have too much time on my hands; too much frustration; too much static. So, it's over a year later since my last blog post and not much has changed. The political consultant who bored me so and I are still fucking each other from time to time and I realize this weekend that I don't even think we like each other. I mean, I would never go out of my way for him or do anything for him and I wondered what makes our arrangement different from prostitution. I guess that there is no exchange of money, which makes our arrangement legal--and legal is good. I think we're vaguely attracted to each other, which is another plus; I mean, I did have a crush on him a decade ago. And, whereas most people think that prostitutes don't enjoy themselves--which they may not--both he and I are getting a benefit here and not really one of us is being "used." Or rather, we're both being "used" and we really don't care. There is also the broker who I sometimes have sex with, but sleeping with him is like breaking your diet to eat bad chocolate cake--way better in theory than in practice and then you've wasted the calories and are totally NOT satisfied.

Suffice it to say, in the boy department, things remain the same. Though, thankfully, according to my psychic friends, they are soon to change and I will meet and be with someone that I love having sex with--because I will love him. It's exciting but strange to think about. My shell has gotten so hard after years of being single.

Meanwhile, every bit of my apartment is covered with dust because I'm doing big renovations which are now, officially, driving me crazy. I cried this morning when the workers came and at this point, I think that they should just move in and work 20 hours of the day and then take a little nap and get back to it. Because it's me, another big problem that I noticed is that sex is more challenging. As much as I like the idea of being caught, like anyone else, I don't like having sex in the living room with all the windows open and I don't like not being able to be loud because I'm basically having sex just a few feet away from the front door. It was so cute when I was 23 and now...not so much.

Wow. I'm not very interesting anymore. And I'm not very different--but it does feel good to be back.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010


First, I want to thank Pinky's on 89th street for their free wi-fi, which is making my blog update possible. I have to admit that part of me thinks that pedicures are necessities, not treats.

Anyway, I relayed the following story to my shrink today, during our monthly appointment, and now it's your turn, dear reader (s). (I'm not convinced there are more than one of you, but I digress).

In a fit of bored and disgust with being ignored by the boys that I was fucking (the broker and the political consultant and his "jammed" schedule), and the client that I have a crush on, I decided to create my own fun and post something filthy on Craigslist. I wish I could explain why I delight in this so--why it's fun to see men get so wound up and how many married men are looking for lovers, but even more basic than all of that--I like to see how men market themselves on these website. They know that women get flooded with responses and I like to see how they chose to differentiate themselves--few do a good job at this.

My posting said that I was looking for a new lover--which is mostly true, but also, I'm looking for someone who I can talk to, who I actually like as a person, which I have had only sporadically these last few months (I could talk to the political consultant but he was so NOT empathetic and a little selfish, not to mention that he had no weird or unusual fantasies, so we mostly just had oral and regular sex. BOR-ING.) It also said a little about me including that I have more intellectual interests, am Jewish and that my age. I was honest and divulged that I was looking for someone who would NOT want to stay over, get emotionally involved or want to bond with me. I have pretty strict rules that I eventually want to break or get broken (I didn't mention this part).

There were no shortage of replies asking if I was real, calling me baby (my pet peeve), telling me what I need and why I am not getting what I'm looking for (one guy told me that having a pit bull is a cock block), remains never ending. Throngs of twentysomethings aren't getting laid in this town (what?! What are the girls doing??) and several times I was asked if I wanted to be the cougar--which is NOT my idea of a compliment or something to aspire to. I'm not even 40--a cougar? Really? And, what shocked me even more is that when I didn't respond, I got repeated emails from some men, resending their original response with an indignant note attached when I didn't rush to email them back and invite them over. I did speak to one guy--a self-proclaimed grand puba of finance, complete with his own hedge fund, who spoke to me like he was interviewing my vagina for a job (I used my grown up voice and all my big words when talking to him) who chastised me a little for not being more spontaneous and was disappointed that after talking to me for 20 minutes, I wasn't rushing into a cab and to his fancy "rental in a doorman building" to have sex that would, as he promised, "leave me grinning from ear to ear." Little does he know, but to women, that is code for, "I'll try to ring your clitoris like it's a doorbell because no one ever taught me the proper way to do this, but I am a legend in my own mind." I emailed him shortly after our phone conversation and declined our pending coffee date; he was surprised and told me again that I completely misunderstood him. Why would I want a lover that I cannot communicate with, aside from the fact that the vagina he was trying to interview on the phone came attached to an entire body? Would I expect that because he can't understand simple sentences of English, he can understand what my body is seeking?

