I saw Daniel. He’d emailed me to say he hadn’t heard from me, and had missed me. … He missed me! What could I say? He was right. I never write him first – all part of either a)my manipulative plot to have the upper hand b)my terrible fear that repeated exposure to me and my emails will send him running in the other direction. But, he was right; I never write first.
Sorry, I wrote back. I just don’t want you to get bored. True, that.
That night at his place he showed me his Christmas presents; one of them was a new scanner. He took a picture of me, and then brought out a packet of photos.
“Look at these,” he said, and pulled out a packet. “These are from Halloween,” Daniel added, unnecessarily, as he showed me a picture of himself dressed as the devil, wearing a pinstripe suit and silly red horns. Cute. Wait: on Halloween, he was with Robin…
And there, without any subterfuge on my part, was her photo. “That’s my friend Robin,” he offered.
She was wearing black lipstick and not smiling, so I couldn’t make a thorough evaluation. But, she was wearing a laced up bustier (leather, I thought) and from my anxious study of her picture it seemed to me that … she was not thinner than me. She had chin length blond curls, which I thought might be dyed. She looked perfectly normal, not counting the bustier and black lipstick. Not beautiful. Thank you, God, I thought.
***
“What do you mean, you don’t want me to get bored?!” Daniel laughed as we tumbled around on his bed. My mouth roved all over his skin. “You know I wouldn’t get bored.”
I shrugged (coyly?). ‘I just would always rather you be pleased to hear from me than get too many emails from me and think, ‘Oh, God, not her again.”
“I would never think that!”
Well, maybe.
I couldn’t wait to have him inside me; it’d been more than a week. When I slid onto his cock, I said as much. “That’s a long time,” I breathed.
And as I rocked up and down his dick it was such a relief, his body. Like, even though we’ve only been dating or having sex since October, he knows what to say to me (ahem, my name is good, as is implying I’m a slut), and our pelvic bones fit together just so, and I can stretch my legs in just the way I need to around his thighs. Oh, Daniel.
After I came he took a long time, as he usually does, fucking me on my back, with both my legs around his neck, and then just one, so he entered me from an angle. Then he put me on my stomach. When he fucked me I could feel his balls slap against my ass, and I pushed my ass up against him, jiggling it like I know he likes.
Afterwards we were lounging on his bed and he asked, “How big are your breasts?”
I raised my eyebrows at him. “I’m a B. I think,” I added, cause apparently the majority of women in the US wear the wrong bra size. Maybe I’m really a C! Probably not, though.
“And how tall are you?” I told him. “I’m asking because I have this friend in California,” he explained. Ah, the girl who’s had her tubes tied and likes vintage clothes! The girl Daniel has a crush on! “And she’s 5’2”, and is a 32GG.”
“What?!” I said. “Wow.”
“Yeah, I’m just wondering…”
“A 32GG?” I repeated. “This I’ve got to see. Daniel, show me her profile!”
So he did, and without a great deal of effort on my part, I’ve now seen two of my, uh, rivals.
So, big chested girl: from her photos, her enormous tits are not that obvious, though it’s clear she’s got big breasts… but who would actually think, Oh, yeah, there’s a 32GG? I was dismayed to see that she had red hair. The kind of boys I like always seem to have a weakness for redheads. It’s like shorthand for being pre-Raphaelite, and lithe and elegant and artistic. What I would like to be, but am not! Big Chested Girl was decked out in an elaborate strapless gown with heart shaped neckline, a basque waist, flared satin skirt, and a bustle, too, I think. Very flattering to the 32GGs, yes. And very flattering, period, in the other-worldly red-headed way she clearly knew how to work. She was sort of pretty. OK, she was pretty. But again, not thinner! Not fat, but it was a slight sop to my ego. Because although I’m perfectly happy with my 34B (or possibly C) boobs, I am well aware that Daniel is most decidedly a breast man. He must be salivating over Big Chested, Vintage Costumed Red Haired Girl. Fey, straight-haired, tied-tubes dream girl. Hmm.
