slippery when

Chelsea Girl lives in Chelsea, where she enjoys hobbies like writing, reading, fucking, and mocking, not necessarily in that order. Other enjoyments include her right to free assembly, oxygen, and full use of her opposable thumbs. Born under Scorpio in the Year of the Tiger, Chelsea is suffused with animal magnetism. Her turn-ons include long walks on the beach, cold nights by a blazing fire, leather pants, and cinematic decapitations. Her turn-offs include phony people, sociopaths, poor personal hygiene, and Vegans. She blogs at http://www.prettydumbthings.typepad.com/. This post was originally published at http://prettydumbthings.typepad.com/chelseagirl/2006/04/slippery_when.html/.


…His cruelty could have drilled holes for Swiss watches.

It may not be a testament to my best self, but cruelty holds a page in my erotic self. I respond to a bit of cruelty, especially if it’s well-timed and well-placed. These days, the cruelty that makes me melty-drippy is assumed, not real. It takes its form in a kiss that bites, a caress that pinches, a word that commands. It is a fuck with force. It is not the kind of cruelty that leaves me with invisible scars.

That was not always the case.

Armand got handed to me like a baton. I got a phone number. I called it. We made a date to fuck. It shocks me now that I was that pragmatic then about sex. But my friend Gen told me that Armand gave amazing head. I wanted amazing head. I made a date with him in order to receive said amazing head. I’d dreamt of head, imagined head, stroked myself in the gasping cold of night under eiderdowns in a nun-wide bed to rococo speculations of amazing head, and I wanted nothing more than to experience it, right then, right there, on that hard little wet knot between my thighs.

So I called him. I went over to his tiny apartment. I rang the buzzer. I was let in. I was pleasantly surprised by his looks, and within a few tens of minutes, I found myself on his bed fucking him.

But he didn’t give me head.

I gave him head. I gave him plenty of head. I fucked him in every possible position I knew. I worked and worked at pleasing him.

...Behold, the cruelty: once, after fucking me, Armand gazed at my naked prone body. “You have a big ass,” he commented, and added, “but it’s round, though.” And then he looked levelly in my eyes for a reaction. I like to think I didn’t give him one, but I’m sure I betrayed myself.

I would go back to that tiny apartment again and again. I’m not sure how many times, exactly, that I fucked Armand, but it was probably a handful. It wasn’t like I had a boyfriend, and it was like I wanted head. I wanted to know what felt like to have a warm, wet, human tongue buried in my girl bits, licking and sucking and tenderly teasing me into the glistening pinkwet surrender that I’d only experienced from my hand and my vibrator.

I wanted to come with a person. I wanted, for reasons still not entirely explicable to me, that person to be Armand.

… in part I picked Armand because he came with recommendations, dammit. My friend had assured me he was, in our parlance, very considerate. He would eat me like a five-course meal, she said, and I would come like a rocket.

Neither happened. Again and again neither was I eaten nor did I come. Until finally I summoned the courage and I talked to him about it (we never did much talking. It was not a meeting of the minds, Armand and me).

Gen said you gave her head, I said. He mumbled an assent.

Why won’t you give me head? I asked.

He stared at me for a moment, and then he said, “You get too wet.”

Too wet. I got too wet. My pussy dripped and it was too much. My body betrayed me with my desire. Not only did my desire make itself present, but it was too much, too loud, too voluminous, too wet. It was a prodigious, off-putting desire, a slippery wetness of veering tire tracks and dented galvanized railings. It was a clamoring, needy wetness, a wetness that announced itself and demanded unspeakable, unlickable, disgusting acts. It was, like me, excessive.

“But I’ll make you come,” he said, and he went to his dresser and pulled out a yellowed appliance that resembled my dad’s blow-dryer. Looking kind of like a rectangle on a handle, it had a big suction-cup attachment square in the center of the rectangle and a long plug extending from the handle.

Armand told me to lie on my belly. He plugged the appliance on, and he started a long vibratory journey down my shoulder blades, over the valley of back, around the cleft of my big and round ass. Then he told me to roll over; I did.

He parted my thighs and set the vibrator to work on my clit. Predictably I came. My first orgasm with another human being was also with a machine. He watched me come and then he smoked a cigarette. I got dressed and left, noting a big wet spot on the bed where I had been lying.

I never saw Armand again after that. It seemed pointless, really. He wasn’t going to give me what I wanted. More importantly, his cruelty had lost its charm for me.

While I wish I could say I never felt self-conscious about my wetness, my palpable and viscous desire, I can say this: at that moment I knew Armand was a dick. It was one thing to say my ass was big. It was, however, another thing altogether to insult my pussy.

smut

Primal Goddess ( previously blogger111) is a big beautiful radical feminist who is just discovering the Goddess within and feeling her return to human awareness. She studies the paleolithic/neolithic Goddess cultures and lives with her love and their many wonderful beasts. You can read her words at http://www.xanga.com/PrimalGoddess.

My Grandmother never had an orgasm. That is the way it is told in my family. On her wedding night, she did not believe it was okay to have intercourse; she did not believe my Grandfather-when he said what was supposed to happen. So, he precedes to buy a book; and show her that penis into the vagina, is completely normal.

She had never seen a penis, except on a baby; maybe. And had no idea about sex or men; and nothing about her own body. This is just my Mother's mother, that is not many generations ago. I found this all quite shocking, even as a kid, hearing this.

I had my first orgasm when I was in the sixth grade. I was alone. I did wonder if God was "ok" with what I was doing, I remember making some kind of deal with him about giving me a sign if it was wrong. I don't remember what God said, but needless to say-I never stopped giving myself orgasms.

I remember getting that "fuzzy feeling" "down there" when I would see soap operas, with people kissing and being romantic. Really, anytime I saw people kissing I got that feeling. Still around the sixth grade, I found the joys of Jackie Collins. She is Joan Collins sister and she writes quality smut! Lucky, Chance, Hollywood Wives, Rock Star; she has many more. They are very explicit in sexual details and situations. Reading one of her books was my first introduction to homosexual sex being described. Gay and Lesbian. I was not unfamiliar with the idea of women together; I had seen my dad's "dirty magazine" collection when I was in the third grade and one featured the Landers' Sisters. To this day, I find it strange that officially we shun incest as a crime against nature and god-yet, the idea of men desiring and it being normal to fulfill the act of being with two sisters, mother and daughter, aunt and niece, etc. is what is really expected.

I really have always read. I read my dad's Hustler, two Penthouses and few Playboys; over and over again. Cover to cover. When we moved, which was many times; I always marked and noticed where they got packed and where they were put in the new house. To this day, I enjoy adult magazines and movies. I don't know if seeing "porn" as a child is why I enjoy it or I am just that way. Either way, I don't see anything wrong with it, as long as you have a healthy mind, heart and soul; when it comes to sex/life. I would suppose that as we open more awareness to universal consciousness; we would be stimulated by finer things.

I am still just flying by the seat of my pants with the whole sex thing. I would be called naive, though. I was a virgin till eighteen, did not kiss a boy till late teens. Did not date. Even in my twenties, celibate for the most part. I had only had awkward teen age encounters before I met Randy and only a few times. Sex still makes me feel uncomfortable talking about it, I can intellectualize it all day; understand that our naked bodies and all of our functions-most of all sex, are perfectly normal and right. But, I am just now coming into my own sexuality; as a person-as a woman. I was brought up with words to describe sex like: smut, slut, hussy, filthy, men only want one thing, to want sex as a woman was to be a whore, and pre-marital sex was not only a sin but the sign of a bad woman.

If it is true that my Grandmother lived eighty years, fifty or more with her husband and never had the joy of coming; that is very sad. I looked up in Louise Hay a physical issue I have and she recommends that I have "shame and guilt" about sex. That is true. Just the things I have done and desired so far, would cause the female line of mine to lose their minds. And, by society standards I would be considered quite mild in experience of sex. I want to write about all of this so that I do not have those feelings about sexuality; mine or anyone else's.

I envy those who freely express their selves sexually. I believe this is the natural state of human sexuality. Because of our confusion of sex, being taught that it is wrong, so much of it is wrong- that we feel-we have created a "dark" use for sex that also keeps us apart. My understanding of sex on a spiritual level is, it's expression was meant and is meant to be our highest act of love. It should never been seen as dirty or wrong.

I have these lessons to unlearn, there is a part of me that wishes to be expressed and it is the Goddess. I have called her into my life and it is powerful and scary in the most exciting way. Kind of like sex. I think the Goddess is sex. Can I say that? I find it holds true as long as you don't pick it apart. A man is sex too, just not like a woman.

post humper

Jessie writes of men, sex, and her bird. You can read her writings about cocks, cock, and cockatoos at http://genuinejessie.blogspot.com/.

I don't remember when I had my first orgasm. It came naturally to self-pleasure. The only thing my parents ever said was. "Keep your bedroom door closed when you do that, dear!"

I've probably had an "orgasm", as classically defined by Masters and Johnson, the day I became physically sexually mature enough to have one. Sometime around the age of 13 or 14.

I was always a "pillow humper", getting off on the indirect simulation from silky and textured pillows. I could easily be a "post humper", though.

At a summer job, I found a metal post with a screw sticking out in just the right place. Lucky, or not, it happened to be close to where I had to stand, keeping score for kiddie baseball games! No one noticed how I held myself, and I pretended to be SO concerned and involved with the game! If I made a slight error in the score, everyone knows that they don't teach Math very well in school these days. All the parents kept score, anyway.

I wouldn't usually have the concentration needed to climax that way, but at night, before bed, I always did. I know I probably had orgasms before I was 15, but none are so remarkable.

speedo

Jay Thomas discusses philosophy, progressive politics, experimental writing and the media arts at Bad with Titles http://www.beetleinabox.com/blog/

I had my first orgasm when I was about thirteen. It happened during the last vacation we’d ever take together as a family. My dad had started losing money as quickly as he’d made it. His drinking had gotten worse, and so had my mom’s anorexia, for which she would soon be hospitalized. I think we all knew it would be the last. In the hotel nightclub we visited for cocktails before dinner, my dad tipped the piano player to play Margarittaville over and over and sang out loud to the words “looking for my lost shaker of salt.”

My parents had gone for an evening walk on the beach. I’d decided to stay in the hotel suite to make headway through the Isaac Asimov novel I hoped to finish before the vacation’s end. I tried to settle into an armchair that looked plush but seemed to be constructed of unforgiving planks of wood. Perhaps I needed a nap. I took the book into my room, set it open-faced on the nightstand, and lay down on my back. The ceiling fan spun slowly, steadily, producing no discernable draft. I followed the edge of one of the blades around its orbit until I became slightly nauseated.

When I closed my eyes, I saw the torso of a slender man in a black speedo. Earlier that afternoon, by the pool, he’d paused in front of me, perhaps chatting with a friend. My eyes had darted immediately to the bulge beneath the taut, glistening fabric. I’d forced myself to look away because it was bad enough that I might be looking at someone with lust in my heart. My evangelical friend Everett, who’d saved me for a second time a year after New Life Ranch, had told me that the book of Paul said that fantasizing was just as bad as having sex, because the sin was already in the heart. But I couldn’t imagine what Everett would say if he knew that guys made me feel that way.

Picturing the man in his speedo made touching myself feel better than it ever had before. When the orgasm happened, I shouted “Oh, God,” and immediately cursed myself for bringing God into it. Then I noticed the warm fluid all over my chest. Surely something had gone terribly wrong.

I ran to the bathroom to clean myself up, yanking the toilet paper off the spindle so fast the roll continued to unwind on its own. I shook as I wiped myself clean. I’m sorry, God, I said. I didn’t mean to do that. I watched tears hit the bathroom floor. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Please don’t let anything be wrong with me. Please let me be all right. I won’t do it again. Please forgive me.

Portland Road

Deek Deekster writes the everyday story of the smell of sex at http://funk.co.uk/

In the summer, after school, sometimes we would head to the swimming pool, which was slap-bang opposite on the other side of Portland Road. This was a joy. Public near-nakedness, water, dares and bets. We would splash through the stinky footbath and stay in the big pool until our lips were blue with cold. Every 40 minutes, to keep congestion down and allow every member of the Great British Public to have a swim, there was a mass-ejection of one particular colour armband. "Will ladies and gentlemen with BLUE armbands please leave the pool" ... "Will ladies and gentlemen with RED armbands please leave the pool" ... cue hasty swapping/hiding of armbands plus innocent denials if the lifeguards caught on.

One time we ended up playing with a group of girls, some from our co-educational school, some from elsewhere, all of us either just on the edge of or just into puberty, in a game of tunnel-of-legs. The girls formed a line down the shallow end, we boys took the biggest breath we could, dove down and swimwriggled belly to the floor, squinting in the cloudy piss-and-chlorine mixture to find our way to the end of the tunnel and the next breath. Over and over again we extended the line, and the girls reached down and pulled us through their lengthening legs to encourage our exploits. After the 7th or 8th time, I emerged with a gasp, victorious and grinning, only to suddenly jackknife in the water, spasming in an incredible and unexpected way. What a feeling, wowowowowow, what the fuck was that? I was completely surprised. This was not something I could explain, and although later I attempted to re-create it, it wasn't until a few months later that I was able to.

This is the place I had my first orgasm.

carmex

Strumpet enjoys the finer things in life: Sex, drugs and rock 'n' fucking roll. She has now moved on to bigger and better sex toys.

And girls they want to have fun
Oh girls just want to have fun

~Cyndi Lauper

When I was a kid, I was given a lot of chores to do before I could go outside to play.

I would try to make these chores as fun as possible.

One of my chores was dusting the living room.

Now, my mother is very anal.

Runs in the family.

I would have to make sure that I got into every nook and cranny.

I could not miss a spot, because she would be checking.

One good thing about Choretime was that we would be able to play a record on the stereo while we were cleaning. Me and my brothers would always take turns picking out what album we would get to listen to. I would always choose the soundtrack to the Rocky Horror Picture Show. I knew all the words to every song before I knew what they were about. Before I had ever seen the movie. I was nine years old and singing 'Touch-a, touch-a, touch-a, touch me. I want to be dirty.' I would sing it all day long and long into the night.

One part of dusting the Living Room was the coffee table. On either side of our coffee table were sliding cabinet doors. And, one day, while making sure not to miss a spot, I slid one of the cabinet doors over. Now, this was where my mother kept all of the old magazines. Her back issues of Cosmo, Vogue, and Glamour. I did not know, however, it was also where she kept my father's back issues of Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler. Waaaaay at the bottom of the pile. Underneath his boring Popular Science shit. Well, now that I had discovered this.... I just had to go back there when no one was looking.

I was starting to get a grasp on what, 'Touch me. I want to be dirty,' might actually mean.

I am the oldest of three, so when my parents would head out, I was left in charge. And since there was no babysitter around to keep tabs..... as soon as they left, I would check on my brothers and immediately go check out the stack of magazines while my bros innocently played Star Wars in their bedroom.

Every single time the 'rents were planning a night out, the first thing that popped into my newly dirty mind was, 'Totally tubular, I get to go and look at tits and ass! Like Awesome, fur shur!!'

I was way too scared to actually steal a magazine for my own personal use later and keep it under my mattress, or something. I thought my mom would know it was missing. Or that she would find it. So, I had to get all my dirty snooping done while they were out.

I would greedily devour every inch of every picture. I would place dainty kisses upon the pages where their nipples were.

As time went on, and I started to do more than just ogle the hot chicks, stare at the centerfolds and try to understand the dirty cartoons.....I actually started to read the articles. This is when I discovered Penthouse Forum.

Oh, what a glorious day that was.

I started reading about people cumming. Didn't know what this was. But, it sounded really fucking cool. I would read about parts of my body I didn't know existed. It made me quite curious. To say the least.

As my chore list grew, it eventually entailed dusting my parents bedroom. