The Girl I Once Loved

There is sunlight on my bed. It touches my naked legs and I notice that it doesn't stray to where she is stretched out in the dark. Strange that I am all lit up and she is not. I am so used to the thick dark of her shadow. Her beauty obliterates me on any ordinary day.

We are side by side and we have only ever touched when there has been someone else with us. I have reached for her, only vaguely distracted by some boy on top of me. I have snuggled up beside her, feeling the rhythms of her hips, swaying, as she is entered by some other man. Once, in front of a video camera, I kissed her and couldn't seem to pull away even when the director yelled cut.

I watch her when she is walking. I see the sunlight outline her legs under her white skirts. I watch her sit in front of the television with her knees lolling wide and a little damp line at the centre of her pristine white knickers. My knickers are never white. One moment against my skin and they tan to the colour of my nipples.

I admire her, I am envious of her, I want to be her and I want to fuck her.

My skin is heated in a sun pattern. We are both wearing buttoned shirts and knickers, mine a dirty grey, hers pure white. I settle my knee against hers. She doesn't shift away. My hand is close to her buttons and I touch one with my finger. I struggle it through the tight enclosure of the button hole. When it is open I sneak my finger into the space, feather it back and forth. Maybe she feels the gentle rustle of it so close to the swell of her breast.

She doesn't move. She doesn't shift away when I ease my fingers upward to where another button holds the delicate fabric closed across the generous proportions of her breasts.

Her bra is white. It is delicately flowered. I ease her shirt away and her bra is revealed, thick and delicate as an orchid, her flesh rising above the albino petals, squeezed together by the positioning of her arms.

I unbutton my own shirt. My own bra is black. My breasts are darker than hers. When I shuffle closer to her chest I gaze down at the inconsistencies of our flesh. Her breasts are pale and delicate and scented. Mine are too generous, too dark, too oily fleshed like some slit open fish packed into too tight packaging. I ease the cups of my bra down and there are my brown nipples, enlarged aureole, the tight nibs clenched at their peaks. There are several dark hairs at the edges of the nipples and I wished I had thought to pluck them away before revealing myself to her.

She still hasn't moved. I look to her face, heavy lidded eyes, gazing down towards those now erect stray hairs. She hasn't made me stop but she hasn't invite my attentions either.

I will show her what to do. I will lead by example. I clutch one of my breasts in my fist and raise it out of the loose droop of my bra cup. I bend my head towards it and I lick the nipple so that she can see how the flesh grows taut and twitchy. The nipple aching out towards the touch of tongue like an accusing finger. I take it all into my mouth, I suckle, a show for her, a demonstration. She could lean down and lick it too, alongside my own mouth. She could replace my attentions with her own. I lift both of my breasts towards her mouth, so close that her breathing disturbs the fine pale hairs that line the swell of them. If she were to yawn she would swallow a nipple, but her mouth remains firmly closed. She sighs and she settles closer to me. I feel her hips brush mine. My knee is caressed by the fine swell of her calf. She has raised her legs.

My hands release my breasts back into their holdings. My fingers travel the swell of my stomach, my less than perfectly flat stomach and touch the elastic of my knickers. Her crotch is somewhere down here. I stretch my index finger out and here is the tight press of white cotton, slightly damp but perfectly laundered.

She nestles closer, pushes her crotch against my fingers, closes her eyes and settles where she is within reach of my shivery finger. It is all I can do not to tear away the pretty white cotton, but I restrain myself. I ease my finger under the elastic. I notice that she is wet. I wonder whether it would be too much to shuffle down her body and taste the nectar. My mouth is watering at the thought of it. Her breath is sweet, her skin is sweet, her hair is sweet. I am hoping that her cunt will add a savory edge to the palate that is otherwise all pales and pinks and sugary pastel hues. I sneak my fingers into the nest of fine cropped hair. I think she must cut it with scissors. It is so fine and neat and manicured like expensive lawn. I open her like I have opened her buttons, easing my fingers under the delicate fabric of her skin, fluttering my finger back and forth, making space for the rude invasion of my own flesh. She opens to me, moist and soft and I imagine that she will be sea-shell pink like the inside of some spidery white shell fish. My tongue is itching for mussels, oysters, pippis.

The phone rings. She opens her eyes and stretches and my finger is abandoned to the harsh cold Sunday afternoon air. I shift back away from the darkness into the spotting of sunlight. She rolls off my king-sized bed and I hear her little bird voice from the next room as she answers the phone.

"Hello? No, nothing much. Now's good."

I am nothing much. I sniff my finger, lick it. Sweet. She is sweet. There is no hint of a base note. She is all sugar. I shuffle over into the darkness where I smell her sweet sweat and perfume on the pillow and I curl my damp finger around a single, abandoned, blond hair.