It's days later and the emails are still trickling in--still a combination of men who are horny at work (do I make office calls? What are they expecting?) and other men who are STILL indignant because they didn't initially get a response from me. Surely, it was a mistake because I would want them. I'm just a foolish girl, who must not be real.

At the end, I chose someone who isn't Jewish, who knows that I'm in love with someone else, who doesn't want a one-night stand but an on-going relationship, who likes me in addition to wanting to fuck me, and despite myself, I'll probably date for a little while. Leave it to me to screw up a CL posting and get a relationship out of it.

Friday, November 12, 2010

You Can't Fool with Spirituality

I'm growing convinced that no one is reading this blog, but honestly, it feels good to be writing again, so alas, I'll just keep on keeping on.

The day began pretty bleak--I forced myself NOT to text/call/or email the famous client, though all week I've been thinking about him and making myself come; my other lover, the political consultant, is MIA and I'm sick of waiting for him to find an opening in his "jammed" schedule, so unbeknownst to him, he's out, so I did went to my tried to true: I went to the Bronx to have my cards read by the Spanish women at the Botanica and bought love candles. I have to go back on Wednesday to be "cleansed." AND, I posted an ad on Craigslist for a lover--of course, I got a ton of responses and wrote back a comprehensive mass email to the few people whose responses I liked and haven't heard back from any of them. Of course, it is Friday night, and I may be the only one who is home in bed with their dog.

During my reading, I was asking about the "Cuban" and the "Jew"--this is how I differentiate between the two men that I want to be with--the Cuban who is married but I cannot pass up the opportunity to have an affair with him, and the Jew who I want to marry. Liz, who read my cards, got frustrated with me--confused and she pointedly asked me who I want. "You cannot fool with spirituality"--and apparently, spirituality doesn't approve polyamory.

My plan seems so straightforward--I want to have an affair with the Cuban, while I follow the Jew and get back together with him. I told her this complicated scenario about having the Cuban's child and raising it with the Jew. I made it confusing for Liz and I asked too many questions and she got annoyed because I wasn't taking it seriously--I was playing a 'what if' with the spirit world. And she told me to choose. For nearly 3 years, I've been choosing the Jew and now I chose the Cuban--the wrong person, the one who is the opposite for me, that won't last forever--the one with repercussions.

In the meantime, while they are in their respective homes, neither of which are New York, I am seeking out that guy who will have afternoons free, who will do dirty things, not want to sleep over, who will pretend we're dating for 2 hours a week and not get in the way of the Cuban or the Jew. And, I will continue to light candle, say my prayers and take Spirituality very seriously (even though the Spirit world doesn't approve of my slutness.)

Happy Friday night!, reader (s).

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

House of Cards

I don't want to be your friend
I just want to be your love
No matter how it ends
No matter how it starts
Forget about your house of cards
and I'll do mine
And fall off the table, get swept under

I am not going to write about music, but I just have to say that this is one of my favorite songs in creation and if you ever want to see evidence of God's gifts to mankind, go see Radiohead in concert.

Now, about me...these lyrics are exactly what I was wrestling with last night--thinking about being friends and being lovers. Since my last posting in 2009, I've come to the conclusion that I am a slut. The word just comes out of one's mouth sharply and we've assigned all these awful meanings to be word, which is truly unfortunate. As a slut, I'm not really allowed to just enjoy sex and enjoy how it feels, but there has to be some sad, sinister underlying reason-like, I gain my self-esteem only from sex, or that is the only way I can feel loved. I just picture Christian ministers shaking their head at me..."poor girl, she doesn't value herself." (Good thing I'm a Jew.) But I do value myself--but I also really enjoy sex and I like most things about it. I like thinking about it, I like talking about it, I like writing about it, I like creating scenarios about it in my head, and I like doing it. And because I like doing it with a variety of different men--and it makes me a slut.

It's not just the act I like, but it's all of it...and the sexual preamble is what I am desperately missing now in my life. I actually got into bed last night and watched many hours of television because I couldn't get interested in anything else, and I realized, that I miss my passion. I miss flirtation and sexual talk. I miss hands on my skin and being on top and feeling so good that I can't speak. I miss being contorted into different positions and sweating and the grunts and moans and the pushing and pulling. It's been weeks and I miss it from my soul. I'm not horny, per se, but I just miss it all.