The really bad part is that Daniel showed me her profile on the personals web site, and, as I’ve said before, I have a very good memory for names: I remembered her handle. I am tempted to look her profile up. But, as I tell myself, that way madness lies. I don’t want to be a stalker, after all. Thus far I’ve managed to restrain myself. Because really, this is not information I want. Nothing I can discover about her will be pleasing to me. And, oh, yeah: it’s none of my business. That too.
Showing posts with label Photos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Photos. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Naked New Year's Eve!
So on New Year’s Eve I prepared myself for my first Naked Party.
This was all thanks to Jake. Jake runs the writing group I don’t attend as often as I should. I like Jake very much. He’s hyper and intelligent and, I gather, a compulsive recorder -- someone who has cross referenced lists for all sorts of things, like what t-shirt he was wearing when Conan made his late night debut, that kind of thing.
Actually, Living Somewhat Dangerously -- the lifestyle, the blog, the grab for fame -- sort of owes its inception to Jake. It all started back in March, when he first invited me to a Naked Party. I was at his apartment, just before a writing group meeting.
“Uh,” I’d said, when he brought it up. “Is that...?”
“It’s just what it sounds like,” Jake confirmed.
“And at this party,” I continued, “Everybody’s naked?” Fact checking, you know.
“Well,” said Jake, “We tried having it with bikinis or underwear optional, but that didn’t really work.”
I pictured this. “So.” I paused. “And at this party, does... stuff happen?”
“Stuff?” Jake grinned. “You mean, is it an orgy?”
That’s exactly what I’d meant: “Yeah.”
“Well, sometimes, but that’s really late, at six o’clock in the morning or something,” Jake said judiciously. “Mostly it’s just like a regular party. We might order pizza, and drink beer, and play Tetris on my computer. Just naked.”
"Well," I said. The thought of being naked in front of total strangers was bad enough, but I suck at Tetris.
But later, it occurred to me that this was an offer I was unlikely to receive again and should therefore reconsider. It had come on the heels of a disturbing night on the town with an ex-boyfriend, his then girlfriend, Jessie, and some mutual friends. I’d met up with them at a bar downtown, and when I got there they were passing around poppers in full view of the bar staff. Then I was asked if I knew where they could score some cocaine.
Naturally, I had no idea where they could buy drugs. The last time I’d smoked weed was during the second Clinton administration. Anyway, all this depravity -- cocaine and poppers and nakedness -- made me realize that my life, which had none of these things, was pretty lame.
This was just before my 33rd birthday, and I started thinking about my future. Soon enough, I was going to want to get married, take on a mortgage and worry about exposing my precious brats to carcinogens and high fructose corn syrup. So far, I hadn’t lived a particularly crazy life. And, if things kept going this way, I wasn’t going to. I’d never though I wanted to live a depraved life, but when it occurred to me that soon it wasn’t even going to be an option, I started to rethink my position.
Within a few weeks, I had posted an ad seeking casual sex on Craig’s List, and started to live somewhat dangerously. A few months later, I started this blog.
I hadn’t made it to that Naked Party, but had promised myself, and Jake, that I’d turn up at the next one. And here it was.
So, like I said, this New Year’s Eve Naked party was narratively appropriate.
So that afternoon I got dressed, paying careful attention to my skin, slathered with The Body Shop’s shimmering Cranberry Body Lotion. It was the first time I’d ever gotten ready for a party without too much concern for my clothes. A very peculiar sensation.
The plan was that I’d go to Jake’s, hang out for a bit (the party was going to be small) and then meet up with Daniel and go out to dinner. I bought two bottles of cava -- one cheap, to mix with orange juice at Jake’s and one a bit less cheap, for me and Daniel.
When I got to Jake’s place, he sloooowly opened the door, peeking his head around to smile at me. I walked in and he gave me a hug. Jake’s a huge flirt, and very affectionate. He was naked, but, you know, I didn’t want to stare, so I was just looking at his face, sort of like my eyes hadn’t gotten around to checking him out.
“Hey!” I said. So: Jake, naked! He had a good body, lean and fairly muscular... I didn’t want to appear crass by checking him out, though. I mean, what’s the etiquette here?
It was just the two of us. “The others are going to be here later,” he explained. I took off my coat. Then I sat on the edge of his bed and unzipped my leather boots. What the hell, I thought. Next I took off my top.
