Thursday, April 30, 2009


When I was around 12, I think, we moved into my parent’s friend’s house. They were vacationing, and we needed a place to stay while our new house was being completed.

It was a charming home, with lots of character. There was a back room of the house, with great big windows and beautiful built in bookshelves. One whole section had perfectly lined up magazines. They were Playboy magazines: an entire collection, years of them, in chronological order, not a month missing. I couldn’t believe the treasure chest before me.

I started by just looking at the covers. I would take an issue out, one at a time, and mark the space by sliding a #2 pencil in the slot. I’d take a gander at the girl, get all warm down there, and replace it to the spot that the pencil had kept warm. One by one, I went through all of them. I couldn’t believe their huge beautiful bosoms. That’s what my mom always called them, bosoms. And back in the day they weren’t breasts, they were bosoms. Round, torpedo-esque, natural full bosoms. It took me a couple of days to get through them. I had to make sure the coast was clear, no mom, no dad, no siblings. But once I got through all the covers, I wanted to get inside.

I started to fake sick to my mom so I could stay home from school, be at home alone, for hours to pour through the pages of The Complete Works of Playboy. At first, I still employed the pencil placeholder technology, but as I got more intoxicated with all the breasts and mysterious big fuzzy bushes, I started to get sloppy. Before I knew it, I was on the floor surrounded by open magazines. So many pretty ladies, on horses, in bubble baths, on tree swings. There were little cartoons of them, too. I didn’t understand what made them funny, like Archie, or Betty and Veronica, but I didn’t care. The cartoons were sexy, too. The centerfolds were almost life size, they almost scared me, but they had stories on the back, so you could get to know a little more about the lady, I started to wonder which ones I had shared interests with. They all liked the beach, I lived in a beach town, so there was that. Beyond that, there wasn’t much common ground. None of them mentioned candle making, or jump rope, but it didn’t matter, I wanted them all to be my friends.

I started to develop preferences. There were so many blonds, a couple of red heads, but I liked the brunettes. They seemed darker, sexier, with more prominent nipples, which I liked. I was getting “sick” about twice a week, and had ample time to go through every issue page by page, lady by lady, but now I wanted more. I went to the kitchen to get the scissors, and I started to snip.

I knew that the collection was precious, so I was very careful to cut out my favorite ladies just so. I would make a straight line from the edge of the page, and meticulously cut around the edge of each photo, until I freed my favorite girl, and added her to my pile of favorite naked lady friends. I’m not sure how I picked them, it may have been hair color, or the curve of their bellies, or that “just so” bush. But I knew ‘em when I saw ‘em, and I cut them all out. After which I would carefully return the magazine to its proper spot.

Our new house on Fieldcrest Rd. was completed soon thereafter. We left that house, and all the naked ladies, save for the ones that I had safely stored in my suitcase. I never heard a word about the surgery I had performed on my parent’s friend’s Playboy Magazine collection. After a few months, I knew I was in the clear. But just to be safe I knew that I had to hide the evidence. I took one last look at all the creamy, soft focused Playboy ladies, folded them in half in manageable piles, and tucked them between the rocks of the 200 year old stone wall behind our new house, where they remain as dust, today.

I wonder about the man, my parent’s friend, when did he discover his compromised collection. Did he read them once, and just add them to the collection, my secret kept forever? Or did his 401K vanish, requiring him to sell his Playboys on Ebay, hoping to fetch thousands and thousands of dollars, now turned to dust after being shoved in a stonewall? It still remains a mystery, just like those girls as they were back in the day, shot through gauze, through Vaselined lenses. Big natural bosoms that defied gravity, baby bottle nipples, their bushes all full of wonder.

Monday, April 27, 2009


It was the end of a long hot session. I’d spent the entire day in my kitchen, completely clearing out every base and top cabinet, every last drawer. Hauling cast iron cookware to far regions of my apartment. Sifting through and clearing out decades of grimy assundry crap. On all fours, under the sink, up and down the stepladder until the cupboards were all clear. The demolition guys were due first thing in the morning, was an 85 degree Sunday, I was feeling disgusting, sweaty, and satisfied with my progress.