And, despite what people say...I do like doing it with many people. I like lovers who are good at different things, those who sound like they are in a bad porn film (and make me laugh), and those who have strong arms, the ones who lie on top of me and after sex try to have a conversation about politics or what I love about Washington, DC or films; I like the 50 year old men who won't have sex in any position except for missionary but give ridiculously good head, and I like sitting in a cab with a gorgeous man and feeling his hand on my denim-covered thigh and wonder what would happen if he moved it up my leg and where would it lead. I like watching men with different personal life circumstances and watching them abandon their priorities and responsibilities for a brief time of carnal enjoyment. I like to see their reactions and because every man is different, it never gets boring.

I have a famous client these days, though I haven't seen him in weeks. My therapist, who I see once a month tells me that "he's page 6" material, but to me, he's just a guy who happened to be good at his job, did it for about a dozen years, made a lot of money and then retired. Over the days that I spent with him, he was the guy with his leg across my lap; who I ate bagels in the park with and took for great grilled cheese. If the week we spent together had been dates instead of a small series of business meetings, we would have been wanting to move in together by the end of the week. He's famous to everyone else, but to me, he's a guy--who takes my breath away. Who, when he left, I felt like someone had hit me in the stomach. And he makes me not want to have sex with him. Strange. I texted him once he was back home and told him that I'd wanted him to kiss me--at one point we looked at each other and I had a visceral reaction that I know couldn't have been just me feeling it. He tried to kiss me on the street but I'm not a kiss on the street person. And, from him, I wanted the sort of kiss that I couldn't have on the street--I wanted the sort of kiss that begins with just lips and ends with such intensity that you can't wait until the clothes are off and are still undressing each other while he is inside me.

While he was in town, I happened to have my performance review with my boss who is beside herself with excitement that he is my client and made me promise to not have sex with him...until the deal is over. This is actually a painful thought for me. I was writing about him last night and I realized that he knows the professional me--and when we've talked about kissing each other, he may think that is my limit--that I'm somewhat of a prude. There is no way that I can explain that I am a slut without it impacting how he looks at me as a professional. It's a house of cards that would make him excited and curious about me personally but professionally, he would completely discount me. Because of the definition that we've assigned to what and who sluts "must" be--sluts are not women who have jobs, who wear conservative clothes, who have just changed back to the Democratic party from the Republican party, who are dedicated to their family. I look, smell and act like a conservative woman--career oriented, the sort of person who only gives blow jobs under duress or to be polite, not because she likes it. I'm not sure how a slut should look or act--probably much more sexual than I appear to be--this client, I feel sure, was fooled into thinking that my talking about kissing him was "racy"--he doesn't know me.

I have to admit, that it was hard to not be myself and it felt awkward and set me in a tailspin that lasted for a few weeks. Truly. It was hard to accept attention from someone like him--mostly because he's him and I'm me and our lives and interests couldn't possibly be more different. I was wondering how it would be for me if I slept with him during the deal--that it would be great to have a new lover who I'm actually interested in as a person (as opposed to my other lovers who I count down the minutes until they or I leave) and I didn't really understand what the big deal would be to be working together at the same time--and then I had to think about it from his perspective and remember that it would change his opinion about me and that it would make it awkward for him. That the social norm is for there to be some awkwardness and discomfort around mixing relationships, however that has not been a problem for me in some time.

As a culture, love the hypocracy. We won't tolerate open marriage, but we celebrate our professional athletes and politicans as they cheat on their wives. As a woman, I'm not really supposed to be in charge of my sexual life--I'm supposed to defer to men. I'm supposed to be emotional and instantly get attached during sex and it's supposed to be a means to a relationship, not immediate gratification for me. According to our culture (that is, if I listen to my friends), when I'm with a man, I should be constructing an agenda to get into a relationship with them, promising them that it's no-strings-attached sex, but really devising a plan for them to have a relationship and fall in love with me. I'm supposed to need them and want to share things with them--I'm not supposed to be ok on my own and I'm not supposed to want to be a slut. I'm supposed to hold out for a relationship that leads to marriage and "play my cards right." And actually according to the same friends, I shouldn't even be giving it up--because they won't "buy the cow if the milk is free." But, it's never considered that maybe the cow isn't for sale and maybe the milk is free because I want it to be.

Apparently, there is something very wrong with me. To some, it's that I'm a me, it's that I can't get laid right this second.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Rain Comes

I love how rain is sometimes used as a metaphor, or euphamism for female wetness.  I love it.  Often times it does get my skin prickly in that good, seductive way--especially the summer rain.  I mind the rain that feels like God is pissing on us, but love the storm tonight--hard, forceful rain with thunder.  It used to scare me, until I was like 30, because I had a marred childhood when it came to storms, and now I like it.  I like most things that are forceful.  It's who I am.  See my dog and you'll understand.

Oh dear readers, I'm sorry that it's taken me so long to update.  Imagine me dramatically and sympathetically flopping myself on a bed.  I don't know where June has gone, but I'm glad it's over.  It was filled with romantic disappointments and work has quieted down to the point where I actually have to readdress my 2008 taxes and have the time to do it, now that the audit is over.  July has the potential to be so much more.  Perhaps it was that pathetic sex party that brought me down and tainted the whole month. 

L''s quite pathetic.  It seems that I'm largely unwanted--sexually and romantically--on the island of Manhattan, though I haven't tested my luck in the other 4 boroughs of New York City so men could be coming out of the woodwork in the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island for all I know.  Doubtful, but, like July..possibly full of potential.  Of the 5 men who have turned me down lately, one is a former lover who is now suddenly pretending that he is morally above the cheating politicans and likes to pretend that he couldn't lower himself and have sex with me, being a married father of 6!  This didn't stop him from 2007-2008 when we had plenty of sex at the Gansevoort and the London Hotels.  He seems to forget that I know just how much he likes getting head--and not just because 99% of people love it.  I *know* because I was the one giving it to him and I got more back than Monica Lewinsky.  I heard him moan, I felt his hand gently pushing my head farther down on his cock.  Now that he can't really make a living and is looking for new employment, trying to be the good breadwinner, he conveniently forgets the past infidelity. Alas, like a prisoner on death row, he somehow found morality and turned me down.  

Among the remaining 4, I had one guy from Jdate who, in the end, declined to meet me because he "just met someone" and told me that it's all about timing.  My boy coupon expired and I have to move on.  Fritz, who is currently out of the dating loop, which is silently breaking my heart and the other 2 are men that came on to me, got me all worked up, and just as they were about to pull the trigger, confessed that women that they had causally mentioned were actually serious girlfriends.  If they could have worked out their fidelity issues without engaging my libido, it would have been greatly appreciated.

I complain about these men--these namby-pamby sorts who can't or won't do exactly what I want them to do. But, I don't really want any of them anymore; in the last few weeks, I've honed a different crush. The sexual movie that replays in my head is starring the manager of my gym, which is the lovely Equinox on the Upper West Side where I've had cause to deal with him lately.  But before you assume that I'm just complaining to him just to get face time, I'm actually not--I'm trying to change my karma there, as I snuck in for the first 5 months of 2009 and now am offering my marketing skills and trying to help them increase membership and keep current members happy.  I'm still not sure how I stepped into this role, but it started with me asking for a refund on a monthly fee (that I was not really entitled to) and ended with me offering to sit down and brainstorm with the manager and use pieces of my MBA. I tried to overlook his boyish good looks and his flirty customer service persona.  I tried to remember that he was there to serve me ONLY in a appropriate capacity--making sure that I get my yearly assessment and my free personal training session--and remember that the flirting was just marketing to keep me feeling special and liked.  I kept our conversation focused and cast the thoughts of sex with Equinox employees far from my mind.  But, as we all know, when you are determined to NOT think about something, it's all you can think about. 

We had a moment once--this manager and I.  He was schmoozing with me, just trying to make polite conversation in an effort to enhance Equinox PR and I looked him in the eye and, were I a man, I'd have had a huge hard-on, which I assume would be awkward to run on the treadmill with.  I was slow to look away but at that moment I knew I wanted him badly.  So, my usual mode is to show my intellectual side, doing the dance of my brain and showing that I have no interest.  That I am a dork and that only dorky things impress me--give me excel spreadsheets, talk about marketing and management concepts--only business theory into practice impresses me.  This also tends to give them impression that I am straight missionary position girl, with little or no wild side; that sex is an after thought in my life, or something that I'm mildly interested if it's the appropriate setting.  When they learn about my past jobs of phone sex and writing porn, of my liberal sexual ethics and my preference for light s&m and anal sex, it usually comes as some sort of surprise.  Some, as we've seen in the last 2 weeks, are very excited about this and file me under the category of 'women to fuck' not 'women to date' and others, well, it may prove to be a little much--that taboo might be pushed too far. But, it's never what they assume.

