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'amour...it'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 walk.....you 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.