Paul (at me during my bow pose): Looking good G.
Me: You're looking good too Paul (everyone in the studio incl him and his wife cracks up)
Okay that felt fantastic, I love to sweat! But. Right, but. The punchline to 'what is bigger than a breadbox?' Is not supposed to be 'my clitoris'. Right, and we are telling ourselves jokes like a lunatic so there's that. Let's go to the juice bar and read that new collection of feminist fairy tales. Yea, what could be less sexy than a spinach smoothie and feminism?! Nothing!!
In the beginning, I know I want him before he does. This isn’t how things are done, but this is how I am going to do them.
I see the muscles of his neck and upper back, how he fairly strains out of his button-down shirts, like a day laborer dressed up for a dance, and I run slick.
I am a good girl. But he is a little craggy, in that way men sometimes are, and I want. He seems like he could want the same thing. I once heard a story about a girl who requested something so vile from her paramour that he told her family and they had her hauled her off to a sanatorium. I don’t know what deviant pleasure she asked for, though I desperately wish I did. What magical thing could you want so badly they take you away from the known world for wanting it? I have always wanted to choose my moment, and this is the moment I choose.
He is hard and hot and dry and smells like bread, and when he breaks me I scream and cling to him like I am lost at sea. His body locks onto mine and he is pushing, pushing, and before the end he pulls himself out and finishes. I am fascinated and aroused by the rhythm, the concrete sense of his need, the clarity of his release.
I shimmy off my pantyhose, and on my hands and knees offer myself up to him. I have heard all of the stories about girls like me, and I am unafraid to make more of them. I hear the metallic buckle of his pants and the shush as they fall to the ground, and I feel his half hardness against me. I beg him—“No teasing”—and he obliges. I moan and push back, and we rut in that clearing, groans of my pleasure and groans of his good fortune mingling and dissipating into the night. We are learning, he and I.
It is not normal that a girl teaches her boy, but I am only showing him what I want, what plays on the insides of my eyelids as I fall asleep. He comes to know the flicker of my expression as a desire passes through me, and I hold nothing back from him. When he tells me that he wants my mouth, the length of my throat, I teach myself not to gag and take all of him into me, moaning around the saltiness.
Bent over the kitchen table, something old is lit within me, and I remember the way we had desired before, how we had left love streaked on all of the surfaces, how he relished in my darkest spaces. I scream with ferocity, not caring if the neighbors hear, not caring if anyone looks through the window with its undrawn curtains... ~Her Body and Other Parties
The Killers - The Man