I got into the elevator hauling two Hefty’s of recycling down to the basement. I live in the penthouse, my neighbor, Steve, Joan’s wife got in the floor below. I was slick and rank, all tied up in a do-rag, wife beater and Old Navy sleep shorts. “Heyyy,” he said in a tone that was disturbingly reminiscent of “The Fonz”. “You look pretty sexy.” I looked up from my bags, with a “ppfft!” (He’s giving me crap, to top off my trash). But he was focused on my gestalt, taking it all in, “don’t try to deny it, you know you look hot.”

He was headed to the basement, too – with one deconstructed box from a small camera to recycle, his wife running a pretty tight ship. Upon landing at our subterranean destination, he held the door for me, as though we were entering an expensive nightclub, looking at me like I was wearing a low cut silk Versace. He dispensed of his 1oz. of cardboard and returned to the elevator, I began sorting my two bags of paper, plastic, glass; emtied tequila bottles, sticky Triple Sec, a cheap menora, vegetarian cookbooks from a phase. I noticed that he was holding the elevator door open; I was barely through sorting bag one. “Steve”, I called out with feigned appreciation, “I’m gonna be a while.” “Nope,” his voice thick, “I’m holding it for you.” Indeed.

This isn’t the first time this ironic attraction has occurred. I was in my twenties. It was a humid August morning in Connecticut, the heat never relenting from the night before. I was at the beach at 7 AM, sneaking a smoke away from my parent’s radar sense of smell. I hadn’t showered, my face was slick, my hair in desperate need of shampoo. My body: perspiration on top of dried perspiration mingled with tanning oil. The Red Alpha Romeo broke my smoking solace. It approached slowly, like a cop looking for teenagers in the act. It was a convertible, the 30 something man drove alongside me very slowly without stopping. He was incredible, I instantly regretted my obviously unwashed state. The car stopped just a few feet ahead of mine and slowly slid back towards me, until our windows met. That was the day I realized that fashion and perfume advertising is The Big Lie.

I have bought 600 dollar dresses, spent countless hours coiffing my hair, nails, and nether regions. I have a virtual wine cellar of French fragrances. But none of that has panned out quite the same way as a day of ignored hygiene.

Is it the scent you put off, that calls to every Tom, Dick, and Pepe Le Pew? Me, fully doused in a thick coat of pheromones that no money can buy? Or is it the fact that when I’m literally dripping in disarray that I simply don’t give a shit, that the last thing on my mind is game? So, is being filthy dirty the unintended ultimate game?

You could never go into a dinner date dabbing your juices behind each ear. Or wearing panties fresh out of the dirty clothes hamper. Still, my elevator encounter, and delectable drive by guy make me think about it. But the fact is, you just can’t plan those soiled encounters, they happen serendipidously – after a long day of weeding, or waxing the car – it’s the fruits of your labor, squared.

Friday, April 24, 2009


There's a problem with my blog. The people in my life can’t stand to read it.

First, there is my brother Rob, to whom I owe this whole blog thing to. He had been hocking me to get off my butt and blog for months, he actually set claudtalks up for me. Now, he is forced to avert his eyes to my postings, it's sexually explicit content penned by his sister. He wisely warned me not to write anything that I wouldn’t want the entire world to see, after I panicked about the guy I f*ck’s parents' potentially filth based first impression of me. On the other hand, Rob is still a great supporter, “I just had to set you up with the big pile of paper, throw on a little gasoline, knew you’d toss the lit match, and WFPOOF!!”

Then there’s my close friend Sam. Raised Muslim, now a grown up enlightened guy. He regularly expresses his concern over the nature of my content, blames it on the unfortunate influence of the ne'er-do-well man in my life. Yet, I have always dreamed of reporting my wickedness: the back-of-the-station wagon rides in high school, the cliché advertising biz trysts, my deep affection for psychologically challenged men. I love to see his knitted brow, as he scans through his print out of the blog du jour, like a teacher with poised red pen.

Brother Mike, he’s the business wiz of the family, who cautions me about potential employers. The HR folks who hold the purse strings to the six figures I seek, who Google perspective hires, turning my blog exploits into a damning resume. Fact is, many of my former bosses are friends on Facebook, herald my blogposts, yet never mention the possibility of freelance. Could it be that the claudtalks brand of leather harnesses, sex toys, and panties implies a lapsed affinity for the core brand values of toothpaste, cookies, and asthma remedies?