We kept talking, so I was distracted and not too freaked out by the fact that I was undressing in front someone I was not having sex with. How often do you do that?
So there I was, completely naked, with another completely naked person, and we weren’t fooling around. I was determined to be all blase. Jake was seated in front of his computer, so I sat next to him. He started showing me pictures. Naked pictures! Jake is, in case this isn’t perfectly clear, pretty active in what I gather is a substantial pervy naked NYC community.
Then he showed me this photo of Hannah, who is in our writing group. I sort of idolize Hannah. She’s smart and nice and gorgeous, with really lovely, delicate features (blond hair, blue eyes, eyebrows like butterfly wings, which I think is poetic and weird and may be something Diego Rivera said about Frida Kahlo… Hannah’s eyebrows are not at all thick and dark, they really are delicately arched and, in fact, butterfly-like), thin but curvy and... wait for it... at least a D cup, I’d guess. In addition to all these qualities, she is a great writer, the first (and so far, only) person I’ve asked for feedback on my novel, plus very mature and ... only 25! Jake and Hannah sort of date, only I gather they date lots of other people too... frankly, if I were Jake, I wouldn’t date anyone else, I’d just marry Hannah.
So he showed me this picture of Hannah. In it, she was naked, lying flat on her back. She was surrounded by naked torsos – I couldn’t see any faces -- and several dicks were just pushed up close to her mouth. She had this look of delight on her face, like she was about to burst out laughing. This must have been at a previous Naked Party. I think Jake had hesitated before showing it to me. But I was glad he had.
So there we were, coolly looking at naked pictures of his friends (all of whom had given him permission to flash their photos around to ogling strangers; Jake isn’t a creep or anything). And I wondered if I should just say, “Hey, want to fool around?” Of course I didn’t; I hadn’t the nerve. That’s the problem with sex with your friends. The possibilities for damaging outcomes are just so much greater than you get when propositioning strangers. I didn’t want Jake to reject me, or feel bad about about rejecting me. So instead we just looked at pictures of naked people and talked, and I drank my cheap methode champagnoise, mixed with Tropicana.
At last two of his friends arrived. They were a married couple, and, as Jake explained, party policy was for guests to undress the newcomers. I found this incredibly uncomfortable, undressing this strange, though very friendly, woman. I couldn’t really bring it off, though I helped her tug off her sweater. So soon the four of us were naked, and sitting around, eating potato chips.
We chatted amiably enough, and the couple seemed interesting and friendly, but I had to get ready to go meet Daniel for our night out. At this point, I’d drank most of the first bottle of champagne. So I climbed back into my clothes and said my goodbyes, and hurried outside to find a cab.
I got dressed for the night out at Marc’s. I wore my pink cocktail dress, which is very form-fitting and requires a foundation garment (read: girdle!) not to mention a strapless boned bustier which really digs into my ribs. It was much less comfortable than being naked. It’s hard to breathe in that thing, but I strapped myself into it in the interests of vanity.
By the time Daniel and I got to the restaurant I was starting to get a headache -- all that cheap cava. By the end of the meal, my head was killing me. I had gone from being mildly cheerful to hungover -- I had barely been drunk! My head hurt so bad. The plan had been for Daniel and I to return to the apartment, drink and fool around, which would hopefully lead to magnificent New Year’s sex, but as soon as we got back I stripped naked (the clothes were binding, after all) and dosed myself with three Tylenol and the prescription painkiller the ENT had given me for my TMJ. Then I lay on the bed, literally moaning in pain. My head hurt so bad, I don’t know when I’d had a worse headache. Ow, ow ow. Happy New Year’s.
This was all thanks to Jake. Jake runs the writing group I don’t attend as often as I should. I like Jake very much. He’s hyper and intelligent and, I gather, a compulsive recorder -- someone who has cross referenced lists for all sorts of things, like what t-shirt he was wearing when Conan made his late night debut, that kind of thing.
Actually, Living Somewhat Dangerously -- the lifestyle, the blog, the grab for fame -- sort of owes its inception to Jake. It all started back in March, when he first invited me to a Naked Party. I was at his apartment, just before a writing group meeting.
