a girl in her city, watching the sunset

Archive for the category “Sex+Sex”

Murphy (the Bed Metaphor)

When you slept over, you kicked out the tucked-in comforter, declaring it a nuisance.

When you slept over, you couldn’t sleep with the music.  I got up and turned it off.

When you slept over, you got into left side of bed to sleep on your right side.  So you could do big-spoon, you pushed me to face the wall.
I counted three hundred measures of your quiet, comforting snoring, then I unlocked your sleep-heavy arms and crept out.  For a while I laid on a rug (on the floor, nearly under the bed), on my left side, with my feet curled in the hem of a blanket, my right shoulder covered.

When you slept over, I did small chores quietly, paced the backyard in the moonlight.  I had a bath, probably, smoked seven or ten cigarettes, probably.  I used headphones to keep the music from disturbing you.

When you slept over, you woke after curling your knees tight up to your chest and after you half-sneezed twice.  You didn’t get out of bed, you didn’t get up.  You accepted a cup of coffee, ten minutes fresh, made when you seemed close to waking.  You had no idea it was the second pot, nor did you ask how long I’d been up. (Three hours.)

You marveled at actual breakfast! (bacon and eggs with avocado and tomatoes).  I laughed: “I make breakfast every morning.  I’m not doing this to impress, this is what I do.”

I rarely sleep more than five hours. And I sleep those all over my bed.  I begin on my left side, with my head on the left side of the bed. Upon a particular pillow, my right arm and shoulder propped on a (different) particular pillow, my feet stretched to the right corner, tight into the tucked-in comforter that covers my right shoulder and my right ear, usually to some sort of ambient/electronic. I know these might soothe me into the very small sleep I get  The faster I might fall asleep, the larger share of those hours.   

I know how difficult is sleep; how desperately difficult comfort.

So if my duvet tucked in is noisome, or the only way slumber finds you is on your left side, or no music is the better lullaby: I can forfeit those for your ease, your rhythmic snore, your at-last-relaxed stretch, your mumbled explanation of a dream involving kites and marshmallows in Ancient Egypt.

But this is my bed. And this is my space, my studio and kitchen, my backyard and garage.

As comforts go, I know some of mine.

Please, take a little care because you insulted my duvet and bed-making.  Take note that in my near-minimalism,  I have few things but always music.  Take a breath and ask me how (or if) I slept.  Take a moment, realize that while I might invite you to share it, making breakfast for myself is an act of love and courage.

When you slept over, you left the memory of the ocean in the linens.  The smell between your legs, behind your ears, and under your arms.  The thicksalty aroma caught in the back of my mouth where my nose begins.  

But long before you slept over I named myself for the ocean.


I don’t want to be your gd girlfriend

He wasn’t at all cool about his intention.  But, I wasn’t interested in his cool.  All I wanted was a fuck.  Tonight.  He’d do fine, I’m sure, he was certainly eager enough.   I whispered the question to my friend the Mothafucka, “Hey, is this fella alright?” The Mothafucka replied, “Amuse Bouche?  Yeah, he’s a’ight.”

I go back to the table, and lean toward him.
“So, you wanna fuck me?”
“Yup.”  He’s shiny.
“ You square with the ‘tender?”
“Yeah, I’m all set.”

An uncommon rain fell in Los Angeles as we walked back to my place.  It was chilly and my umbrella got  forgotten somewhere during the wherever I went that evening.  Amuse Bouche wrapped his arms around me and kissed me, which I didn’t expect.  He commented on the romance of walking at midnight in the rain.  (I wasn’t sure what the fuck at all to make of that.  I don’t do this for romance.)  I tucked my glasses into my bag, they were useless with the downpour.   We stumbled, both of us drunk and I couldn’t see much, but I could stagger the route from that bar to my couch if I was blind and deaf on top of the usual shimmery with drink.

We got to fucking shortly after reaching my doorway.  I think it was a matter of my helping him off with his wet jeans, you know, but, oh, while I’m here I might as well suck your cock. Maybe?  I confess, I don’t remember much, but he called for a cab three hours later.  I went to sleep mostly satisfied.

In post-coital smoking-and-chatting, he stunned me by revealing his age.  A lot younger than me, and younger than guys that usually gain my interest.  Ah, fuck it, maybe it’s no big deal.

I see him at the same bar maybe a week later.  He’s not as forward. I figure he’s not interested, or I lack the allure I have when viewed through the bottom of an empty Molson.

