Sweet Tooth and Shop Girl

I just finished a book called Sweet Tooth, written by Ian McEwan. He wrote the book Atonement also which is a film I absolutely loved so I had high hopes. They were not fulfilled.

The book describes itself as kind of a coming of age, a tale of lies and romance and spying and whatever else they put on the dustjacket. I found it a tale of youthful angst, foolishness, and not even any kind of moral to justify the foolishness and conceit of his main characters. The book opens on a young woman, Serena, just finishing secondary school in Britain during the Cold War. She is somewhat aimless, in a relationship with a man she can’t satisfy but who is content to love hew physically, and wholly self indulgent. She begins a relationship with an older professor and becomes the mistress until after graduation. He finds her a job with MI6, leaves her, and allows her to essentially find her own way. All this is punctuated by long, self indulgent monologues about the suspected motives of other characters that I personally found to increase Serena’s arrogance. It reminds me of a British Twilight: a Mary Jane with little to no personality, inexplicably loved by everyone she meets and who never has a real obstacle to overcome in the entire novel. The second half of the novel follows Serena through a promotion she didn’t earn and a relationship based on dishonesty which culminates in a contrived plot twist that is supposed to make the reader suddenly empathize with her and realize that the whole time her arrogance is justified because she’s been right about everything. It was one of the most difficult books to force myself to finish since Les Meserable and didn’t have the epic story line or the moral outrage to hold the reader’s interest. Overall I found it to be shallow and condescending.

I did find one literary device to be interesting: When Serena is preparing to solicit a young writer to write for the government, she reads his short stories as part of her handling of an undercover agent. We are treated to a summary of his short stories, complete with italicized lines drawn from this supposedly inspired writer. I found the use of passages from the book to be a good way to draw me in and help me develop interest in the short stories which I felt were far more interesting than Sweet Tooth as a whole. I also found her analysis of her relationship with this author/secret government agent interesting when she compared herself to characters in stories he had written. She thinks things like “He did x like the character in his story” and uses the stories as a window into this young man as she develops a deeper love for him.

I compared it to another book I read some time ago called Shop Girl, written by Steve Martin. My first shock at that book was finding out that he is not only an accomplished actor, but a skilled writer and also talented banjo player. Neat guy. Anyway, the reason I compare the books is that they are both about young women in relationships with both older men and then younger men later on. They are both about a young woman’s formative years and they both are from her perspective, written by men. Where Sweet Tooth felt as though it was wishful thinking by an older man wishing he had the love of a young woman and pretending he understood them, Shop Girl felt more like it was written by a father, to other fathers, showing them that a young, independent woman can have relationships with whomever she chooses and, while they may not be perfect or seemly, they can be happy and good and a learning experience.

Shop girl opens in a quiet department store in the glove section with a young bored girl named Mirabelle leaning on the counter, watching people in cosmetics. It’s familiar, mundane, made special only by the presence of this girl and her few customers. Mirabelle and Serena share an aimlessness and interest in an older man followed by an interest in one of the same age.The older lovers, a professor in Serena’s case and a businessman in Mirabelle’s, are purported to be wise, they take care of the young women, genuinely love them, but don’t end the relationships well in either case. The young lovers, a musician for Mirabelle and a writer for Serena, are a bit daft, mildly charming, broke, and redeem themselves in the end. Both young women have some sort of learning experiences, but Serena seems to be simply proven right at every turn while Mirabelle actually does some character building and ends the novella a different person than she started as.

The more I write about it the more I feel that is my problem with Sweet Tooth: everyone is so damn right all the time. The older lover is right to end the relationship the way he did, even though it was emotionally destructive: it’s ok in the end. Serena was right to lie to her agent, even though it was really rough, int he end it was the right thing to do. Her jealous rival was right to drive wedges into her relationship because it all worked out in the end and we’re all right and smug as shit about it. It’s as if McEwan didn’t want to do any actual character development so he just introduced stock characters at the appropriate times. Shop girl is a tenth the length, has three main characters and half a dozen supporting roles, and tells a far fuller, more complex, touching, and real story than Sweet Tooth.