“Uh,” I’d said, when he brought it up. “Is that...?”
“It’s just what it sounds like,” Jake confirmed.
“And at this party,” I continued, “Everybody’s naked?” Fact checking, you know.
“Well,” said Jake, “We tried having it with bikinis or underwear optional, but that didn’t really work.”
I pictured this. “So.” I paused. “And at this party, does... stuff happen?”
“Stuff?” Jake grinned. “You mean, is it an orgy?”
That’s exactly what I’d meant: “Yeah.”
“Well, sometimes, but that’s really late, at six o’clock in the morning or something,” Jake said judiciously. “Mostly it’s just like a regular party. We might order pizza, and drink beer, and play Tetris on my computer. Just naked.”
"Well," I said. The thought of being naked in front of total strangers was bad enough, but I suck at Tetris.
But later, it occurred to me that this was an offer I was unlikely to receive again and should therefore reconsider. It had come on the heels of a disturbing night on the town with an ex-boyfriend, his then girlfriend, Jessie, and some mutual friends. I’d met up with them at a bar downtown, and when I got there they were passing around poppers in full view of the bar staff. Then I was asked if I knew where they could score some cocaine.
Naturally, I had no idea where they could buy drugs. The last time I’d smoked weed was during the second Clinton administration. Anyway, all this depravity -- cocaine and poppers and nakedness -- made me realize that my life, which had none of these things, was pretty lame.
This was just before my 33rd birthday, and I started thinking about my future. Soon enough, I was going to want to get married, take on a mortgage and worry about exposing my precious brats to carcinogens and high fructose corn syrup. So far, I hadn’t lived a particularly crazy life. And, if things kept going this way, I wasn’t going to. I’d never though I wanted to live a depraved life, but when it occurred to me that soon it wasn’t even going to be an option, I started to rethink my position.
Within a few weeks, I had posted an ad seeking casual sex on Craig’s List, and started to live somewhat dangerously. A few months later, I started this blog.
I hadn’t made it to that Naked Party, but had promised myself, and Jake, that I’d turn up at the next one. And here it was.
So, like I said, this New Year’s Eve Naked party was narratively appropriate.
So that afternoon I got dressed, paying careful attention to my skin, slathered with The Body Shop’s shimmering Cranberry Body Lotion. It was the first time I’d ever gotten ready for a party without too much concern for my clothes. A very peculiar sensation.
The plan was that I’d go to Jake’s, hang out for a bit (the party was going to be small) and then meet up with Daniel and go out to dinner. I bought two bottles of cava -- one cheap, to mix with orange juice at Jake’s and one a bit less cheap, for me and Daniel.
When I got to Jake’s place, he sloooowly opened the door, peeking his head around to smile at me. I walked in and he gave me a hug. Jake’s a huge flirt, and very affectionate. He was naked, but, you know, I didn’t want to stare, so I was just looking at his face, sort of like my eyes hadn’t gotten around to checking him out.
“Hey!” I said. So: Jake, naked! He had a good body, lean and fairly muscular... I didn’t want to appear crass by checking him out, though. I mean, what’s the etiquette here?
It was just the two of us. “The others are going to be here later,” he explained. I took off my coat. Then I sat on the edge of his bed and unzipped my leather boots. What the hell, I thought. Next I took off my top.
We kept talking, so I was distracted and not too freaked out by the fact that I was undressing in front someone I was not having sex with. How often do you do that?
So there I was, completely naked, with another completely naked person, and we weren’t fooling around. I was determined to be all blase. Jake was seated in front of his computer, so I sat next to him. He started showing me pictures. Naked pictures! Jake is, in case this isn’t perfectly clear, pretty active in what I gather is a substantial pervy naked NYC community.
Then he showed me this photo of Hannah, who is in our writing group. I sort of idolize Hannah. She’s smart and nice and gorgeous, with really lovely, delicate features (blond hair, blue eyes, eyebrows like butterfly wings, which I think is poetic and weird and may be something Diego Rivera said about Frida Kahlo… Hannah’s eyebrows are not at all thick and dark, they really are delicately arched and, in fact, butterfly-like), thin but curvy and... wait for it... at least a D cup, I’d guess. In addition to all these qualities, she is a great writer, the first (and so far, only) person I’ve asked for feedback on my novel, plus very mature and ... only 25! Jake and Hannah sort of date, only I gather they date lots of other people too... frankly, if I were Jake, I wouldn’t date anyone else, I’d just marry Hannah.
