I left teeth marks. I would tell you I felt bad, but I don’t. It makes me a bit proud, like marking my territory.
They’re not very deep and its not like he complained when I was making them. Well, he was yelling and pulling my hair, so that might have been a complaint, but he was also thrusting himself deeper into my mouth. It was difficult to breathe and I was light-headed choking on his scent.
We all have our fetishes. Strange connections to our erotic brains, a more complex excitement. What fall under the category is broad and fascinating, as the mundane, the repulsive, the painful slip into the sexual, the sensual.
As a young woman, I wasn’t even aware of any fetishes that I had, at least not on a conscious level. Lurking in my limbic system, my fetish fed my arousal.
why did this turn me on? stay tuned to find out…
As simple as preferring the perfume adverts with women in high heels, my heart rate would increase. They needn’t even be sexual images, there needn’t be handsome men. There was just something there that turned me on, at first inexplicably and each time I tried to pinpoint it, it would grow worse and worse.
I don’t know the background to why these tiny details wrecked havoc with my desires. It could be the contrast of the sharp, needle pointed heels, with the vulnerability, the fragility of balancing on them.
As I grew older and the Internet expanded. I learned rarely was anyone alone in these particular tastes. In an effort to explore them further, I’m starting up the Fetish-clopedia. Every so often, I plan on taking a fetish explaining what it is and exploring its sensual aspects.
Of course, I haven’t experienced them all myself, but as always invite you to contribute. I’m always happy to hear another sex story.
As it happens, I seem to be gathering more posts about Pynchon than pussy. But a man who can occupy a woman’s mind, it so much more powerful than one that can occupy her body. A man who can occupy both is an angel, because my body needs the tender touch of feathers on my skin at the same time as I need to be held in his strong grip.
What can I say? I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m an angel under-cover… Or was it I’m an angel under the covers… cause unless I’m a fallen angel, that is far from the truth. I’m a perfect angel out of the covers. A true gentle-lady. The kind who lifts a pinky while she drinks. The kind who stops to help elderly ladies cross the street, no matter how much they protest.
Get away from me, I ain’t giving you my wallet!
But ma’am I just want to help…
I don’t need your stinking help.
At least let me carry your grocery bags.
Why so you can runoff with them? I wasn’t born yesterday.
Yes ma’am you got me. I was going to rob you of your potatoes and onions.
i’m just jealous of all that junk she got in that trunk.
While we’re on the topic of angels, I would just like to clarify when I die and go to heaven I do not want 52 virgins. I don’t want to teach lovemaking classes when I get to heaven. Give me 52 men who know what they are doing. I might even settle for some well-educated, well-researched virgins if I have no other options.
The point of this ramble is to say how excited I am about May 8th. Its the best day of the year after sex in public day, which I might add goes down surprisingly well with the neighbors, it is Pynchon in Public day.
For a work of dense (like a black hole) literature, Gravity’s Rainbow has enough one-liners to entertain the Last Action Hero audience, so as I’ve spent 9 months reading it, it is time for this baby to come out in public.
Juliana Sliema: Sexy, Literary! 