Orgasm in real time

I want to share with you an orgasm in real time - she said and I am certain that his penis leaped in his shorts if he was wearing shorts. If not he would have easily stroked that swelling thing between his legs in that frantic syncopated rhythm that some men favour.

Are you ready? Well it takes a while and so I would get comfortable if I were you. I have to build up to it. The blood comes to my clitorus slowly. The petals (she would use this kind of flowery metaphor) begin to swell up just a little as if you were sighing ever so slightly into a balloon. He would be thinking of her cunt then, although she would never use the word 'cunt'. Her performance is coy with an edge of brashness, although it is only a fine edge and it only comes out with him because he is so patient with her. He does not push her to think of sex. In fact he avoids it, and it is in his avoidance that she becomes bold.

I am a little bit damp now - and he thinks 'wet', because 'wet' is the word that makes him rock hard. He hates that the simple language of pornography has the power to stir him but he thinks 'wet' and 'cunt' and when he looks down into his lap he thinks 'cock' and he will come long before she does because she has settled into an orgasm in real time and perhaps she is pleasuring herself all the way over there on the other side of the internet, perhaps when she says she is touching it, she really is, or perhaps it is just a display to trap him. Still, he holds his 'cock' and thinks of her delicate little fingers parting the 'petals' of her 'cunt' and he makes sounds that he would not make if she were not all the way over there at her own house and he says:

Yeah?

Because she does all the talking anyway.

And she says - so it feels a little tingly down there in my flower and I can feel how moist it is.

He does not like the word moist.

And it is almost damp enough to put my little finger inside there. She has no word for the place but he has, 'cunt' he thinks, 'hole' 'mouth'. And it is the idea of her cunt as a mouth that sends him. The idea of her lips closing on her delicate little finger and spitting honey out to lubricate it's passage. He catches the jism in his hand which he hates to do but she caught him unprepared with her orgasm in real time conversation.

So he goes into the bathroom and pulls some toilet paper off the roll and cleans himself and washes his hands very carefully and checks his hair in the mirror and when he returns to his computer screen she has only just slipped a second finger inside her virtual cunt and so he clicks over to another screen and reads about some band or another and their album that they have just released and he flicks back to her orgasm every so often, adding a 'yeah?' at the appropriate places, and he waits, and wonders if she will ever come.

Pavlov's dog and boredom

Did the dog ever tire of salivating for the food at the dinging of a bell?

I know we can be conditioned to our responses. If he puts a particular song on the CD player, if she sets the table in a particular way using candles, if she always wants sex on a Wednesday if he always has a wank in the shower after a run.

I am trained to my sexual responses. If I am home alone to work I come back again and again to the idea that I am free to masturbate undisturbed. I have a weekend habit for sex that is perhaps boring if you look at it that way.

I wonder if Pavlov's dog ever wanted to shake it up a little. Perhaps wait till after the 7.30 report to get fed. Use the sound of the bell to indicate sleep time just for something different. Do we get bored of our conditioned responses or will I always find myself fidgeting on 'working from home days' unable to settle until the deed is done?

She stole a dog

She stole a dog out of love. We knew her a little and therefore we knew that these were the actions of a crazy woman. She had become a kind of a joke, someone we tolerated vaguely, taking a deep breath before serving her. We knew there would always be some pedantic instructions about wrapping her gift, the wrong ribbon, the wrong coloured paper. When she stole the dog we were not too surprised. I suppose the others just added it to her eccentricities, but I have to admit I wondered. If a love is so strong it becomes sexual. I know this because of the terrible tug of my love for my friends. One friend after another falling victim to this odd obsession. The dreams, the little fantasies, the late night longing. The early morning apologies.

When she had the little dog in her hands how did she stroke it? When the object of obsession becomes real for you what will you do? How would I react if one of the objects of my longing responded positively? Was she frightened? I know I would be. Did she touch it in secret and with no one to know? How would it be for me? For her?

We hang the new article on the door of the cupboard and laugh about it. She stole the dog. A joke because we have made her a joke. I am sure that it is only I who have left to wonder. Empathetically. What on earth would I do?

Speak sex

I send her a letter which is a file contained within an email, and the letter is about a letter which is actually an email. Anyway it is a communication and a reaction to words, specifically the word 'cunt'. I do not react to this word in real life, but in the communication my reaction is earth-shifting, orgasm-inducing. In the letter, language still has the power to transform me. The language of sex that is.

I speak sex almost fluently by now and yet it is an ever-changing language. My vocabulary grows daily. I am immersed in the study of sex. Three years with nothing else as my focus. Perhaps this means that at the end of this time there will be no more words for me to learn, and yet there are always new words for it. My education will never be complete.

Still, at the end of it I may go back to using sex as something hidden within the folds of a text, parting the damp pages with sweating palms, one finger inserted to hold your place, a page turned down, the shadow of a stain blotting the paper where your excitement has marked this as the best bit. One tiny sentence that holds enough erotic charge to move you with a hint of a wink, or one paragraph, one chapter, and when you return to the work, the rest will hide the sex as effectively as the body folding back over it, legs crossed, knees together, you will not read it the same way. You will have been changed by what we have shared, reader and writer fused together by this fissure in the chaste surface of the real world. No one else in the library or in the cafe or on the bus will know that I have put a part of myself inside you, and at the height of our shared pleasure, the ejaculate of my words is left inside you as I withdraw, effecting you, growing something in you that we have made together. The product of this odd understanding of love.

Reading as writing

So I read things I would never write. It is the otherness of the words that strikes me. This is someone else talking about sex. I could not emulate his style or try to write like him and yet we have these things in common. We share a sense of play. We use plain words or make them up, equally delighted by the naughtiness of language. We both have a fondness for breasts and have no issue with the size of them or the shape of the woman they are attached to. We both have a lust for variety and are happy to laugh at ourselves in the moment of pleasure.

We are different too. He is heterosexual perhaps with a nod towards a fondness for watching women lick each other. I am astounded by the variety he can imagine in the connection of man and woman. I am a little more erratic with my coupling, switching genders as quickly as I switch partners. He likes his cock big. Or perhaps this reflects the size of his own penis. The women are always wanting something bigger and better, the men they long for are long haired and muscled. Too many of the penises have a large bend in one direction, I suspect this is a quality he is intimate with. Perhaps his own banana bending penis? I have different desires. I don't need a huge cock for my pleasures. I am more tactile I suppose. There is not enough cunnilingus in his work.

We are sexually mismatched and yet I read him voraciously. He inspires me to create more outrageous scenarios. I borrow from his particular tastes. I like the scene where they are shopping for pens because I can see the eroticism of the written word. I am aroused by his difference to find my own voice. I am shocked by his new words into words of my own.Reading is good for writing. Reading is a part of writing. Sometimes I forget this in my desire for consummation. Reading is the foreplay, writing is the act itself.

House of Holes

Oh Nicholson Baker. Seriously. How can I not love you when you leap at words like 'scrotatiousness'. You race past me in your hunger for perversity. You leap at the severed arm and the girl who can tell if your sperm is magic when she licks your balls. You place a woman's legs in the stirrups and ride her against the leather bicycle seat. You use play words, toy words and all it does is make me laugh like I have just been tickled. You throw political correctness to the wind and take us on a romp that stays on the right side of Benny Hill just by the strength of your language.

I love you Nicholson Baker. I wish I could send you a copy of my next book.

A zoophile walks into a bar

Today I finished an essay I had been asked to write. It was an essay about watching porn and in particular I talked about my focus on zoophilia. Strangely I began to worry that perhaps I had not read the criminal code correctly. Despite downloading it onto my iPad, quoting from it, dissecting the different parts that relate to my study, I still could not be sure that watching bestiality was legal. I had admitted to it in the essay and although it seemed ok to mention this on my blog I suddenly lost my nerve. What if I had read the criminal code incorrectly? What if I had missed something? Presenting my relationship to a the act of watching bestial porn suddenly made me worry. I had lost my nerve.

It is one thing to call it fiction. In fiction you are allowed to perform acts that you might get arrested for in life. Everything is fantasy. Everything can be a little more extreme than the real versions of the activities.

This essay was a personal recollection and I was (yet again) outing myself, albeit to admit that I did not really find the sex a turn on at all. Still it is like taking my perversion into a public space. I always see Furious Vaginas as private even though it is not. I allow myself to make mistakes, experiment, play. The work goes out with grammatical errors, spelling mistakes. This blog is lounging in my bedroom or masturbating on the couch.

Publishing my essay in a literary journal is another thing. I suddenly feel like I have taken my perversions into the local bar.

I am sure it is legal to watch bestial porn on the internet. I am certain I have committed no crime, and yet suddenly I am naked with it. Suddenly everybody might see and know that I have done something wrong. The very reason for my study is to explore our conversations about perversity and sooner or later I will have to take them out of my bedroom and down to the bar. I know that now, despite the fact that I am not into animals, I will be the go-to person for all things zoophile in nature, just as now I am a go-to person for things about sex, despite my admission in Affection that I am not particularly good at the act. If you want an expert lover, go to Kate Holden. She has admitted that men have found her 'too good' in bed. I have only admitted that men have fallen asleep under me. I have only admitted that I am curious, love the celebration of the flesh and am willing to intellectually explore.

Still, now is the time to take off my clothes the protection of my ivory tower and walk the neighbour's dog down into the bar. Still if anyone finds any whiff of proof that it is somehow illegal to stumble across bestial porn then please post the link to that particular section of the criminal code that must have slipped by my in my dedication to find out what I can and cannot do.