So he showed me this picture of Hannah. In it, she was naked, lying flat on her back. She was surrounded by naked torsos – I couldn’t see any faces -- and several dicks were just pushed up close to her mouth. She had this look of delight on her face, like she was about to burst out laughing. This must have been at a previous Naked Party. I think Jake had hesitated before showing it to me. But I was glad he had.
So there we were, coolly looking at naked pictures of his friends (all of whom had given him permission to flash their photos around to ogling strangers; Jake isn’t a creep or anything). And I wondered if I should just say, “Hey, want to fool around?” Of course I didn’t; I hadn’t the nerve. That’s the problem with sex with your friends. The possibilities for damaging outcomes are just so much greater than you get when propositioning strangers. I didn’t want Jake to reject me, or feel bad about about rejecting me. So instead we just looked at pictures of naked people and talked, and I drank my cheap methode champagnoise, mixed with Tropicana.
At last two of his friends arrived. They were a married couple, and, as Jake explained, party policy was for guests to undress the newcomers. I found this incredibly uncomfortable, undressing this strange, though very friendly, woman. I couldn’t really bring it off, though I helped her tug off her sweater. So soon the four of us were naked, and sitting around, eating potato chips.
We chatted amiably enough, and the couple seemed interesting and friendly, but I had to get ready to go meet Daniel for our night out. At this point, I’d drank most of the first bottle of champagne. So I climbed back into my clothes and said my goodbyes, and hurried outside to find a cab.
I got dressed for the night out at Marc’s. I wore my pink cocktail dress, which is very form-fitting and requires a foundation garment (read: girdle!) not to mention a strapless boned bustier which really digs into my ribs. It was much less comfortable than being naked. It’s hard to breathe in that thing, but I strapped myself into it in the interests of vanity.
By the time Daniel and I got to the restaurant I was starting to get a headache -- all that cheap cava. By the end of the meal, my head was killing me. I had gone from being mildly cheerful to hungover -- I had barely been drunk! My head hurt so bad. The plan had been for Daniel and I to return to the apartment, drink and fool around, which would hopefully lead to magnificent New Year’s sex, but as soon as we got back I stripped naked (the clothes were binding, after all) and dosed myself with three Tylenol and the prescription painkiller the ENT had given me for my TMJ. Then I lay on the bed, literally moaning in pain. My head hurt so bad, I don’t know when I’d had a worse headache. Ow, ow ow. Happy New Year’s.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
A Confession
I have just spent the last hour looking at wedding pictures.
I love wedding pictures. Love, love, love them. I especially love wedding dresses. So I'm at work, and I have nothing to do (I'm a temp, not neglecting my duties or anything) and I start searching for and then examining total strangers' wedding photos.
Some of the couples were really handsome, some were fat, a few wore dumbass Ren Faire outfits (complete with swords... Jesus!) and all seemed really young. Of course, anyone younger than me is young.
My favorite was an English couple who got married in a registry office. She's wearing a brown and blue tea length dress, and flat shoes with rubber soles. A bride not in heels. Wow. There's this one photo, just before the ceremony, where they're right outside what I take to be their apartment, and they're hugging. I felt all lump in the throat-y. Same thing happened when I looked at the really handsomely designed wedding site of these two crunchy Oregon types. She had dreads, and he was really fantastic looking. They're both about 23.
I've only been to ... let's see ... six? weddings in my life. No, seven, I uh, forgot my sister's wedding for a minute there. I've never been a bridesmaid. I really want to be one! But I'm not that close with anyone who's likely to have bridesmaids.
Anyway, I am trying to keep myself from getting all maudlin, but I keep thinking, I want someone to want to marry me. And I want that someone to be really cute, too. Also, I'm dead set on a wedding dress, and I keep thinking that if I get much older I'll have to wear a tasteful pantsuit or something. Damnit, I want a gown. And, uh, a groom.
In other news, I didn't meet with Rick, but we're supposed to ge together sometime next week. And, despite my horror of talking on the phone, I did briefly speak to Olivier (also not his real name). He's French, complete with sexy accent, so my usual voice-fueled panic was moot. Instead I was thinking, "Ooooooh, he's French!" in a sort of smug way. He's a musician. That makes him the stereotypical bad boy type, doesn't it? Perhaps he has a problem with authority, too. Then we'd have all bases covered and I could go right to the "Why hasn't he called me?" stage.
Truth is, I've never been into bad boys, unless they have short hair and high cheekbones. I always, always go for the shy, awkward types. I like skinny, rumpled-looking intellectuals who are sort of goofy and endearing. And make self-deprecating comments, of course. I like 'em modest. I think it's cause these boys (they're boys, not men ... I like younger men ...) are totally non threatening on one hand, and also it's so flattering to be approached by one -- the thinking behind this is that they must really have it bad if they can fight the shyness hard enough to ask one out. Alas, with all the SRLIs (skinny rumpled-looking intellectuals) I have dated, I've generally made the first move. I think my natural state is to be fairly agressive socially (not flirting, at which I am terrible, but friendly, at which I am very good) but I try to curb this tendency cause I think it's more seemly and fetching to be chased. This strategy has its flaws, however. Mainly that it doesn't work.
I love wedding pictures. Love, love, love them. I especially love wedding dresses. So I'm at work, and I have nothing to do (I'm a temp, not neglecting my duties or anything) and I start searching for and then examining total strangers' wedding photos.
Some of the couples were really handsome, some were fat, a few wore dumbass Ren Faire outfits (complete with swords... Jesus!) and all seemed really young. Of course, anyone younger than me is young.
My favorite was an English couple who got married in a registry office. She's wearing a brown and blue tea length dress, and flat shoes with rubber soles. A bride not in heels. Wow. There's this one photo, just before the ceremony, where they're right outside what I take to be their apartment, and they're hugging. I felt all lump in the throat-y. Same thing happened when I looked at the really handsomely designed wedding site of these two crunchy Oregon types. She had dreads, and he was really fantastic looking. They're both about 23.
I've only been to ... let's see ... six? weddings in my life. No, seven, I uh, forgot my sister's wedding for a minute there. I've never been a bridesmaid. I really want to be one! But I'm not that close with anyone who's likely to have bridesmaids.
Anyway, I am trying to keep myself from getting all maudlin, but I keep thinking, I want someone to want to marry me. And I want that someone to be really cute, too. Also, I'm dead set on a wedding dress, and I keep thinking that if I get much older I'll have to wear a tasteful pantsuit or something. Damnit, I want a gown. And, uh, a groom.
In other news, I didn't meet with Rick, but we're supposed to ge together sometime next week. And, despite my horror of talking on the phone, I did briefly speak to Olivier (also not his real name). He's French, complete with sexy accent, so my usual voice-fueled panic was moot. Instead I was thinking, "Ooooooh, he's French!" in a sort of smug way. He's a musician. That makes him the stereotypical bad boy type, doesn't it? Perhaps he has a problem with authority, too. Then we'd have all bases covered and I could go right to the "Why hasn't he called me?" stage.
Truth is, I've never been into bad boys, unless they have short hair and high cheekbones. I always, always go for the shy, awkward types. I like skinny, rumpled-looking intellectuals who are sort of goofy and endearing. And make self-deprecating comments, of course. I like 'em modest. I think it's cause these boys (they're boys, not men ... I like younger men ...) are totally non threatening on one hand, and also it's so flattering to be approached by one -- the thinking behind this is that they must really have it bad if they can fight the shyness hard enough to ask one out. Alas, with all the SRLIs (skinny rumpled-looking intellectuals) I have dated, I've generally made the first move. I think my natural state is to be fairly agressive socially (not flirting, at which I am terrible, but friendly, at which I am very good) but I try to curb this tendency cause I think it's more seemly and fetching to be chased. This strategy has its flaws, however. Mainly that it doesn't work.
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