The 100th Horse Theory and the 50th Vagina

When he posts his 100th story I want to take him out and flirt with him. I want to go bleary-eyed and beer-kiss him on the mouth and because my wild days are over and because I am in love with someone else, I want to take him to a strip club and watch his cheeks pink as some other girl in a g-string and the tiniest triangle of fabric over her nipples, looses balance on her get-out-of-here stilettos and falls into his chaste lap. I want to watch his horror and embarrassment at other men pawing over the nearly-naked flesh. I want to watch his horror and embarrassment over his own barely-concealed erection. I want to watch his reaction to my noticing his barely-concealed erection.

Poor man. What did he do to deserve my unwanted friendship? He diligently chipped away at 100 blog posts, some of which made the furious vagina jealous, all of which were posted on schedule, a magnificent performance. Horses are ahead by a nose, but vaginas are coming up the rear.

So now it will be just him and me and a stripper in a pony costume with an iced cake. Happy 100 Horses it will say, and he will blush and blush and blush...

* Also, a special day today for the Furious Vagina. It is my 50th post. 50 day's of sexual exploits. Thank you readers for spending time with me. Many happy returns.

Fortune Cookie #4

These posts are words of wisdom that have got me through life reasonably happy and sexually satisfied. If you want to pass these words of wisdom onto friends or younger members of your family, cut out the sayings one by one, there will be about one fortune cookie each week - and buy a cheap packet of fortune cookies from your local Asian supermarket. Using tweezers, remove the existing naff saying from each cookie and replace it with one of Krissy's words of wisdom. Throw a party. Distribute the cookies. Everybody happy.

Fortune Cookie #4

Try to tongue-kiss someone and then NOT have sex with them. See. Impossible, isn't it!

One of those parties.

I heard the story many years later. 'There was this party and there was a sacrifice to the snake goddess, and all these naked women doing satanic rites and sex offered up to Beelzebub. In this little house in Petrie Terrace". That was what identified the whole thing to me. That little house in Petrie Terrace where we used to sun ourselves naked by a pool that was once used for embalming corpses, where we dug a grave to bury a cat and found three cat skeletons already buried there one above the next. That little house where we threw those parties, that particular party. The one offered up to Beelzebub, apparently.

There were drugs. There were lots of drugs, but I only took a little, more than enough it seems. I became fascinated with a painting and then I communed with the viscosity of the hardened landscape of oily colour and then I time shifted into the hand that had created the painting in the first place. That little episode, fascinating as it was, took up several hours at the end of which I was excited and energized and buzzing with the need to tell strangers all about it.

There were balloons tied to the fence and people walking by took it as a sign to wander up the stairs and through the open door. There were people in the bathtub. I loved baths. I remember telling them about the painting and how I had been teleported into the moment when the paint was layed onto the canvass, the very act of painting. I could feel each stroke of the brush in my body.

Then I remember my friend dragging me out of the bath by my naked shoulders, wrapping me in a towel that felt like a big ball of cotton wool.

"Come have a bath" I told her, "There's plenty of room."

She whispered something about junkies and I turned to see that the naked strangers in the bath had a syringe that they were passing between them. I looked down at my arm, grateful to find my flesh un-pierced. I'm not sure what happened to the junkies but there was talk of the men in the house drying them off and throwing them out into the light drizzle of the midnight street.

I made love to a girl on the couch. There were a group of people gathered around us, I am told, but I only remember the colour and smell of her hair, the thick ginger fish fur of her tickling at my lips. The viscosity of her juices, my fingers all crushed together by the miracle of her flesh contracting.

There was the rat fed to the snake. Not a sacrifice in the pagan sense, but the snake needed to be fed and the strangers gasped and acted outraged at the idea of breeding rats for the purpose of food. I remember trawling through my own conflicting emotions. I had been down this ethical path before, stopped short at a dead end. It wasn't my snake. It wasn't my rat. It wasn't my decision to make and I was glad of it.

I leaped into the pool, the pool that had been used to bathe the corpses. Seven foot long, seven foot wide. I started to run in circles shouting "whirlpool".

Bodies falling into water, some of them clothed. "Whirlpool", "whirlpool". And what a hurricane we made with our laughter and our little naked dance.

"...and then there was a kind of Pagan Maypole dance only naked, in the pool."

"Oh, I told her. That party. I know that party. That was our place."

I went back over her description of it, redistributing the events only this time in context. Our party. Our almost Pagan party made legendary in some younger person's eyes. I suddenly felt that perhaps I had grown just a little old.

House Guest

I want to invent a silent vibrator. The house guest is always there and my vibrator is languishing in the bottom drawer. I reach for it in daydreams. There is always a low note whirring somewhere in the back of my head. My body rattles sympathetically. There is, of course, the shower, my one moment of privacy away from the house guest, but there are water restrictions, and my time is limited and it is never the same.

I catch myself daydreaming about my vibrator while the house guest is trying to talk at me. I nod. I am distracted. I want to concentrate, but there is that low whirring sound and the narcotic rush of pleasure that accompanies it, plastic rattling off bone.

Our flat smells of endless rain and mouldy carpet and the sleep-breath of too many bodies sucking up the oxygen. The flat needs to be aired. It needs to be free of human bodies for a day or two. It needs to breathe.