Another week or so goes by and the bar’s owner calls with a last-minute invite to a concert.  I’m thrilled yes, ok, yes.  He is generous beyond the ticket, buying me drink after drink. I know the band, I sing along with strangers: it’s an awesome time.  We go back to his bar for a half-after-party, and Amuse Bouche is there, working maybe his fourth or fifth Canadian.  I’m trashed, for sure, it’s late.  In not too long, the Amuse Bouche is obvious about wanting me.  Fine, I’m cheery and rosy, let’s.  He calls a cab this time.  He’s very into it.

It’s mostly OK.

Except the part when I realize he’s fucking my ass.  Well, OK, but isn’t that something you might want to warn a girl?  It seems like it is.  I find out weeks after the fact he did this without a condom, making issue of the surprise buttfuck infinitesimal.

This  uncool has no measure.  I am nothing but clear: I don’t fuck without protection.  I get tested every three months, male fuckmates wear condoms.  It’s just how the fuck it is.  You want to put your dick in me?  Suit the fuck up, sailor.

And then?  He fell asleep in my bed.  Picked a side, got cozy and started to snore.

When I share my bed, it’s with a woman I have known longer than Amuse Bouche has been alive, not with boys collected from pubs.  That night, whatever sleep I get, it’s on my couch.

Some weeks later, I text him what seems to me is a purely randy: “when can you bring your cock over here?”

In reply, he sends a half-lecture in all earnestness about how he’s not keen on multiple “hookups” ‘cause that’s too relationshippy.

I read this on my phone as I’m walking north towards Wilshire and I cannot stop laughing.

Really?  Relationship?  I gossip about this with people who know me better.  Amuse Bouche is all kinds of double standard.  It’s fine for him to want to hook up – but if I do, he has to fend off my relationship advances?  We all laugh at him.

Because we all figured he’s going to roll back around, wanting some snatch.

And, wise with our age, we are all correct in this.

Intervening news of a friend’s deteriorating health and his decision to enter hospice cancels my desire for sexywants.  Amuse Bouche manages to text me the night I learned of this.  So at midnight, under pretense of offering company, but too blatantly unconcerned about how I am doing really, Amuse Bouche comes over with a bottle of wine.  He has no idea how easy it was for me to regale him with story after story after lurid story of my sexual history.  Kink and more kink, group sex, gangbangs, girls I’ve fucked, girls who fucked me.

I did that entirely with the intention of inviting him to leave without fucking him.  Which I did.  For three nights in succession.  Each night talking about sex, each time declining.

“I know you might not feel up to it, but the offer stands.  I’d love to fuck.”
“No, thanks, not really up for it at all.”   I said.  Every night.

Sometime later I want the D.  I answer his inevitable text, inquiring as to my plans for the evening.  “I want to smoke a bowl and get fucked into the next area code.”

He’s over in 90 minutes, I think.

We talk some.  He orders in Thai.  We go get wine.  We get it on.  He wants to lose the rubber mid-fuck.

What?  Now you bring this up?

“Yeah, well, I haven’t fucked anyone since I did you.”
“That’s nice.  You don’t know who I have.”
“C’mon, I’m clean.”

Allow my redundancy: mid-fuck.

This is sheer-cliff immaturity, regardless of his tiny age.  Sometime in the last however long it’s been since I didn’t know this, I learned negotiation.  All my best sexual experiences come from excellent communication.  I want to be explicit – I do not mean that all my best sex is with people I have known forever or have been in love with or married to or relationshipped with or whatever;  I’ve had wildawesome wham-bam-thank-you-mans that were exhaustively orgasmic because we knew what was going on.   It’s not an issue to me if you want to fuck me only once, so long as you speak plainly.  (P.S. maybe I want you only once.)

Amuse Bouche, reclining on naked my couch post-hoc, explains that he’s mostly done the sex with exclusive girlfriends, so he isn’t fond of condoms.

I don’t care.

In the very least incredulous I could make my tone, I try to explain about his assumptions.  I chatter as jocularly as I can manage about communication – which one does before the fucking.  Like, don’t fuck someone’s ass without asking.  Fuckdates don’t sleep over.  Let me reiterate: I am not pairing off with anyone.  If you want to go skin on skin, find a fucking girlfriend.

He tries for levity and mentions the disparity of our ages, and it comes off as a swing-and-a-miss at cool.

Which is how the whole bullshit started, anyway.

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