My ex-boyfriend Brian has expressed discomfort about reading about current love-making with my give it to the hilt and ‘til it hurts leathered-out hardcore man. An invaluable source of input, he is a gifted English teacher, a great writer in his own right, his sister a New York Times bestselling author. His insights are now withheld, save for his “applauding” my sickening to him fearless personal disclosure. Although should I take a three day break from posting, he’ll send an email inquiry signed “The Stalker”, so I suppose he is still a reluctant fan.

Then there are my girlfriends. Like Kristine, who over dinner last night winced at the mention of my blog. She recently added a deft comment under on of my blogposts, but said she only skimmed the piece she remarked on. She’s firmly in the camp of TMI with her BFF.

Yet, I get anywhere from 80, to 370 visits a day. Who are my fans? There’s Owen, A.K.A., “The Owen Show”, possibly my strongest supporter, and not just for the ego building blogposts that extol him as a sexual Demigod. Always at the ready with the compliment of a stiff c*ck, his praise takes an even deeper dive with specific, constructive, actionable feedback, the kind of enthused encouragement that usually one only receives from a loving parent; not to mention the priceless, side splittingly outrageous blogpost comments he adds that often eclipse the content and ignite flame wars that burn well past midnight. My dear friend Mel, who has been a rock star supporter from day one, who insists that big bucked published female authors of autobio-smut have nothin’ on me. I question her bias, as she is brilliant, and exceedingly well read – but nonetheless allows me to buy into the fairy princess-in-a-push-up-bra fantasy that my smirk of a photo could one day appear on a book jacket. I also must mention my friend Amy: a cynically sage, deftly funny, dauntingly intelligent critic. She sifts through the sexually transparent content, fishes out the bigger, more personal ideas, and explains the differences to me. Then there’s Sue Schongar Whitten on Facebook. A girl I was once nice to in the 3rd grade. She always gives the thumbs up on my blogposts on the Book of Face, and reminds me that I’m not just writing for my hard core audience. Vinny P, a fan, a friend, a vocal supporter on Facebook, and one time muse. Vinny U, who’s exuberant praise feeds my insatiable ego. And Giles, Owen’s brother, who I suspect has been a silent follower, who’s “well written, Claudia” can make my year. His disarming wit, MENSA intelligence, and subtly brilliant Facebook discourse makes me suspect that he ‘s simply being kind to the woman that gives his brother emotional support, exceptional head and incomparable weekend breakfasts.

To all the rest of you, the followers of claudtalks, I thank you. I am a slave to your visits, I pander to your need for filth, and pay the price with disenfranchised family members, grossed out friends, and potential employers.

Thursday, April 23, 2009


You’re all alone in your room – but not for long. Who’s being conjured up by your dirty little mind when your hand goes southbound?

Fantasy is fascinating. What if you could see what people think about, like a cartoon scroll above someone’s head? Not the Warner Brother’s version of steaks and pork chops with S-swirls rising off them. But, naked women, brick sh*thouse truck drivers, nuns, whores, and next door neighbors. And what if you threw a party, and everyone came with their cast of c*m inducing characters? Would you simply have to double your recipe for guacamole? Or change the venue to an airplane hanger?

The subconscious is never linear. It rarely plays out like a porn movie, following the journey of a single character, or even three. It is a slave to your genitalia and genitalia has ADD. At least mine does: abducted by men in parking lot, taken to their seedy house, they watch me while dining on TV dinners on those little fold out TV trays. CUT. Man and woman with no heads. She does him, he does me, NO. He does her while I watch. CUT. My man’s chest. CUT. Close up of his pierced nipple. CUT. It’s like the Viewfinder I had as a child. The Washington Monument replaced by turgid man. The Grand Canyon: an emptied swimming pool, filled with shirtless skateboarding teens. Click. Click. Click. Click.

When I was a child, I used to fix on one teen heartthrob. It was more story-like. There were no other band members, just heartthrob and me. Talking. Kissing. Then my mind would go into a blur of sexual bliss. I wasn’t quite sure what adults did, or what little girls did with teen heart throbs, but it was romantic and erotic. And polar opposite to my adult fantasies – he had a head, but no body. The way those teen idols were depicted on magazine covers back in the day. One massive heartthrob head, with ragged edges, as if crudely decapitated with a child’s blunt scissors.