Welcome the Rain

The weather has finally turned. The sky is steely blue, fluffy with clouds and misty with that rain that’s not ahrd enough to warrant an umbrella, but just cold and damp enough that the drops tapping the tops of my breasts are uncomfortably noticeable. The day is finished. I’ve completed the tasks that might take me outside for the day and what little else needs doing requires energy I do not have. I like the dark. I prefer being in the dark when alone. It’s cozy and chill enough that I’m constantly wrapped up in that fuzzy sweater I appropriated from your closet a while back. I’m wearing it now. The neck is wide enough that my collar bone shows and the thin strap of my camisole is visible. Below the sweater I’m wearing loose workout pants and fuzzy pink slippers to protect from the cold kitchen floor. The dishes are done and while I hate to make more, hot cocoa is on the agenda. The patter of the rain against the window and the gentle rolling boil of the kettle are all the soundtrack I need to enjoy this kind of weather. I think about lighting a fire but I’m too lazy; I’ll wait until you get home for that. Instead I take my cocoa upstairs where the heat has risen to fill the loft with warmth. There’s even some lingering scent of apple pie from yesterday when I left you to your devices and you produces a masterpiece. Perhaps I’ll have a small slice. Later. Right now my goal is bed and warmth.

I’ve slipped between the sheets and chosen the book I want. It’s my dirty little secret: a book of erotica I found at a second hand store. It’s cheesy and smarmy but between the lines I insert my own life and adventures. The slender, gentle hands of the musician/lover become your hands in my mind and the gentle banter between the Mary Jane and her lover become the tease, the laughter we’ve shared so often. The insertion of my own life makes the steamy scenes all the more real for me ๐Ÿ˜‰

The cat is napping near my feet. I’ve finished my cocoa and while my hands are warm, I’m thinking of a little something to warm up the rest of me. The bedside table has a little stash of toys we use when we play together, but sometimes it’s fun to play by myself. But first thing is first: The Tease. I pick up my phone and snap a picture of myself, robe askew, with the toys visible but not prominent and perhaps most of a breast in view and send it to my lover, stuck at work on this dreary day with a little tease about how I miss you. Don’t you wish you were here right now? The mental foreplay, between the book and knowing I’ll have you fired up on the other end of a camera phone, has me giggling and gasping in no time. I have all the time in the world so I can stop and start, taking photos as I go of my hands on my breasts (wish they were yours), then one of the toys poised to enter and stimulate (I can’t wait for you to come home and do it for real. Nothing can replace your magnificent cock, my love), maybe a few more texts describing how I feel, tantalizing you, frustrating you with what you can’t have right this minute, though you know all bets are off once you get home.

When I turn it on, the cat looks over lazily but I have no time. In my hands I hold a bit of silicone and wiring but in my mind it’s you. You are the musician serenading me into bed, you are the carpenter, lifting my hips from the bed, you are the soldier returning from your long absence to love and pleasure me. My eyes are closed, my breath is short, my cheeks are flushed as the images in my mind get more and more explicit, the thoughts dirtier and my body moves closer to orgasm. It’s not the same. It’s never as good, but I’m pleased by the short but releasing orgasm and the aftermath in which I snap one last photo. I’m looking into the camera. It’s the afterglow. Were you here my head would be on your shoulder and our scent would mingle and we would gasp together. I promise you that by the time you get home I will want you just as much as always, but for now I slip into sleep, the cat purring on my feet, the rain pattering against the window, and your face leading me into my dreams.

Books. There cannot possibly be too many books!

I love to read. I always have. My mother started me young, sitting around a camp fire reading “This Ever Present Darkness” by Frank Peretti. Now this isn’t kid fiction, it’s actually Christian propaganda. It seems an odd choice in retrospect for children ages eight to twelve, but my mother chose it for the explicit christian meaning. It is also enrapturing (pun intended). The three novels cover an epic saga of the heavenly battle for Earth set in the ‘battleground’ itself (Earth) and the reader is aware of the angelic and demonic influences as well as the actions of the regular human characters. While in retrospect I find it unable to hold my interest due to my total lack of tolerance for Christian fiction, at the time it was a grand adventure, one revealed a chapter at a time on the knee of my beloved mother. We had a large, emerald green lazy boy style chair and I used to sit on her lap and try to keep up with her. After that we moved on to the Chronicles of Narnia, then to a series written by a Spokane author: the Belgariad, which would fast become my favorite. I read all twelve of the books some dozen times over the years. My brother and I lived for that one chapter every night. Sometimes, for special occasions (or if we begged hard enough) we got two. I will forever blame her for igniting a fire in me for reading, and thank her until the end of time.

After a while the tradition of the bedtime chapter fell off. I began reading voraciously on my own, first fantasy, then Science Fiction. I went through the usual tween reading: Brian Jaques’ tales of Redwall Abbey, forest creatures participating in grand adventures with a clear line between evil and good and conflicts in which good always wins. I dove into Anne McCaffrey’s fantasy novels which I later discovered were technically SciFi, but the dragons and their riders, the evil black threat from the red moon, the heroic characters overcoming the odds to save themselves and their world from disaster were all hallmarks of the grand epic.

