Sunday, May 22, 2011

Never Have I Ever

My big project of the day...erotica! Not *quite* finished, but feeling the need to post the work in progress....

Ten fingers remained in the air: 7 for him, 3 for her. Sheepishly Dee sucks in his bottom lip while thinking up his next statement.
            “Come on.” Emma groans in mock exasperation. “You’re such a baby. This should be easy!”
            They sit across from each other, bare knees touching. The TV screen still playing the final scenes of 10 Things I Hate About You, muted and forgotten in the background. They’ve played this game before, but never just the two of them.
            “Alright, never have I ever lived in a room painted yellow.” Dee announces with a triumphant smirk on his face, dark brown eyes glittering with the reflection of Heath Ledger’s image and pride.
            Emma pouts, looking around her room, “Not fair!” She leans in closer to whisper in Dee’s ear, feigning modesty, “They’re supposed to be scandalous.”
            With two fingers left Emma must think of a good one. She always loses. Her free hand twirls her long black hair as she sizes him up: tight white crew cut t-shirt, faded blue jeans sagging just enough to show the top of his royal blue boxers, shaggy dark hair covering his soft brow and startling stare. Oh gosh, that stare…
            “I might be going out on a limb here, but never have I ever been fisted,” Emma says looking over at Dee expectantly. After a moment Dee’s ring finger disappears into the palm of his hand. “Oh really, sir!” Emma squeals in delight. “I was convinced I was the only slutty one.”
            “Give me some credit, I’m not quite as inexperienced as you may think I am. Now its my turn.” This game has always been hard for Dee. Not because he has any shortage of things he hasn’t done like Emma, but because of how revealing it all is, telling everyone his most intimate chronicles through a showy finger display, deducing all his sexual encounters to a simple folded hand. The idea of being an exhibitionist certainly excited him, but he was usually too nervous to be so forward.
            Though something about Emma made him somehow not care so much and when she was around he’d play the silly game. Emma was bold, sometimes even obtrusive, flaunting her femininity and sexual prowess to an extent none of their mutual friends would dare. Her dresses were always way too short and her tops way too low, revealing every prominent and not so prominent curve of her body. Feminist theory classes taught him not to objectify women as sexual objects, especially his friends, but sometimes he’d get wet just thinking about her creeping skirt and fleshy thigh.
            “Erm, Dee?”
            Dee’s head snapped up from where his eyes had been glued to the space between Emma’s crossed bare legs for God knows how long.
            “I was just, uh, thinking of my next ‘never have I ever’,” Dee stammers, totally caught perving. He had planned to hit on Emma sometime in the near future, perhaps get up the courage to ask her out on a proper date, but this day was supposed to be platonic, a regular friend date like they had had a dozen times before.
            Emma smiled. She knew what that look meant, having seen it flitter across Dee’s face on more than a couple occasions. Dee wanted her, that was plain as day. She also knew that Dee, timid as he is, would never act on. She had already decided she wanted to taste those sweet smiling lips and run her fingers through his unruly mop, to fuck him and show him how to loosen up. Now Emma knew she is going to fuck him. Today. Now.
            “Alright, well then go ahead.”
            “Never have I ever fisted.” Dee’s heart raced.
            Their eyes locked and neither of them shifted. Clearly and sweetly Emma quips, “Come here.”
            “Um, what?” Dee, taken aback, ran a thousand simultaneous thoughts: “She can’t be serious. Jesus, Emma’s so fucking pretty! I was being way too forward and now she wants to ‘process’ things before kicking me out of her house.”
            She arches sideways, leaning over the edge of her bed pulling out gloves and lube. “I’m now down to one finger and I am going to lose this game. I like you and you like me. With your explicit permission I’d like to fuck you and perhaps make this game a bit more of a competition the next time.” Emma kisses Dee on the cheek. “Will you let me fuck you or what?”