Now, my fantasy world is much more complicated. After years of fantasy f*cking the same old standard fare, am I bored, always having to up the stakes? Or is my frenzied slide show more of a reflection of the bombardment of images, video, brain force feed that plaques/delights us all?

But hey, whatever it takes. Just empty your mind, and let them all come in.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009


I just ran into my former dog walker, a 30-ish guy, good looking with Ray Bans and a full biker style beard. He was swinging a massive bulk of metal house keys. I looked down at his steel package, then back up to his grin. He nodded, “yeahhh.” I considered a provocative comeback, but why guild what was already thick in the air.

It’s the c*ck metaphor. All men have them. The obvious ones: the bikes, the Italian sports cars, or the schwing of a revved up power tool; overt as a thick bulge of faded denim. But hugeness also hides elsewhere.

Bank accounts. Intellectual prowess. Better kitchen knives. Masterful skills with plumbing. It’s all in the mascara’d eye of the beholder. A man can be huge in any woman’s eyes, and only the small-minded rely on what hangs in foreskin.

I can’t say what fills my loins, there is no one thing. I find size in places that are always surprising to me. It can be more obvious, like the way a man hammers around corners in a car of any make, or it can be small, like the planting of bulbs in anticipation of the big payoff come Spring. It could simply be Coke over Pepsi, one towering over the next. Anything can be erotic, but at the end of the day, a c*ck is just a c*ck, and every guy has one.


I’ve cleared out the top drawer of my antique dresser that I’ve had since I was a young child. I needed to make room for the leather and chrome harnesses my friend leaves at my house. They kind of require their own drawer. First off, they’re rather large and heavy. They smell of tanning products, ink, and smoke. My collection of French lace bras had no interest in sharing a room with this sort, they said, ‘there goes the neighborhood,” and took a spot the next drawer down, next to the newly edited collection of panties. It’s like hell and heaven. Hell muscling it’s way, taking the top bunk.

My bedroom hasn’t been the same since. It’s so nice in my bedroom, iris painted walls, antique shutters snatched from the basement of a 100 year old house, a simple pine armoire my mother shipped from England, and a matching set of leather and chrome confinements, conveniently stored just inches away from my bed. Fitted for a very large man, complete with chrome c*ck ring, I must admit I have slipped each one on, on two occasions. When I had imagined wearing them, I thought I would be immediately tap into some powerful hulk-like mind set. But when I strapped them around me I felt like an innocent girl being coerced by a strong dangerous man – lovingly, dominantly, with delicious result.

My top drawer is the Pandora’s box that stays firmly shut, the leather and chrome inside quietly breathing. Around it’s tomb I fold cotton sheets, reach for perfume, adjust the paper shade on my small white lamp, the thought of it always with me, the visual of it above me filled with a man, or the gravity of it hanging and circling me as I stand in front of my mirror, there alone in my room.

Monday, April 13, 2009


I have this thing for brilliant men. I’m talkin’ off-the-charts intelligence. I’ve had more than one close friend pinpoint the problem and suggest that this is something I seriously need to address. Truth be told, I am always banging my head against brilliant men.

My friend Sam explained that the flipside of brilliance is often an inability to deal down here in the real world – a land where MENSA men rarely loiter.

Amy, another close friend recently identified this pattern and suggested that I seek out a “tad above average.” I’ve never much liked the name “Tad”, nor anyone close to average. But I’m working on it. I’ve got my feelers out for an open heart with a blank stare and a complete inability to throw back a witty disarmament ¬– for he may hold my happiness along with several expired lottery tickets.

Just to be clear, it’s not like I’m a rocket scientist. Always a strong B student, I often have a hard time getting through complicated books, speak no foreign languages, yet, there remains this burning desire to couple with genius. Is it validation I seek? A replacement for my Phi Beta Kappa daddy? Or is it my basic instinct to be dominated: held down, bound, and ultimately silenced by really really smart guys?

