WHO’S IN THE ROOM WHEN YOU’RE ALL ALONE?

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.

THE GREAT C*CK METAPHOR

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.

LEATHER AND CHROME ALONE IN MY ROOM

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.

SEEKING STOOPID

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.

THE NUTTY PROFESSOR

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.

THE MOST DISARMING MAN

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.

GRASP THAT STICK

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.