            Dee pushed forward, kissing Emma hard on the mouth. “Only if you let me fuck you first.”
            Placing his hand on her delicate chest Dee shoves Emma back on the bed, running his hot, no longer so nervous, hands up the length of her left leg and up her skirt. Dee moves on top of her, forcing his knee between her legs, exposing her cream-colored panties. Their eyes meet for the first time in what feels like a century: hers filled with surprise and anticipation, his, a strength and greediness he forgot he possessed.  Dee first peels off Emma’s top, unfastening her bra while eagerly kissing and nipping at her goose-fleshed neck. Emma moans. She should have known it was going to be this good – the quiet ones usually are.
            Dee’s lips creep lower, between her breasts, under her ribcage, grazing the top of her skirt. He lifts Emma’s skirt, bunching the light blue fabric around her waist, pressing his face into her crotch. Rubbing her clothe-covered clit with his closed mouth he can feel how swollen she’s getting. He teases her with his nose, flicking the tip up and down her hidden slit, pressing the bridge into where she is starting to get wet.
            Lifting herself into a sitting position under Dee Emma grabs his belt, releasing the clasp and unzipping his fly all in the same motion. Pulling on the sides of his jeans she asks, “Can we take these off?” Dee nods yes.
            Emma wraps her hands around him, leaving little red scratch trails from her nails on his lower back. Looking up at him with a devious smile she throws his shirt up and over his head, ready to run her hands under his black binder to pull that off too. Grabbing hold of one of her wrists, Dee shakes his head from side to side, falling slowly on top of Emma as he says, “no, that stays on.”
            Both of them breathe heavy. Dee leaning into Emma’s body, feels her soft skin under his. He pushes his hip into her mound, moving his pelvis into hers and rubbing his clit on her naked leg. Grinding harder, faster, as Emma’s breathing hastens and soft cries escape her lips. Without stopping Dee slips on a glove, rubs a handful of lube between his fingers and shoves his hands down the front of her panties, squeezing her clit between his fingers.
            Looking into her face as she gyrates into is hand, her eyes closed, mouth open moaning and sighing, Dee can tell she’s ready for more. Emma’s eyes open and her sighs cease as he pulls off her soaking underwear. Gripping Emma’s hip in his bare hand he pulls her body closer towards his, slipping two fingers slowly into her expectant cunt. “Oh god,” Emma says, her eyes shutting once again.
            Starting slow and shallow Dee fucks her, gaining speed and depth as her pussy relaxes and opens for him. He shoves in a third finger, watching her body arch to the added pressure. Dee knows he can’t rush it but he senses Emma can take it.
            Slowing again Dee slips his pinkie finger in with the first three. Emma moans, but not out of protest. Her slick cunt is eager, hungry for his persistent hand. Dee pushes his hand deep, feeling her lips on his palm. He fucks her harder and deeper as he runs his tongue under her breast. “Rub your clit,” Dee demands as he reaches across the bed to grab the lube. “Don’t stop,” squirting a stream of slick liquid onto his fingers as they continue to pull in and out of Emma.
            Pulling nearly all the way out and closing his fingers tighter together Dee adds his thumb, almost forgetting he’s never fisted before, he’s never fucked Emma before, knowing only that his body is reading hers and the story was a good one. Responding with an “oh, yes, oh please fuck me” Dee shoves his hand deeper, her pussy dripping, enveloping him with warmth. He fucks Emma faster, feeling her muscles start to contract, hearing her getting louder and louder, filling the little yellow room with screams and deep moans. “I want to feel you cum. I want to feel you cum on my hand.”
            Emma’s eyes snap open and she clutches Dee to her chest, rubbing her clit fiercely as she rocks onto his hand. She moans louder yet and moves her hand away. She’s coming. She’s coming hard. 