Why does pillow talk need to be so engrossing? So fueled with high level concept, swirling graphic imagery, words that I need to look up? Do I really need a 12 inch brain.
Wouldn’t a smaller organ suffice? Isn’t it possible to fill my confines to capacity with less turgid brain swell? Is there a Dr. in the house? Better yet, a plumber, or a clerk? But even then, I can spot the one self-loathing genius on the construction site from 10 blocks away. How about the seemingly simple well built Cuban Superintendent? We finally took adjoining stools at our local bar one evening. Turns out I found the only high level, Buddhist Super who read 5 books a week, speaks 6 languages, and can discuss philosophy, religion, extraordinary sexual behavior, gourmet food, and politics all night and still get up at 5AM to fix the boiler and take out an entire building’s trash. Why is average so challenging?

But I ain’t giving up so quickly; I’m setting my sites on “stupid”. I'm taking applications and looking for the man that can't quite figure how to fill his out. But what’s my game plan? Should I frequent NASCAR chat rooms and keep a keen eye out for consistent mistakes in grammar and spelling? Wear shamefully revealing tops and confine myself to monosyllabic utterances? Is there a storehouse of sexy simpletons; an organization called MENDUH that has them on file? ‘Cause when it comes to dumb guys, I’m exceptionally clueless.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009


He had online dating skills. He was a physics professor, and possessed great physical prowess, he assured me. I was skeptical of his deft persuasion at first. There was not a not-to-meet excuse I could throw at him that he didn’t have a cunning, yet logical retort to. I agreed to meet him that afternoon.

He was perfect. Sun bleached hair, jock handsome, strong, lean, muscled body. The starch of his shirt cologne: Calvin Klien “Academia”.

I brought him to a cool crowded bar that he promptly rejected. Apparently physics professors dealt in absolutes. My bar theory had been proven wrong, he thumbs up-ed on the low-key sports bar with an isolated back room.

He was a spew of brilliance. Ordering one round after the next, his rolled up sleeves revealed tanned forearms that clutched at my neglected southern regions. His mind and mouth working at furious tempo, his hands working independently on a slow strong crawl, across the table, dislodging my arms from their locked state, pulling them across the table, our hands locking onto each other’s forearms.

Suddenly, we are in the street, I am thrown up against a tree and he is on me. Pectorals and thrust and mouth, I am being ravished by Matt Deamon on his best day.

It had been 9 months since I’d been naked with a man, and I had known why I had waited. He was perfect, and he was in my bedroom. Underwear advertising ready, hairless, tan, thick and stiff. His lower abdomen: defined muscles in V formation to his full on c*ck.

In the morning, he was up at 5. Off to his five mile run, bench press, 100 lap breakfast before classes. I could tell he wasn’t lying. With a Hurcules hug, smack on the lips, “later, Babe”, he flew out the door. The affirmations came in a phone call that afternoon. We had found each other. He: all perfect. Me: a girl who could maintain an intelligent conversation between f*cking. I hung up and thanked God.

We immediately started seeing each other 3 times a week. He was brilliantly funny, boyishly affectionate – his body was never far away from mine. He mentioned something about having some mental problems, I happily dismissed, “who doesn’t?”

Sound asleep that night, nestled in the chest of my perfect boyfriend’s arms, I am thrust suddenly with unfathomable force across the bed. Blinded by shock, I can barely make him out as he panics around my bedroom. “What are you DOING,” he snapped at the air. “What did you do with my clothes, TELL ME!” I had heard about people who sleepwalk, how you shouldn’t wake them, or they will explode or something. His eyes were open, and he continued to rant, finally coming to, climbing back into bed, pulling me back in close as though nothing had happened. I felt his sleeping breath on my neck until morning. I told him the abridged version of what had happened. He said, “oh, yeah, sometimes I have dreams.” No embarrassment, no surprise. With a “later Babe, see ya Wednesday,” he was out the door.

His name was David Peters. Dr. David Peters. He claimed to do have been part of an award winning findings in physics, earned parchment at top schools, done some work with the CIA. My friend Sam was suspicious, he did some sniffing around online, Dr. David Peters checked out. Aside from the occasionally violent sleep induced outbursts, he was perfect, and he was saying “I love you” 2 months in.

But there was one lingering question besides the annoying sleep violence, what was up with the weekends? He was never around, yet he always had the perfect excuse. Lecturing at another school far, far away on a Saturday, emergency babysitting his brother’s kids, reunion with fellow scholars in Boston. After the 10th weekend, I became suspicious. I had to ask, and for the first time, David became annoyed. “Listen, Babe, I’ve got a life, I suggest you do the same, see ya Monday night.”

It was red flags as far as the eye could see, but it was Monday night, so I stocked the fridge with a six of Harp Lager and Cool Ranch Doritos and put on his favorite panties. He came over, and gave me his usual shower show. That was always how our dates began. He would come in, take off all his clothes, hop in the shower without asking, and yell, “come in here and watch me, Babe”. Before he had come into my life I had filled that time slot with Law And Order re-runs, it was a definite upgrade. But something changed after he toweled off his hard chest/legs/ass. “Want a beer,” I asked. “Stop trying to make me fat,” he came back. Any attempt at conversation was met with an opposing response. We had been seeing each other for 3 months, and the only anger towards me had come from his unconscious sleep state, but it was surfacing into a very bad night. He finally architected the evening into a one way full on fight, he grabbed his gym bag, pulled on his pants, grabbed his keys and he was gone. I didn’t hear from this the next day, or the next, or the next week. My phone calls and emails went unanswered. I was a swarm of anguish that had crept into my job, my life, my psyche. I couldn’t let it go, so I called in sick that Wednesday, and drove out to the college where he taught.

I found the physics department, and went to the front office. I asked for Dr. David Peters. There were a couple of admins there, and the head of the department shaking their heads, no such man. Were they sure? Yes, they looked at me strangely, me ¬– this hip, expensively dressed late 30’s looking sleep-deprived woman, no student, for sure. I walked out and on down the hall. But I had been calling him here, at school? I reentered the main office, and tried to offhandedly ask for a phone directory. The admin reluctantly handed me the paper bound list. The first three numbers matched the one that he had given me. So I combed down the right hand side of each page, until I located the number I had been using for 3 months, and scanned left. It said Dr. Peter Adjukavitch. Trying to reclaim my normal heart rate, I went back to the main office for the third time to see the same crew. “Y’know, I meant Dr. Adjudavitch, I was, confused.” Yeah, I was indeed confused. After an uncomfortable pause filled with the buzz of overhead lighting, one of the admins cautiously gave me what I wanted. “He’s lecturing, 3rd floor, Lecture Room B.”

The door was open, I stood to the side where he couldn’t see me. It was Dr. David Peters Dr. Peter Adjukavitch. All stocato chalking the blackboard, white dust shrapnel flying, 90 MPH mouth, seeming eye contact with all 60 students. I stepped into his line of site, I saw his eye scan me, with no sense of threat or interruption. He did not miss a breath, a word, a strike of chalk. 5 minutes later, he excused himself from the class, walked towards me and grabbed my arm and pulled me over by the stairwell where no one could see. “How dare you come to my place of employment and fuck with my career,” he said in a low spit. “David, or Peter, I just wanted to talk to you. I mean, you just walk out, and well,” I trail off, the absurd abusive nature all too clear when I uttered it out loud. “OK,” he says as a command. “Meet me right here in 40 minutes. We’ll go get lunch and talk.” In a rare hybrid of relief and horror, I go bide my time in the school cafeteria, and milk a Diet Coke.

He is right on time. “C’mon, we’ll take my car, “ all man on a mission. We get in his Turbo black convertible, after opening my car door. Top down, we cruise along the water, seafood restaurants lining the street. “Those look nice,” I try to sound like we’re on a nice Sunday afternoon date. “Yeah, we’re not going there,” he flat lines. “Where are we off, too,” I sing-song in response to his tenor. “It’s a surprise.” He takes the first exit off the highway, and goes over a bridge. I’m still hopeful for clams on the half shell and a lot of explaining, but we turn into a deserted airfield and drive well into it, and park alongside a marsh. He gets out of the car, opens the trunk, pulls something out and says, “get out.” I shake my head, with a “no way.” “Get. Out. Of. The. Fucking. Car.,” again.
I don’t budge. I mean, there’s nowhere to go, nowhere to run, surely I can turn this thing around, this car around, and get back to familiar ground. He returns whatever he got out of the trunk back into the trunk, gets back into the car, and spins the car out of there, full rage bench press on the pedal, all the way ‘home’. He is in his insane sleepwalk anger spew, cold wind and spit on my face. I couldn’t make out the words, they were now irrelevant, message loud and clear. We finally come into close proximity of the college, he sweetly asks where I am parked, pulls up alongside my car, I get out and cross behind his death ride and unlock my escape. “Later, Babe! Don’t want to be late for my 2:30,” and he was off and gone. I drove home way below the speed limit, trying to formulate what I would tell my friends. The truth, proof of my own insanity.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009


A male friend sent me an address to an erotic literature site, with a link to a piece about a young girl’s foray into lesbianism. Once I started reading, I was completely taken aback. This was a story written by a woman, for women; the sex in it was very compelling and unexpected, and expressed from a gentle yet strong female point of view. It was wrapped in a lot of story involving mystery, anticipation, with a strong element of the straight/gay female dynamic. Yet this dark skinned virile male found it completely, well, the phrase he used was, “turns me inside out”. That phrase itself, the words he accessed in his mind to express his aroused state I found to be completely erotic. “Turns me inside out” is almost a metaphor for female genitalia, as though he was experiencing the story as a woman, like he was IN the story, not objectifying, or luridly experiencing it as a voyeur.

When he first sent me the link, I was sure he was just another male with the “oo, two chicks” fantasy. The kind depicted in off the shelf porn, shot by men, for men. But this man, in all his Italian heritage, his playful flirtations with women, is for my money, one of the hottest men I have ever encountered and for none of his surface charms. Because here’s the thing: this man has the unique ability to feel the complete spectrum of the male/female sexual experience. I have no doubt that he brings it in a strong dominant way in the bedroom, but there’s this other state: his more internal, tender relationship with the sexual experience, and I am disarmed at how deeply powerfully male that feels to me.

Monday, April 6, 2009


I dropped my car off at the mechanic this morning. Outside was a slick black WRX, rumored to be a real high on the road. Out came the owner, a twenty something guy with a closely cropped match to car color beard, I wondered what it would feel like down there. Yet the car was the big draw, I’d always wanted behind the wheel, so I asked for the chance, he replied, “sure’, no pause, no hesitation. That car only comes one way, standard transmission, stick only, and I am oh so ready.

My love affair with the stick started in high school. I hung out with a boy/man who had a BMW 2002 stick. He would let me take the driver’s seat, place my hand on the stick, and guide me through the positions, his hand over mine. Down on the floor, I mastered the pedals and the synchronized dance between exceleration, pause, clutch, shift. In my 16 years nothing could compare the feel and power of driving a stick.

Today, I love the head of my stick shift in my BMW. The smooth glossed wood, bulbus in my palm, I slide my hand down it, grasp and shift. Never much of a hand job girl, I know not what to do with a c*ck when my mouth can’t assist, yet I am a master with my right hand in my car, sure, steady, powerful, the stick head oddly smooth without any lubrication. The engine’s direct response purr and growl. And it’s not all about speed, there is nothing like taking a tight corner, clutch in, caress, grab the stick, downshift to that throaty reward.

I once took a drive to Nyack in my car with a large strong man. We had cocktails on the water, I was too vodka’d to drive. He took the driver’s seat, sliding the leather bucket all the way to the deepest position possible. I loved taking the submissive seat in my own car, lying back, listening to the engine, watching him handle my stick. It was utterly erotic, this man commanding my car, the trust of handing over the keys to a partner, the surprise in it, the way he might take the road in a way completely different than your own.

Music is the backdrop in my home, but rarely in my car. I like to keep my ear to the engine, it’s like hearing the man you’re f*cking pant in your ear. The slow and fast of the act, sometimes throaty, now a gentle glide, a sudden thrust to speed, sucking the road in pure mad prowess. Then that sweet downshift, the reserve in it, and the sudden burst and pound of coming out of the curve.

Sure, there are the parked car fantasies realized. The forsaken head in the Home Depot parking lot. Or legs spread, feet against the dash, a man’s hand between your thighs. But those pale in comparison to wheels in motion, stick grasped in hand, the pure erotic power of it, no c*ck required.