As I got older, I started on more complex books and began to think and write about them. Orson Scott Card’s series of books examines how humanity might behave should we encounter a species we don’t understand. The author, perceptive to human nature, explores a unique and barbaric solution to a problem that need never have been. A battle with a species we don’t understand starts a lifetime of propaganda, preparation for war, and battles of will between adults and children as they race to defeat an enemy they don’t understand. It is both a personal and a galactic epic and the author guides the reader through until the great reveal at the end, a twist that had me gasping out loud in surprise. I read Nancy Drew and Lewis Carrol. In college I started on Charles Dickens, Jules Verne, Jane Austen, Victor Hugo, Dostoyevsky. I discovered Mary Roach, Steve Martin, Sallie Tisdale, Robert Heinlein, Joe Haldeman, and many more. I won’t be surprised if you’ve never heard of these authors, but if you pick up only one, choose Mrs. Roach. She is one of the best nonfiction writers I have come across, writing in a hilarious, intelligent, conversational tone about things that are actually fucking awesome. Seriously. Start with ‘Bonk’ and you will never go back.

I read in bed. I read on the bus. I read while I eat. I read for fun and for interest. I read for school and for work and to pass the time. I love it. I cannot imagine anything greater than a good book, a cup of hot cocoa laced with home made khalua, a crackling fire, and a warm kitty lying next to me.

Accidental Book Review

I just finished another novel by Robert Heinlein. I mentioned before that I was reading it and now that I’m finished, I almost feel let down. My past with Science Fiction, and this author particularly, has led me to expect more than I found. Of course this makes me think I’m likely just missing something. Stranger in a Strange Land was far more straight forward and resonated with my religious upbringing and later conversion to atheism. It was simple to see the parallels he drew between modern man and those who crucified Christ two thousand years ago. I agreed with most of the ideas the protagonist put forth since they all were essentially live and love and realize we are all parts of one big cycle. Why fight? Why not enjoy and explore each other and each others’ sensuality? Of course that appealed to me ๐Ÿ˜‰ My satisfaction with this book is one reason I’m so surprised at my dissatisfaction at the next one.

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress pleased me with the community Heinlein had created (judging by his books it seems he is in favor of a free love kind of society where everyone takes care of everyone else and big government is bad) but I was disappointed by the shallow development of the primary mover and shaker of the book. In the first few pages the narrator meets ‘Mike’ (short for Mycroft with the obvious allusions attendant) and computer which runs the entire lunar colonies and then some. Mike has developed enough connections to become self aware and over the first third of the book we begin to see a personality emerge as Mike befriends the narrator, expresses opinions, questions things, shows off a little, and just generally behaves like a teenager. It’s charming and incited the reader to invest in the character. However it goes little farther than that. The narrator goes to Earth for the middle third of the book and by the time he comes back, we interact with Mike only a few times until the end of the book. Without spoiling the end, I can only say it didn’t have the impact it should have. The protagonist from Stranger in a Strange Land is far more beloved by at least this reader so we are more invested in his fate. It makes us feel as though we knew him, at least as much as you can know a character in a book, a figment of the author’s imagination. My connection with Mike, and even my connection to the narrator, was thin enough that at the end of the book I felt let down. It was too abrupt, not real enough.

Of course I’m sure this was the author’s intention. Science Fiction is a tricky animal, much like any cerebral literature, in that the author is trying to make you think in the what ifs. Are we unattached to the protagonist because of the writing or because he is a computer? Does the reader feel the ending is abrupt because we are too used to fairy tales as opposed to real life in which there are no epilogues or is it truly the fault of the author? What events sparked the parallels between the primary conflict and the true to life events of the many revolutions here on Earth? Why is the author so explicit in his description of the propaganda and censorship? That especially was hard to swallow. It made him sound either like a conspiracy theorist or a proponent of this sort of thing because his protagonists used propaganda and manipulation liberally for the revolution which the reader is encouraged to support.

All in all I was conflicted about The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. I felt that the community and the characters were, if not exactly believable, at least understandable and proponents of a lifestyle I personally would enjoy. I felt the story line was interesting but the premise of a computer spontaneously arising was too common in Science Fiction and Heinlein did an only ok job of making it unique. I would recommend Stranger in a Strange Land far more heartily than The Moon is a Harsh Mistress.

I didn’t exactly mean this to turn into a book review, but I like the idea of doing more of them. I’ll start with some of my favorites and try to keep up with current reads. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy my own interludes of fiction and fancy.

A good damn night

This is a tale of fiction and fantasy, written to stretch my skills at imagery and also to tease and please the mind. This is not a guarantee of

I had a long night last night. No one was cooperative, nothing got done, and someone in the kitchen left the stove on and burnt some sauce all to hell. Of course no one noticed until the middle of the night when smoke starts drifting into the lobby. Breakfast was late, I missed the bus, and it was Sunday morning so a longer wait for the next one than usual. What should have been an easy night and a twenty minute ride turned into an ordeal by fire. All of these things by themselves are no problem, but everything at once? Come on! The half mile trudge through the rain to get home was the cherry on top of my shitty Sunday. All I wanted was a shower and to sleep.

There’s something about taking a hot, steaming shower that melts the worries of the day away. I’m torn between soaking longer and knowing you are in bed waiting for me. It’s the weekend and while I’m busy every night making sure other people’s vacations go off smoothly, you got to go out and have a good time, texting me all night, asleep by four in the morning, blissful and calm. I can’t wait to join you.

After my shower I’m warm and damp, my skin glowing from the hot water. My skin is smooth and soft, waiting for a kiss of lotion to seal the softness in. My hair is damp and smells like coconut, sweet and buttery, waiting to dry and fall in a soft silken halo around my face. I feel tired and relaxed, unwinding and getting ready to climb into bed next to you, wrap my arms around you, rest my head in the hollow of your shoulder, and twine our legs together to sleep.

Of course you have other ideas…

As I slip into bed with you, you turn and kiss me. Our hot breath mingles a little as our lips meet, caress each other, remove what worries I have left. I can feel affection in the kiss, and sleepy interest… a hint of lust waking up. I know what you have in mind. You tell me all the time how much you love to make me wriggle and moan and breath heavily with your tongue and your hands. Normally after a night like last night I just want to sleep, but the memory of our previous encounters and the powerful orgasms you’ve given me before entice me to stay awake. After so many times together we know each others’ rhythms and you can tell by my smile and the small flirty giggles and sighs that I’m open to a little interlude before slipping off to sleep.

I love it when you’re firm and gentle. Your right hand presses against my shoulder, pushing me onto my back where I can lie in perfect relaxation and enjoy the pleasure you bring as your fingertips brush across my skin. It’s the lightest touch, like a kitten’s fur, a rose petal against the skin… silken. Because I can barely feel it it demands my attention. My skin has such terrible sensitivity I can’t escape feeling that tingle across my skin. Your fingertips start at my lips, taking in the softness and how pliable they are, making use of the millions of nerve endings to send shivers down my spine and out to my toes and fingertips. You trace the curve of my cheek and that silly =dimple in my chin and though my eyes are closed (all the better to focus on the feeling) I know you’re looking at me, listening to me, drinking in the reactions you’re drawing from me. I can feel you brush across my collarbone, then lower, drifting close but not just yet to my nipple which is fast hardening, anticipating the touch.

Thoughts flit into and out of my mind too quickly to follow. Nothing noteworthy, just the assorted confusion of a day of sensory input. All of it is being overpowered by this tiniest of feelings, your fingerprints catching on the goosebumps you raise on my skin. Waves flow under my skin, rippling away from where you touch me, feeling exactly the way the water must feel on a sandy beach, when that top layer of fine, fine sand skitters to and fro just under the waves. It’s as if my skin is the water, the sand is below the surface of my skin, and it tickles and tantalizes and moves in waves back and forth, chasing relaxation and sleepiness before it and leaving dunes of desire and arousal behind. As your hands move up and down me the ripples move ahead of them and farther; I can feel the silken sand in my hard nipples, my thighs, and my arms… between my legs even. You know my rhythms and you keep going just past the point where I want you to touch me harder, denying immediate gratification, forcing me to go just past the point of need but not so far I can’t feel it anymore.

Your lips and tongue begin their work on me, bringing new sensations. Every time you gently wiggle my nipple with your tongue or your lips, there is a fire stoked between my legs. It doesn’t take much. Less is definitely more here. I’m so close to being ready but you know the anticipation hasn’t built enough yet. Your hard cock is resting against my hip, throbbing and leaving trails of slick, sticky precum, but not close enough to where I want it. I want the head of your hard cock, slick with desire and sex, to press against me and slide over my clit. No hands, no tongue, no silicone gadget can ever replace the perfect soft firmness of what has to be the most flattering and unfakeable evidence of your enjoyment of and desire for me.

You’ve made the decision, I can tell. You look at me with a mischievous twinkle in your eye and move yourself down, settling between my knees as I spread my legs eagerly. I remember last time, and the time before, and the time before. Much like good food, I can’t get enough of great sex. You pause a moment, heightening the tension, then use your soft fingertips to open me until you can see how wet I’ve become. The scent of a clean, healthy young woman is one I personally enjoy. I love kissing my lover right after you’ve spent good time on me. I can smell and taste the wetness from my pussy on your face. I can tell you got into it because it’s on your chin, and you have to take a moment to wipe some of it off before you kiss me again.