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Stripper Trip

Each time I sit to write about my stripper trip I get consumed by writing about the structure and the general stripper experience. I backspace, erasing paragraph after paragraph of information because volumes already exist about the subject. What I really want to write about, what I actually NEED to write about, is how I fit into the new world. And yes, I am referring to the strip club as a new world since it came with an entirely new set of laws: of motion, attraction, exponents etc that don't exist in the world I'm used to.

I went naive. Sure I've read a mountain of literature on the subject of stripping, partake in other forms of sex-work, and had an excellent stripper mama at my side, but really, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. And really, I was getting myself 'into' it. For seven days Crush and I worked the club, leaving only to eat fast food and sleep. I can't quite say I'm a veteran stripper (these ol' knees aren't quite creaky enough), but I think I interacted with pretty much every kind of patron, manager, and dancer there is, which in one compacted week, is a whole hell of a lot.

On stage at the Lusty Lady peepshow we don't have stripping routines. We might take off a superfluous item of clothing or two but we are essentially naked from the time we start our shifts to the end, continuing our swaying and sache-ing, booty-bumping and grinding from start to finish, pausing only when all the windows are closed and we know no one is looking. At the club everyone is watching like a hawk and I had to learn to walk, talk, and dance sexy and put together from the time I walk into the pit of club until the time I leave, hours later. Most of the time I didn't even try to do the sexy bit, considering I had to incorporate my obvious Bambi standing and near-tumbles, sticking to toothy grins, talking up my newness and my seemingly alien interests and pursuits, and giving more in my lapdances through eye contact and giggling than all the headstands and crotch-to-face splits other girls chose to give.

I'm not much of a hustler. Half the time patrons threw money at me just because I told them as much, choosing to reward my easy dialogue and willingness to just take it all in. Granted, that too is a role that I learned to manipulate to some extent, but overall just being myself seemed to be what it took to pay my expenses and then some. I learned, not so quickly, that being honest and real left me vulnerable to making some real and occasionally intense connections I still don't know what to do with. Making friends with the awkward kid whose friends always left him for dates, experiencing deep seated projections from a solo-woman patron (the only one I met and whom none of the dancers aside from Crush and myself would approach) who wanted to take me home and who I wanted to release wild into San Francisco kink culture, guiltily taking wads of cash and poetic compliments from a hard working Navajo family man who was forced by his wife to go release some steam (though probably not their savings.) After receiving a totally rad bracelet off the wrist of a particularly soulful individual I swore I needed no more mementos from my trip.

While I know I will go back to the club again I can't imagine myself stripping full time. Without the safe barriers of the glass its harder to keep up the fantasy, the always on, always open for business attitude. Though the naivety is less of a hindrance I'm afraid of what may result of my overwhelming openness. Crush taught me to lie about just about everything: my age, my hometown, what I do for work, why I was in town, my sexual fluidity, politics etc. Some things I fudged as safety precautions, but I could not play a different person. I am what I am and I am thankful to those I connected with who were appreciative of that, however there is lots of room to develop the bitter stripper stereotype when everyone  you talk to for hours and hours measures your worth fiscally, even if they are checking out the insides in addition to the exterior. I love sex-work and I don't want to burnout just yet.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

To Do List:

- make more clips4sale videos
- finish writing a dirty story
- find songs and work on burlesque act (puppets, crotch, flower hat...)
- get femme parties going
- finish costume for Beer Circus
- set my rat frienemies free
- work on social networking site
- buy more panties
- raise $2000 for Lusty PRIDE float
- do more porn
- crack open the LSAT prep books
- invest in pink typewriter
- organize my boxes of fabric and costumes
- start Queer Pitch
- help more with Velvet
- volunteer somewhere

Friday, May 6, 2011

What I am

I'm the kind of girl that wears my skirts way too high
and my necklines way too low
I wear pink and paisley like I'm off to church
(or getting off at church?)
I wear red lipstick on my lips, my teeth, and sometimes on your cock
I wear high heels for the sound
and boots just to shake, rattle, and roll

I'm the kind of girl who can use a hammer
but gets hot and bothered watching you do it for me
I can play demure or stoic or coy
(read: emphasis on 'play')
I can ride in a car backwards, on curvy roads, with my head in a book
I can do this while not getting motion sickness
and this is kinda the story of my life

I'm the kind of girl that gets caught with my eyes closed
often with my pants down and the flash still burning
I get caught up, tangled in my calendar
(desperately trying to schedule some spontaneity)
I get torn up by the little things, worn out by the big
I get goose flesh fingering textured fabric
and ache for clean cool sheets and soft arms

I'm the kind of girl you can take home to mom
as long as she won't be angry with your choice of girl
You can bring me flowers and other pretty things
(Ill only bemoan my disempowerment a little)
You can fuel my obsessions with what was, what is, what can be
You can give me space to be publicly inappropriate
and room to be someone different tomorrow