I'm still in the intellectual portion with this manager and I'm tending to think that I am distinctly not his type. He has no idea the sort of effort I put into a comprehensive email full of marketing ideas to him, or that I casually look through the glass walls of his office every time I enter and exit the gym to see if he's there.  I'm sure he doesn't realize that I'm harnessing my inner-8 year old and desperately try to ignore him when he passes the bike/elliptical machine or treadmill that I'm sweating profusely on when he passes by to make sure that maintenance is working or that things are processing smoothly. Or, that because I'm looking a little better and wearing more fitted clothes I'm trying to go to the gym for some reason when my hair and make up are done--did I need the New York Times digest that Equinox gives out for free? Not today.  But, did I go in and claim it?  Sure and did he even see me?  No.  He was checking his fucking email.  It was mental masturbation.  It's brain candy--no nutritional value but it tastes so good. And I like that this mundane situation makes me so wet.

I've been weighing the options of making some verbal pass at him and I know that when I am turned down, I'll feel a small pinch of embarrassment and get over it quickly--it's not really a gamble but just a odd way to pay a compliment.  Surely we'll have a conversation when he reviews this appropriate business-y email that I sent him last night. And, the whole scene will go something like this....we'll be talking about altering membership to sustain the portion of Equinox members who have recently lost their jobs and are judiciously reviewing their disposable income. Blah blah blah. We'll be in a heated debate how Equinox is to extend their appreciation to such members and keep them as repeat customers and I'll mention, quite matter-of-factly that I really want him to fuck me and in one fluid moment (no pun), I'll be bent over the desk, his button down shirt clad chest leaning heavily onto my back and skirt hiked up, his pants around his ankles, both of us forgetting that the walls of his office are glass and the UPS guy who is delivering reams of paper and other useless office supplies can see exactly what's going on--not to mention the gaggle of ghetto kids who run the front desk and other members rushing to check in and get to their yoga or spin classes--and after we've come, we'll notice that Equinox literature is stuck to our sweaty hands that were pressed against his desk.  Oh, and that will be my workout for the day and we'll be able to assess how many calories we just burned based on how long and hard he fucked me. 

As you can tell, All I want is just a little bit of sex.  Just a little.  No long, romantic night (except if it's Fritz), no promises of grandeur, no commitment of anything--just a little fuck; like a facial after a bad breakout, or a waxing, or anything else that one does for bodily maintenance.  And, much like my fear of cocaine, I'm scared to just pick someone off the internet for fear that they are psychotic and will fuck me, mutilate me and then kill me--or something to that effect. Please don't go thinking that I should just use a vibrator and have some special time with my hand, because it's just not the same.  THAT is like shoveling your own should do it.  You own a shovel, you are physically able to do it, but it's much much better when someone ELSE does it and you can watch them, and busy yourself making hot cocoa for them so that when they come in from the cold you can make them comfortable and nice.  Of course the fucking 12-stepper in me thinks that this is probably God's way of keeping me away from bad human fuck toys and focusing on myself and my goals.  I'm hard at work at being a skinnier me.
If only Equinox could help me get to all my goals.

Now to return home in the rain.

Monday, June 01, 2009

The PS

Sorry to have left you so suddenly...rude, I realize, but the open house was over and I wanted to come home.  I'm so fucking tired lately and dragging my ass around town, propping myself up with carbs which is only doing a favor for the companies that make these carbs...but leaving you hanging mid-sex, or rather, pre-sex, is no nice place to be.

So, when I left you last, I was drinking at a hotel bar with Adam who was less interested in hearing my neurosis and calming me and more interested in telling me how his exercise class is the NUMBER ONE class in Beverly Hills on a Saturday morning.  If I'd let him go on, he'd tell me about all the women he was fucking in the class, but I cut the conversation to his family and his trip back to New York.  I love Adam to death and he was definitely the right choice as a escort to this party, but I really wanted to bathe in my anxiety for just a few minutes and not hear about all the wanton sex goddesses in the gym who were groping him through spandex.  I never got a chance, which was probably just as well,  and before long, we were off.

I'd been to the venue some years before with friends where I would meet someone who I would later date (and have a rather unpretty breakup with just a few short months later).  I liked it--an open area, loungelike and with an open outdoor space that was well utilized for this party.  The soiree was called for 10pm, but the hostess informed me that no one would show up until 11pm, but I was free to get there any time I liked.  Did I mention that she smartly asked me to be the "Guest Erotic Writer"?  She knew about my history with writing porn, but I have no idea what she was expecting.

Anyway, the invitation to the event enclosed a password.  I half-expected to be asked for it and rehearsed it in my head a few times and double checked my blackberry.  I was in.  I was cool. I had the password.  I also had sentences like, "Oh, I was invited by ______.  We had lunch last week and she asked me to come and be the guest writer."  This statement--this pointed name dropping required a hand motion to accompany it, as though to say that hostesses of unusual parties were always lunching with me and giving me important jobs to do at their parties.  This statement, and gesture was also meant to say, that I could talk about sex.  That I had been around, so please keep your little 'trying to impress me' to yourself.  