Your tongue touches my clit and I spasm. It’s so gentle it’s almost painful. I want you to lick me, hard, press yourself into me, but you know that after only a moment of that I can’t take anything else so you don’t allow me what I want, you instead dole out what is best for me, for this sex. I have the image in my mind of you entering me, sliding inside me after you’ve made me so wet I’m dripping and at the same time I have the feeling of your tongue and lips stroking and sliding all over my clit and around it, sending sensations rocking through my body. You use your fingers gently but firmly to stimulate me as if you were sliding inside me, causing even more desire. Your hands are slender, soft, and warm, but they are not enough; they are not your cock. I want you inside me and you deny me while at the same time pleasuring me. I have to remind myself to be careful with the spasms that bring my legs together around your ears, I don’t want to hurt you but it’s hard to control. The backs of my knees are on your shoulders, my hips heave, and you ride my shudders. Your hands wrap around my legs and hold onto my hips. I draw you as close and as hard into me as I can for long seconds. A string of gasps and epithets, a series of words like a sex mantra drawn from the base mind that has no words for what is happening, and no attention to spare for finding them. Images flicker through my mind as fast as sensations flood my body. I like to call these my little orgasms. There is no discernible climax, only a flood of heightened sense and a feeling of needing more, more, more. An addiction that can only be satisfied by full, firm penetration. I’ve passed the point where I need to be fucked but I can’t being myself to ask you to stop your work on me. There’s not enough thought left to make a decision until finally I can’t take it anymore. I break my catch 22. I need you.

I sit up, interrupting your enthusiastic, thorough tongue fucking, and you know. You’ve known, but with part sadistic desire to push me, part selfishness, part single-mindedness you didn’t want to give up so easily. We both know I need you to fuck me, but not yet. It’s my turn.

I draw you up next to me and push you down on your back so I can reach your erection with my hands and my mouth. At this point I lack the finesse and restraint you have displayed. I’m already holding back on impaling myself on your erection so that I can take it as deep as I can and pleasure you with my mouth and my hands. Being penetrated turns me on, even if it isn’t exactly where I really want it, so while one hand is grasping what I can’t fit in my mouth, stimulating you as firmly as I can, my other hand wanders to where your mouth just was. The more I slide my mouth up and down on your cock the wetter I get until I’m past the end of my rope. I’ve fallen from it and my only option is to fuck you.

The moment of first penetration is incredible. It’s what I’ve been waiting for for half an hour now while we teased and licked and sucked on each other. We’ve been pleasuring each other for what seems like forever but this is what I needed. You sink deep inside with no resistance. At this point we’re both so slick and wet it’s almost frictionless. I can feel the ridge at the head of your cock pressing into the soft yeilding walls of my pussy as I sink down, lower, until I can’t take any more of you. The pressure inside me feels so satisfying. I want it again. I lift myself up and down again, savoring the feeling of penetration. I love it. Your cock is hot and firm and slick and velvety. Your face as I fuck you is ecstatic. I feel like a goddess bringing unexplainable and powerful feelings to my worshiper. I love the way you put your hands on my ass and pull me into you, like no matter how deep you push into me, we can’t be close enough. I love how you sound when you moan how much you love the way I feel.

I’m completely focused on your cock in my pussy and my hand on my clit. Between the two sensations I can feel an orgasm building. I’m leaning over you, panting into your ear and thinking about how much I want to feel you come inside me. I want to feel you filling me. I want to hear your orgasm on your breath and in your voice. My mind conjures images of cum spurting from your cock and into me, onto my clit, hot and salty and sexy. Between panting and swearing I tell you I’m close. You grab my ass and it send me over the edge. I bury my face in the pillow and yell. I’m swearing to God and crying out in pleasure. With my hand I can feel the muscles in my pussy contracting around your cock as the waves make me shudder and yell. I feel release. I’m not done yet.

The thought of your orgasm keeps me wet while I up the pace. You’ve given me a body shattering orgasm and I’m hoping to return the favor. I tell you not to hold back, it’s your turn now. I know I’ve only got a limited amount of time before I can’t take the sensations anymore so I take full advantage of my endorphin high to fuck you like a porn star. Our hips come together as I ride you, your hands on my ass pressing me harder, faster, until I can feel that moment right before your orgasm when your cock gets rock hard, your breath shortens, you break your focus and concentration and start swearing along with me. I can feel the spasms of your body as you come inside me and I grind my hips down to yours so your pelvis presses on my clit. It’s almost like I get to have two orgasms. I love everything about this. My body tenses with you and relaxes with you. I start rubbing my clit again, gently, with your cock spent but still firm inside me. It feels good but I can’t last.

I lay down on top of you, still entwined, sated, happy, sleepy. I suppose it wasn’t such a bad night.

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

I’ve begun a new science fiction novel by famous author Robert Heinlein. My first thought was ‘this a a bizarre narrator’ which if you’ve never read the book may not make sense. In order to truly submerge the reader in a futuristic universe while maintaining readability he has created an entire new colloquial in which some of the shorter words are dropped from language entirely. Instead of narrating a scene ‘I walked to the door and opened it to see a stunning woman waiting for me’ it might read more like ‘walked to door and opened. Behind was a stunning woman waiting for me.” It’s subtle, but that, plus the descriptions of futuristic scenes, setting in on a lunar colony, and including advanced technology in every day life (the main character had his left arm amputated and had various bionic arm attachments) plunges the reader into a world in which the characters’ plight is believable. It’s not just the setting, though. The plight the characters find themselves in is common: they want to rebel and become independent from Earth. IT isn’t clear yet, but it seems as though Earth has treated the moon much as the British Empire treated Australia, with similar effect.

One thing I adore so much about science fiction is that it’s not so much about one or two people, or about the future it’s set in, it is about people. Humanity. It’s a chance for the author to explore what might be. What happens when people as a group encounter a potentially sentient computer while under duress? How does one manipulate a group of people to do something they may not be inclined to do? I’m just getting started in the book, but I’ve already become invested in the future of the characters, of the world, and of the machine that has gained sentience and still operates on the social level of a toddler. How will those who discover what the computer is capable of choose to make use of it? Will the computer allow that? I can’t wait to find out.

Jiu Jitsu!

I’ve always loved to wrestle. Be it on a mat against an opponent, at a pillow party with my girlfriends just for fun, or in bed with my lover, writhing together in ecstasy with legs locked and breath deep and fast. Never, however, have I turned to professional training. My first real class was this morning. As a beginner, I had no Gi, no mouthguard, not even real workout pants. One of the other young ladies loaned me a pair until I can get a Gi of my own. While I’d prefer to practice wrestling without the cloth of the uniform a part of the fighting style, this Dojo does not teach no-gi fighting.

The first class was easier than I had expected. I sat in on a more advanced level class a few days before and so had expected a more intense workout with drilling instead of practicing, the difference being many repetitions of a movement on your own rather than one or two iterations of a move with a partner. The three girls in the room were set in our own little group, with me as the new kid who knows nothing. It’s my own personal fight to slow down and master each movement before trying to execute it quickly. I watch and I try to learn and then I ride my bicycle the half hour of Seattle hills home so I can go to bed, exhausted.

In six weeks I’ll be allowed to spar with the other students and at that point I’ll start displaying a few bruises. It’s all good. One struggle I’ll be keeping very private is the struggle against obvious arousal. The strain of muscle against muscle, the sweat and the competition, the drive to win using your mind and your body contribute to a full body state of physical arousal. I expect my sex drive to increase and I expect to see improvements in muscle definition. Of course my eating habits will be as rich as ever so I’ll still have my nice, soft, feminine curves, but my stamina will increase and with all this I’m expecting some great things in our future ๐Ÿ˜‰

Come wrestle with me

For the long haul

I was contacted recently by a gentleman who wished to get together and explore an intimate encounter. I’m always encouraged by that. I don’t receive frequent contact. Enough to keep me happy and help finance my hobbies, plus a little more to sock away for the future. Because of this infrequency, I have found myself entertaining options that are not perfectly right for me. I’ve discovered that I wish to establish longer term connections. I’d rather see one gentleman and find a groove, as it were, without spending so much time chasing down the one or two, once-off encounters. I feel as though, in my experience and without your knowledge, I’ve disrespected those of you who take the time to get to know me, respect my time and limits, and think of me as a young woman instead of a hot piece, in good need of ‘pounding.’

I read a lot of reviews. I like to keep up on what everyone else is doing. Call me nosy, call me paranoid, whatever. I want to know what I should be prepared for. A huge amount of those reviews are near pornographic. Now I don’t mind a little explicit content, I kind of like it when what I’m reading gets me wet, but what I see in most reviews is an almost childish need to show off. I hear in the tone a need to feel like the caller gave the young lady the greatest, most intense sexual encounter of the day, week, or possibly her life. Most of the time it’s phrased in a praiseworthy way, but even under the praise is an ego in need of a boost. It’s… off putting. A man I want to spend my time with doesn’t need to use acronyms or crude euphemisms to convey arousal, eroticism, lust, and satisfaction. The men I want to spend my time with acknowledge the risk and skill implicit in each encounter and has enough self confidence to allow the woman who is pleasuring him the spotlight. It’s a reciprocal relationship when with his words, a man expresses joy and admiration for a woman and with her words, smiles, caresses, and all the other little ways she expresses appreciation and the value of the words.

I’m picky. I choose to be choosy because, no matter how aroused I am or how long it’s been, I demand the company of true gentlemen. Men who respect me for my skills as a lover and also for my conversation, my intellect, and my curiosity. Anything less leads to dissatisfaction and a liaison that is less than the best. Trust that should you be one of those who are granted access to the private areas of this website are also granted my admiration and respect, as well as my gratitude. We have established a rapport. I thank you gentlemen for your commitment to a more lasting and perfectly reciprocal relationship.

My City

I’ve been a busy girl. I just moved, I’ve enrolled in classes and have an appointment with the academic adviser next Friday, I’ve been keeping updated on my blog and I’m still working on my new website. Between all that and working more than usual at my graveyard shift job I’ve been too distracted to write more. I’ve had this particular thought in mind for a while now, since the first time I rode my bicycle home on a Sunday.

There’s something about this city. It’s not too big or busy, like New York. It’s not too small and shallow, like my home town. The water and the skyscrapers and the distinctive sight of the Space Needle…. coming into town from the North you see Queen Anne and the Space Needle painted against the sky. When it’s a little cloudy and the sun is going down, it really does look like a great impressionist painter came along and casually filled the canvas. The Seattle skyline really is kind of like impressionist art: when you get up close it’s kind of messy and smells funny, but from a distance it’s beautiful. The details really come together to form this aesthetic of grace. The buildings fall away from the Columbia tower like the robes of the Virgin Mary, offering a focal point and then pleasingly uneven lines to draw the eye down. From Alki the Great Wheel and the waterfront is almost accentuated by that tall, graceful, almost protective skyline. At night it’s even more incredible. The stark brightness of human engineering is softened by distance and rendered more lovely than any picture could capture. Coming into the city from the south, down from Beacon Hill, the city almost looks shorter and more industrial. You can see the sports fields and the great industrial complex of SODO. The highway hasn’t yet incorporated itself into the city and you’re closer, so the flaws are more apparent. You can see where the homeless have made their beds, almost looking down as if into someone’s bedroom, an urban camp-out driven by rejection and poverty. You can see and hear the cars merging, stopping and going, creating a waterfall of red lights and a roar of honking horns and swishing tires. It’s so alive and so broken at the same time. The greenery is separated by swaths of asphalt and steel and rubber. There is only a moment on the 12th avenue bridge where you can look towards the Sound and see the sun, the clouds, a glimpse of that painting. The Virgin Mother is looking away from you, protecting the other half of the city, not this one. Not the half with the smelly under-bridges and trash bins. You can see a moment of her glory before sinking into Chinatown which, while it has delicious ethnic foods, is the worst smelling part of the city. Now we’re close to the painting and the flaws come out. For me, the flaws of the city make those painted moments all the more beautiful. I love that a million people from a million circumstances live here. A bus ride takes me through a dozen cultures, sometimes all at once. It may be a little weird, a little scary sometimes, but this city is my home. I will always love this place. It’s where I first really felt like an adult. Seattle has been my rite of passage and I feel as though I’ve passed admirably.

This all started because riding my bicycle through Seattle at seven thirty on a Sunday morning is surreal. It’s not too bright, it might even be cloudy. It is Seattle, after all. The lighting is exactly what a director is trying to portray in a post apocalyptic world. The pedestrians you meet are few and far between but friendly and unselfconscious, and the streets are clear of vehicles. It’s chilly and maybe a little clammy, but cycling warms me up quickly until the cool breeze is welcome. There is no hurry. There are no worries. The city is…. not dead, but still asleep. She hasn’t woken up yet and everyone knows the joy of being able to observe a lover while she’s asleep. Her hair is tousled from the night before and you can smell the scent of her skin and yours mingled, and the warm, salty, distinctive aroma of the two of you, mingled in the sheets. Her breath is sweet and acrid. Her clothes never came off all the way but they aren’t exactly in place anymore so you can see some things you might not during the day. She’s not self conscious at your gaze because she’s still recovering from the night before, the wild night and the passion after you poured yourselves into bed but before you fell asleep. She is beautiful because she is yours and because this morning you don’t have to share her with work or school or her best friend or even her cat which she loves. She is yours to smell the scent of your love on and to touch a wisp of her hair. I take my time. I stop on the bridge and turn around to look at her. She is mother and sister and confidant and lover. She is my city.

If a picture is worth a thousand words…

…then here are a thousand words.

 

I’m sitting at the bar in my favorite coffee shop, sipping hot chai. The sun shines on my face, blocked by a building for now, but already filling the shop with warmth, almost enough to make the chilly morning commuters start sweating. The room is a little muggy, but it smells like hot milk and steam, boots and denim, pastries and the scent of sweet spices all fill my lungs (the scent is technically in my nose, but lungs are sexier, because they’re under my breasts ;-P). My book is open before me but I’m not currently reading it, choosing instead to think about the way my skin feels when the rays of the rising sun begin to slide down my face and onto my freckled shoulders. I watch the people walking by, boarding buses and nursing hangovers. Of course I just got off work and I’m looking forward to an hour or two of morning productivity before I crash… and I’m waiting for someone. I have a description but I never need it. I’m always early so I’m ready when you walk in the door, checking you phone for that last email and looking round surreptitiously. You’re looking for someone, too. I catch your eye and it takes a moment for you to be sure I’m the one you’re looking for. I always forget to tell you what I’m wearing. I’ve never made a mistake finding the man I’m to meet, so I simply forget how nerve wracking it can be. You haven’t seen my face before, so while you were prepared for the rest of me (until my clothes come off. You’ll be re-surprised) you weren’t quite ready for my face. It’s in the shape of an acorn or a heart, well proportioned, with natural eyebrows, light brown without today’s popular exaggerated arch. My hair is swept back from my face so you can easily see my eyes, their size accented with a touch of eyeliner and a wisp of mascara, but true to themselves. The left one has a small dot in it that, if you look closely enough and the light is good enough, is a discernible ‘x’ marking some sort of spot. There’s probably a clever remark about treasure being behind the eyes to be made, but I’ll leave that for you to supply ๐Ÿ˜‰ My nose is perfectly average. It doesn’t turn up, nor down, or to either side. It is neither too large, nor too small, the most unusual thing about it is a freckle right at the tip, easily ignorable unless you have a thing for freckles. Then it may even compete for your attention with my lips. By far my favorite facial feature in many people, not just myself, my lips are soft… I mean really soft. Like the bottoms of the feet of toddlers. Like the feel of rose petals when you rub them on your lips. If you’ve never done htis you’re keeping from yourself a delightful sensual input that never gets old. They are pink and light, complemented perfectly by the creamy, barely tanned complexion of my face, shoulders, and arms. They are topped by that little dent just below my nose and it adds a flair to the curve of my lips as it deepens, anticipating this new experience. I have a small, soft dimple… not in my cheek where it would be cute, but on my chin, matching the men in my family and balancing the eyes, the lips, and the laughter to make me a special kind of ordinary. There’s nothing exotic about my face, with its freckles and soft cheekbones, but there is something real. Something genuine that draws people out. Some people walk around with what we like to call ‘chronic bitch face’ where your regular “I’m thinking and in a neutral mood” looks like “there’s a giant pile of bonfire wood in my soul and you’re holding the match. Light it. I dare you.” I seem to walk around with a cherub behind my eyes. Strangers tell me I look nice, people I will never see again smile at me and say nice things to me. Part of it is simply that people can be very good. Part of it is that I, all of me, not just my face, invites it. I’m so not exotic that I almost shouldn’t be pretty, but I am, and you notice. You’ve seen this face which surprised you, and the dark, dense freckling across my shoulders and down to my wrists. You can see just a peek of cleavage, firm, young, with a visual texture of… well, I can’t think of anything that looks and feels like a soft, pert bosom and isn’t that jell-o salad mom used to make from green pistachio flavored jell-o and cottage cheese. Even that is a poor comparison. I’m open to suggestions. Regardless of what it looks like, what it is is irresistible. You behave like a gentleman and keep your eyes above my delicate collar bone, but not without difficulty. I greet you like an old friend, with a hug and a big warm hello. You sit down with your coffee and we chat. We talk about what your day looks like and what my plans are and we talk about what we like to do in our free time. We exchange funny stories and thoughts on the NSA scandal and I forget myself for a moment while I get angry that no one, myself included, seems able to do a damn thing about it. Before long, you know which books I just finished and I’ve added a few to my list and as I look up from my list, you can see in my eyes that something is on my mind. I’ve made the decision. Your effort at wooing me, making me feel safe, has paid off. I’m asking you with my eyes and my words if you’re ready for another first time.