I need the freedom to walk into the kitchen without my clothes on. I need to make the bed squeak at night, thumping off the concrete wall like a raised finger to the neighbours. I need to develop a vibrator with a silencer, one that you could safely use in your pocket on the bus, something developed for the room next door to your mother or if you are sharing a dormitory with someone else, or if you have a house guest.

The house guest wants another cup of coffee and a chat. I smile. I put the stove-top on. I listen to the phlegmatic burble of the thing which is a slightly lower note, but not dissimilar to the glorious sound that my neglected vibrator makes.

Extra Ticket

I wanted a ticket to the movies. This is the reason I had sex with him. I have to be honest about this. He returned to my bed and I let him because I realised that having sex with him was the worst kind of prostitution, the kind where you do it for a jam doughnut in the playground and the doughnut makes you sick anyway.

Here's how it happened. He won tickets to the movie. The preview of the movie. I imagined sitting in the cinema and my nostrils filled with the scent of popcorn, a comforting chocolate Malteezer kind of smell all childhood and heavy petting and Sunday afternoon all rolled into a plush red seat. I thought about that movie all through dinner. I dreamed it, fantasized the ending. I even found myself wondering about the characters in cultural studies 101. I wanted to go to the movies. I wanted to go to that particular movie. I opened my wallet and counted the money there, almost enough for a bus ticket. I wanted his extra ticket.

I seduced him one afternoon. It was his first time. It crossed my mind that a virginity was probably worth more than the cost of a ticket to the movies. I felt a little guilty, but I liked him. I liked the way he shuddered nervously and became very quiet, looking up at me as if I were an angel, deflowering him in a halo of heavenly light. I liked the way he was made, the compact muscles and the strong curve of his legs. I liked the way he waited for me to show him where and how and the way he listened when I told him what to do and why to do it. I liked his studiousness, his bookishness. I liked the way he came too quickly but was quite prepared to come again before too long.

Afterwards, in the fading afternoon I asked him about the ticket, but he had already promised it to his friend. I felt the wind fading from the sails, but I stuck with it, returning to his room one night after the next.

I watched them leave for the movies together. I stayed at home and drank tea and wondered. They returned home gloriously happy. They showed me the prize that had been hidden under their theatre seat. They were best friends. I liked that he had stuck with his promise to his best friend.

That night I came into his bedroom and taught him about blindfolds and ropes made out of stockings. He smelt a bit like Maltezers, and the damp dark. There was a kernel of popcorn caught in the cuff of his jeans.

I longed for the cinema all through the long slow fucking.
He was a nice man, quiet, and with the kind of eyes that could be cold or blazing if you caught them in a particular light. He was fiercely intelligent. Nice body, and I had flirted with him as I flirted with any of them, intermittently and without much commitment. He was almost my favourite. I liked the short boy with curly hair who used to bang his forehead against the wall whenever his computer wasn't working. There was not much between them, the fire-eyed boy and the boy who was mildly asperges. It could have gone either way.

Except for that ticket to the movies.

Motorcycle

Before I ever learned to ride a motorcyle there was this:

I climbed up behind him and there was the inevitable Freudian thing. My Father rode a motorcycle. He rides a motorcycle. He was significantly older than me and therefore, along with the vehicle, the obvious comparisons could be made. I hoisted my daddy-complex up behind him, a little scared, a little exhilarated. He rode fast and low around the corners and I was excited by the speed and the vibrations and then of course the Freudian thing.

He rode to my place and I clung to his body, freezing in the autumn grey. We were going to have sex. Him, me and Richard. He knew about Richard. There were rules set. He can't put his penis inside me. He can't kiss me unless I kiss him first. I won't touch his penis unless I want to. Yes. He can touch my penis. Yes. He can suck my penis. The usual story really. For me there were no rules, predictably.

He had a spare helmet on the back of the bike. He had a spare jacket. Perhaps he was expecting to ride me home, or maybe he did this all the time, picked up women in cafe's and lured them onto his motorcycle. "Come for a ride?" a pick up line with a built in laugh track.

The sex was fun, predictable, but fun. He seemed to grow harder when Richard touched him. He liked the oral sex from both of us, but he wanted Richard to suck him longer and even ejaculated into his mouth. We destroyed most of a packet of condoms experimenting with various positions and combinations. We ended with a cup of tea and a bit of a laugh, naked at the kitchen table.

I was thinking about his motorcycle. I was thinking about the lurch in your stomach around corners and the way your nose is pressed into the scent of leather as you hug yourself up close to the rider in front. I was wondering how hard it would be to get a motorcycle license, the cost of one, the problem of getting your shopping home in the rain. I was thinking about that time when I first left home and my father came and visited me on a motorcycle. I was thinking about how he took me out and bought me a denim jacket which I loved. I was wondering what had happened to that denim jacket which would have become unfashionable and probably a little too small for me in the intervening years.

Richard was reaching over and kneading his penis with his fingers. Richard was bowing into his lap. It seemed like we were about to launch into another round.

After that, perhaps, I would ask him to take me for another ride.