Being a good 12-stepper, I also opted to use the adage to 'act as if'.  I was going to act as if I was comfortable, confident, willing and open--not that I'm not those things, kinda sort of--but, I needed some extra help.  The room was barren and Adam and I got our drink on, again.  We scanned for attractive people and were unsuccessful.  There was an Asian dancer in a platinum blonde wing, and red bra and matching thong  dancing on a cube by the bar and it was mundane and she looked like she might be having a better time if she were sitting on a couch, plucking out her pubic hairs.  She was followed by a short and thick Colombian man named Francisco who was eyeing the women and later introduced himself to me.  I learned later that Francisco got into this gig when a friend tipped him off to it, and seems to be popular among the women for accepting blow jobs.  I was, er...unimpressed.   I settled into the drinks, and watching Adam make conversation with the couple next to us.  I hadn't given up.

It's hard, at parties, to suggest to a man that you are with that you, 'do a loop.'  If you go to a party with a girlfriend, they will suggest walking around, but Adam seemed to like to stay glued to the bar and since there was no reason to walk around, we stayed.  Uneasy couples were sitting on the couches, watching the bored Asian girl and Francisco dance, and eventually the hostess greeted me, shocked at the good looks of my date and telling me that I didn't seem so shy.  Apparently, she'd bought that Talbots-good girlness of lunch the week before and I guess she didn't think I had it in me.  I told her that I had expectations of women-ness and she corrected me, like a teacher would correct a child.  She directed me to abandon my expectations and let what would be, be.  And, she told me that jeans were unacceptable and that I would know for next time.  We both knew there would be no next time.  She was trying to create a mood that, you know, jeans just undid.  She pursed her lips like she'd tasted a bad lemon.  With that, she flitted away to greet more of her guests.

As the night progressed, it became less sexy and more anthropological as I met two couples, both who were afraid to venture away from their partners but instead enjoyed the 'atmosphere of sexiness'.  One couple was a set of Russian doctors from New Jersey who left their two small children with a sitter and explained to me that the sex parties were really quite vile, people just sort of grabbing onto other bodies with little rhyme or reason, just looking for an orifice to violate.  This couple much preferred, over sex parties, to vacation at "adult resorts" which "spiced things up when they got mundane." I must admit that despite how superior I felt to these people, and as much as I wanted to be daring, the only thing that I could muster to do was play with this woman's necklace and see if she even noticed that I was touching her chest.  In my fantasy, she put her hand on me, so I knew that I could move forward, and slide down one of the spaghetti straps holding up her dress and reveal a breast which would expose a nipple, but she seemed to not really know that I was there, or maybe she saw my interest in her necklace as a compliment on her taste in jewelry and not a subtle sexual gesture.  Her unawareness made the whole party--and this whole subculture--seem less easy to access.  I wanted this party to be hyper-sensitive to small movements like that--assuming that everything was sexual. I wanted every assumption to be about sex, leading to something dirty, some violation that would be socially unacceptable elsewhere. But, it was a party.

A gorgeous black woman to my left accepted a set of pasties given away by the Asian stripper and opened her dress with aplomb to reveal a set of ridiculously beautiful breasts and I swear when I tell you that I got confused at how forward I could be--and how intimidated I was and quickly forgot the Russian woman and wanted to fondle her perfect bosom, to kiss them and hold her nipples between my teeth gently.  I wanted her for a moment--my hands would not know exactly where to reach--up her flouncy dress and between her legs or back to her breasts where I would have wanted to start, but I got confused because of the lines that we live.  In a society such as ours and in a party where were are to respect women, was I, as another woman, allowed to just walk up to another party goer and molest her?  I mean, it was a erotica party after all, but Emily Post never wrote a section on this sort of etiquette.  I tried to stop staring, managed to get my tongue back into my mouth and tried to divert my attention to other party goers. I'll admit, though, I watched her all night and the only way I'll have her now is through a fictional story that I am to create.

I redirected, and grabbed onto a woman who was walking by.  Jessica is from Montana via Utah and at her boyfriend's request, was at this party.  She seemed happy to talk to me but made it clear that they weren't ready to explore with other people.  They were seated in the corner, observing and holding each other's hands, as though to say--safety in numbers.  Adam and I followed them to their couch while the Russian couple when to fondle each other in the corner, and observed.  The boys talked and Jess and I, both being curious, talked about what Francisco tells the folks back in Colombia about what he does in America; does his mother know that the money her son presumably sends is earned by showing his cock to strangers at parties and getting paid to get blow jobs.  Does she know that her son's fingers explore the insides of strange women's cunts and that money earned buys her papaya?  I'm guessing no.

Before the party, I was too nervous to eat, so Jack made his way to my head and the music pulsing, the drums beating, the faux sexiness dancing on blocks quickly got to be too much.  There were couples moving closer, a couple dancing with one of the paid dancers, and an ass in the man's face.  Another Russian couple engaged Francisco's services and the husband directed him to lick his wife/girlfriend's pussy as she leaned back into the leather sofa, her head back enjoying her mouth and her hand cupping her breast.  

And, my dear readers, those two acts--THOSE TWO ACTS ALONE were the only really sexy things that I saw that night.  Nothing more than you'd see in Vegas, nothing so shocking and frankly, watching unattractive people get their rocks off, wasn't enough to get me into the mood--and the fantasies about the brown skinned woman who stood to my left weren't enough to excite me.  They'd excite me later.  The hostess, making her way to check on her guests, asked me how it was going.  She could see that I wasn't talking to many people, that I hadn't touched anyone in "that way" and that I felt the party had fallen short. She urged me to stay until 2am, at least, because that's when things really started going.  She failed to realize that with a shitload of work at home and a dog that needed to be walked again, my staying until 2am was a longshot--and, that her rules strictly prohibit very active "play".  But the question remains....who to play with?  The Russian couple that I was admiring when I arrived had left, presumably to relieve the babysitter and then fuck until they had to see patients in the morning and the other woman with the luscious and lickable breasts was flocked with people.  

As we left, and wearily walked down 17th Street to the subway, Adam took my hand and said, "hype?!"  And I agreed, hoping my buzz would accompany me home.  On the train, with a lack of reading material (who really brings an old New Yorker to a erotica party--my handbag was just too small!!!), I thought about the write up that I'd promised about the evening and the fiction.  I thought of story angles and what excites readers--and what excites me.  The next morning I got a text from the hostess thanking me for my attendance and telling me that just after I left, a "greek orgy" began, as she predicted.  Again, I wondered if I'd stayed, whose fingers would I have allowed in my snatch, which person would have played with my breasts, who would have kissed me.  But  more important, would I have wanted them too--what was more interesting me--the experience or the participants.  

It's one thing to go and get fucked in the middle of an orgy, but another thing entirely to enjoy it.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

The Straddle

Well, happy Sunday, readers...I'm straddling my life right now by appearing to be dutiful real estate broker at open house (gobbling down oversized bagel with cream cheese) and writing about my sex life and the pathetic way I spent last Wednesday night, also known as my attendance at my first erotica/sex party.  Of course,  more on that in a bit.

You know, I like to be in tune with what the universe is telling me and I've been horribly remiss with any faux meditation practice that I'd like to pretend I maintain, but I have gotten a few signs in these last few weeks.  While Mercury Retrograde was clogging up technology and communication, a few things reached my antenna. First, things are not what they seem.  I can't elaborate on that, but you know what I mean.  Smells like a duck, walks like a duck, but's just not a duck.  Don't know why, but it's not.  I've also come to learn that it's often better to not procrastinate, because I've gotten fucked when I've blown things off and now is not the time for me to get lax.  This scary realization could also signal that I may be becoming an adult.  And, I'm getting laid far too infrequently--this is evidenced by the constant desire for me to "act out" and conjuring sexual fantasies about people who are inappropriate (the kid who made my sandwich yesterday at Subway) or just plain nasty (the customer from Florida who has aged VERY badly and has no nice feature except his eyes).   I have that sort of limp (no pun intended), pathetic lost feeling when it comes to waxing now--I want to have to keep it all neat and tidy, but it's like dusting the furniture when there are no guests for the foreseeable future coming over.  Why waste the energy.

If you know me at all, and I mean, actually know me, you know that there is nothing--NOTHING--I love more than the split of my life.  The mix and match of banal life and sexuality that you'd never expect from a Hebrew Academy graduate. You don't really picture me, clad in my Talbots clothes excited to walk to that apartment on Amsterdam Avenue and have rather sporty sex.  Masturbation isn't a word that I should really use, but I actually said it in front of a customer last week who seemed tickled pink (again, no pun) that I could say the word.  The next day he emailed me, and picked it up again--writing, 'When you're done masturbating, could you check these listings for me and tell me when there will be an open house?" I told him that I'd have to wash my hands first or I'd get the keyboard sticky.  He seemed to enjoy this banter and this is the rapport that I'm building with my client--an unprofessional and totally inappropriate line to walk, but good for some laughs.

So, my other 'job' has been in the sex world, which I admit that I miss.  I was good at writing the porn and thanks to our squeezed economy people want their sex free.  I think that generally they want free sex, but now it's not even much on the disposable income list.  Orgasms must be cost-effective which saddens me because I think that's an important economic indicator that NPR never really pays attention to, but I'm sure some economist would have something to say about what that really says about the economy.  It's one thing to take books out of the library, and to buy generic pasta instead of Ronzoni, but when you're skimpy on the porn and being forced to conjure orgasms from a free catalog, well, that's just damn sad.   Happily, I have one new project to complete and while the woman publishing it expected and wanted it to be real, it is 100% fiction.

Through a course of events that I prefer to skip, I was introduced to the world of sex parties.  Not introduced in the way that I was brought to one, but the idea was mentioned in conversation to me about a year ago.  I was disgusted and horrified.  Of course, it was around a year ago, I was disgusted and horrified by rather aggressive sex too, but everything has a season.  With my assorted body issues, I don't know that I could mentally get my head around being in a room and being look at that way, but I do know that 3 seconds into the act, I would be thrilled and excited that there is an audience.  However, it's not happened, so we'll just talk about what DID happen.

I decided, in the same way that I chose to call my IRS auditor, to go to the top on the whole sex party idea, and I was steered to a website that catered to high-class sex parties.  What makes these, "high class", I think, is that they are expensive and beautifully hosted.  And, I organized a lunch with the hen of this roost to find out more about what she does.  It was hard to schedule lunch and in the process we bonded a little over our dogs and other mundane things.  When we finally did meet, she saw that more cautious side of me--the Talbots side who is afraid what people will think, the one who doesn't want to offend and seemed boxed into her boundaries and shy.  Our lunch was short, she was somewhat of a complainer and also confident and completely secure in her skin.  She made a few notable comments and here they are in no particular order.

1) She has never heard anyone communicate any insecurity about their physical appearance or their body or having any inhibitions about exposing their naked self to a group of strangers.

2) In response to my assuring her that I wasn't interested in stealing her business model, she told me that it simply wouldn't be possible to do that--because she has a 'winning team' and it's her family.

And, knowing my excited apprehension about going to her party, she was sensible enough to ask me to do an erotic write up about the party.  I violated her rule by having an expectation, which was to have a night that I could write off--with strangers, with no real consequences and no repercussions.  I was going to the party with my friend, Adam, not a lover at all, and no one to be embarrassed in front of.  With my past of being a freelance porn writer, I constructed a story in my head for days before the party.  I'd never gotten up the gumption to be with a woman, except for a drunken make out with a college friend, only  to cause a stir in a bar, and tonight would be the night.  I wanted groping in a dark corner, fingers, hands exploring with soft curves of woman, tongues in and out of each other's mouth--and I wanted it to be a real story with a woman who I'd never see again and an experience that I could leave behind easily if I chose to do so.  And, I didn't want to be the only one doing such things.  I wanted sexual acts all around me--I wanted to see couples dry humping on couches and strangers squeezing each other's nipples through layers of gauzy blouses.  I wanted the sexual energy to be completely palpable, yet just out of reach until people hastily hail cabs and rush off to fuck like bunnies.

I wanted it to be that. And in fact, the imagination of this scene garnered a physical reaction from me of desire.  My skin even felt prickly and hot, and I wanted to it be something so different that even me, who often feels like she's seen it all, would be aroused and compelled. And, it was the opposite. In fact, when I think back on the whole night there is something about it that makes me laugh.  I laugh partly because I was so nervous, expecting that I would be pushing my personal boundaries beyond my comfort level and partly because it didn't push a fucking feather further.

Adam and I hadn't seen each other in a long time because he defected to LA, breaking my heart since he would no longer be around to work out with me or  teach my exercise classes, so he asked for some time before the party to get a drink.  We didn't know what we were in for, so I wanted to proactively calm myself and invited a bit of Jack Daniels to the party.  At the Maritime Hotel, our pre-game, we both nervously drank our whisky and Adam was fingering the condoms that he'd stuck in his pocket.  He admitted that he had to buy them on the sly when his wife wasn't looking and like a nervous teenager, dispose of the box in a garbage can on the street and stuff the contents in his pocket.  He thought he'd use at least one, and I started looking at women at the bar trying to gauge my idea of "attractive", as if I was sharpening a skill set that I hadn't used in a long time.

to be continued....