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Monthly Archives: March 2012

How to fix a hole in the heart

The one you love makes a hole in your heart and fills it with a very specially shaped object. When you lose your love, you feel the emptiness, and you try to fill the hole with various other objects. But none of them fit, because that hole was specially drilled by your lover to fit HIS object (and no, not that one).

Worse, the more you try to fit the other wrong-shaped objects into the hole, the more the hole bleeds and opens up, rather than closing eventually like a normal wound.  So sometimes, you go back and get your ex-lover and try to put him in there again, where he was before. Everything all right now? NO. His shape has changed, and the hole has changed too, so even HE doesn’t fit any more.

So what you’ve gotta do is wait till that hole starts closing up on its own, like a wound growing a scab over it.  When that scab falls off, and you can feel the new skin underneath, THEN find someone who can drill a new hole, unique to them, and fill it perfectly.

And this is what you get.

You haven’t done the corners!

“You haven’t done the corners!”

Liliana frowned. The moth, wings outflung in death, and Hobbs, the vacuum cleaner she had bought a month ago, after ditching Clemence the French Maid in a fit of pique, stared back at her.

“I only bought you because they said you had an eye for detail.”

“I do have an eye. For detail.”

In fact, Hobbs had no eyes, only a visual detection screen. But there was something about that screen which made Liliana feel….undressed.

The fact is – she was undressed. And why shouldn’t she be, in her own home, with no one but the household appliances to see her. Still, she crossed her arms over her naked breasts.

“Then you can see that dead moth as well as I can,” she retorted.

Hobbs pondered. She knew he was pondering, because a red light winked on his user function controller. A red spot played on her bare midriff, like a salacious ultrasound.

“Show me,” he said.

She sighed. It was a game to him. Her. She was pretty sure Hobbs was a him.

“Look!”

She got down on her knees, the pile lush on her long legs.

“Moth. Here! Dust. Here!”

Liliana ran a slim finger around the skirting board.

“You have an attachment. I read about it. For dust.”

Hobbs sidled close.

“See?”

She held up her finger, grey, ran it slowly along his sensor. She heard him purr. She could have sworn it.

“Again?”

“What? This?”

She stroked the cool metal, felt a flush of electric warmth meet her fingertip.

“I bought you to clean the goddamn floor, not to –“

Not to – what?

“Where’s the goddamn attachment, anyway?”

With a low growl, the vacuum tube slid out, its questing nozzle quivering with tiny, silken hairs. She closed her hand around it, feeling the delicate power, sensuous, subtle. Naked, she drew closer, and Hobbs, too, with a throaty murmur, leaned in towards her naked body as they converged on the still, dead moth.

“Your bread’s ready!”

She jumped.

“It’s been ready for half an hour. If you don’t take it out, it’ll get all steamy and moist.”

“Coming, Clarissa.”

She rued the day she’d decided to call the bread making machine Clarissa. Could a nameless machine have a character? Could a nameless machine be in love?

She opened the lips of the oven and peered in. The bread was waiting, warm, ripe, crusty, fragrant.

“Are you satisfied? Did I satisfy you?”

“Yes, Clarissa, you were perfect.”

“Because, you know, I tried especially hard, for you. I know how you love to taste something fresh and rich and warm first thing in the morning. I know just how you like it, don’t I?”

“Thanks, Clarissa. I know you do.”

“Don’t I get a kiss then?”

“Clarissa, you make the bread. You don’t need kisses. You don’t even have a mouth.”

She could feel Clarissa pouting, with her no-mouth. The bread wouldn’t rise properly, next time. the fruit of a heavy sulk. She put her soft arms around the white, creamy box and pressed her lips to the plastic, even a little flicker of tongue.

So smooth, she thought. If only we were made of plastic. Or steel. To run warm hands over curves and flanks of whitest poly-something, to feel the electric heart pulsing beneath.

“No moth!”, said Hobbs in his deep, thrilling voice, loudly. “See? No dust.”

He stood, erect, in the corner, his shiny steel frame sihouetted in the window, proudly holding his extension before him.

Liliana sighed.

“I’ll check later. Right now I’m going to take a nap.”

She shut the bedroom door. Hobbs and Clarissa exchanged a complicit glance.

“I can clean crumbs, too,” said Hobbs, hopefully.

When you’re wide awake and he – isn’t.

How can you snore for such a LONG time!
Comatose all the morning!  Don’t you know that I’m
Horny?  Here are acres of arable land
Just lying there waiting the touch of your hand,
Hills, plains and valleys are going to seed!
Your mares are in season. But you pay them no heed
And you lie there all snug like a big hairy bug,
When you should be at work, you recalcitrant stud!

Imperfect perfect!

Have you ever had sex with someone fat? Someone whose dick stands up behind a big mound of belly as if it’s trying to look over the top and see what’s going on over the other side. I have.

Or someone whose dick reaches up as far as it can go and still doesn’t top your middle finger? I haven’t. But I have experienced what I like to call the ‘stick in a bucket’ phenomena.  (It’s not about the stick, or the bucket. It’s about sticks FOR buckets.)

Someone who hangs like a curtain when they’re bending over (babies, you have a lot to answer for!). How about someone whose skin isn’t smooth? Maybe they’ve got a set of moles on their back, or orange peel thighs, or pimples on their bottom where your fingers run.

How about hairy? Nipples with long threads of hair flowing out from their areole, pubic hairs curling down their inner thighs, a downy trail over their stomach pointing to a vulva you’d just love to get smothered by.  I have a thing for gorillas, shaved chests just don’t do it for me.  And I’ve made a vow to God never to cut my pubic hair, it’s a religious thing.

Or, someone with hair all over their shoulders and none on their head. Someone I know used Rogaine when they first noticed their bald patch, and ended up like this, cause the Rogaine dribbled down off their bald pate onto their shoulders – I guess.  Better some than none.

Someone with less than the full complement of teeth? Dentists aren’t what they used to be, and that’s a good thing, because they USED to pull out your tooth as the first line of defence. Sometimes they used to pull out all of them so you’d never have a toothache again. Could you have an erotic episode with someone gummy?

How about someone with spotty legs, a red nose, and eyebrows which got all mussed up while you were fucking and look like two happy caterpillars on their way to a mulberry bush?

And have you ever really enjoyed it, cause you love that person, and because flaws make them more and less ordinary to you, all at the same time?

Fishes with fetishes

Fish fuck. You don’t see them doing it but we do. They love best to fuck in a storm, under the waves where it’s quiet and green and if you look up you can just see the lightning screaming across the peaks above.

I’ll tell you what’s wild. To fuck in front of an oncoming ocean liner, cutting through the phosphorus towards you with its engines throbbing and its huge prow thrusting forward towards you, looking like it’s going to cut you in half, and full of humans screeching softly with their tinny voices in their little circle of light, in the midst of the great darkness they can’t see. To fuck, and roll around in the bow wave, shouting, quick, come, come, are you coming yet, it’s coming, come NOW!

And then at the last moment possible to dive out the way, far below the cutting blades, and wait laughing till it passes over the top of us like a great fat steel whale.

What else? To lie hidden in the long sea gardens, slithering through on your belly, hand in hand, feeling eels stroking your breasts and your gills as you wriggle past, and rainbow fish nibbling at your erect nipples.

In the floor forest, where the adults can’t see us, we lie on top of one another and I feel Rhysshe’s long, fishy dick snaking out and into me, his scales sliding scrapily against mine, his tail flipping ever so softly over the sand, stirring up a little cloud.

He blows bubbles into my mouth, turns about and sucks them out of my vagina with a popping sound like a squid.  My long green hair floats up and covers his face – I love how it bugs him, sometimes he threatens to cut it off with a shell but I know he likes it really.  I sew sharp little clams into it, that slap into his cheeks.

Some time, I want him to tie me to an old ship, sunk in mud on the sea bottom, and tease me with cuttlefish bones.  Or maybe we should make out on a rock, our scales turning to dull grey in the dry air, giggling and thrashing around till some boatload of savages comes near enough to see and we throw ourselves off screaming with laughter, making rude signs with our tails – not that they get it.

But the best is to fuck in a storm, right up where the rain’s hitting the waves like a pile driver and the sky’s white with electricity and you lie on the top of the water and get carried up, up into the sky, and then you’re thrown down again like a dead gull so you think you’re going right to the bottom of the sea and beyond.  You just wrap your arms and your tails around each other so tight, you hardly know who’s in who, your mouth in his mouth, or maybe it’s the other way around, and when the thunder cries out I feel Rhysshe deep, deep inside of me, as if HE’s the thunder.  And when the lightning comes over the surface, well then so do we, our bodies lit up from inside with the current, you can’t imagine the buzz.  No one can touch us for days afterwards, we glow like worms and zap sharks’ fins just for fun.  And the fish, they’ve been doing it too, so Rhysshe waves his arms as he swims and clouds of eggs surge into my open mouth, and he says, remember when?

Being an I not an Us

I was in the orthodontist’s office today, waiting for Ms M to have her braces adjusted, and naturally I consulted the gossip magazines (you know, does anyone ever BUY gossip magazines? Maybe just dentists?). Anyway, in there was a picture of Demi Moore, looking slightly manic and dishevelled, and an article quoting her as saying  something like ‘I don’t know if anyone will ever love me again! I’ll probably end up with no one, I feel like there’s something wrong with me, like I’m unlovable.’

And I thought, yeah! That’s what you DO think, at a certain stage of life, when you’ve split up with the guy you thought you were going to be hitting the nursing home with, and there you are, stranded on the beach of life like a draggly old piece of seaweed while everybody walks around you holding their noses, and picking up prettier things like starfish and abalone shells. Well ok I’m waxing a bit poetic here but..

The thing is, I voluntarily GAVE UP my lifelong partner. I didn’t like him, and I’m not sorry I gave him up, but if I’d wanted to, I could now be among the ‘we’ brigade who casually refer to ‘my husband says..’ and ‘on the weekend we always..’ and so on. Not only did I voluntarily give HIM up, but there were about five or six other guys who at one time or another I also voluntarily gave up, because they weren’t clever enough,or sexy enough, or manly enough, or funny enough…So now I’m 49, out of love, cheated on, gettin’ old – and I’m thinking, like Demi, maybe there’s something WRONG with me. Maybe the ones who were lovable, are all cuddled up now being loved, and it’s only the defective – or stupidly fussy – ones who are left sitting here thinking, hmmm.

Poor old Demi! I have to admit, I’m not as keen on Ashton as I used to be (and I never did used to be very keen, because I don’t go for that clean smarmy look).

What a slimeball!

Oh God, please, I think I’m about to…fake another one!

I’ve never, in my life, had a genuine orgasm while I was having sex with a person other than me. AND if I had ten dollars for every time a man told me ‘I bet I can fix that’, I’d now have enough for a reasonably expensive dinner.

Actually, it’d almost be worth me paying THEM ten dollars not to try. I don’t CARE if I don’t have an orgasm. I can reach untold heights of pleasure, I can experience beautiful sensations, I can have a wonderful time, I don’t NEED to have an orgasm.

If I want an orgasm, I can have it afterwards, on my own.  Sure, if an orgasm happened along, I wouldn’t say, no, get away, you filthy thing!  But the thing is, I know exactly what’s required to which bits to make it happen, and nobody else does, even if I tell them. So either I lie there saying ‘Right!’, ‘Left’, ‘Harder’, ‘No no not so hard…hang on slow down a bit there…wait, faster now, not TOO fast..’ like some kind of demented forklift driver – or I just give up and go ‘Sure, I came.’  Happy now?

Well, I do the latter. And I do it pretty damn well, because most of my lovers don’t even know that it was all a big pretend. I think some of them suspect, owing to the lack of ‘contractions’ and the suspiciously short recovery time – but men WANT to believe you’ve had one, as passionately as some women want to believe a man isn’t just in it for the fuck, so they tend to collude with you in kidding themselves.

Because I don’t really want a man hanging over me putting forth all his arts and efforts trying to get me to do something I’m just not going to do – but I feel I OUGHT to be able to do, and if I’m not able to do, well he might just go elsewhere to someone who CAN oblige.  It’s performance pressure and I don’t like it any more than a man would.  If I like a guy, whatever he puts out, is delightful as far as I’m concerned, and that’s all that I need. I don’t need the Mighty Orgasm, because I – surprise surprise – am not a Man.

Apologies to those women who do need orgasms and are not therefore less women – but you know, there must be at least a quarter of us who really find the whole orgasm requirement quite a drag. And yeah, I know faking orgasms is WRONG.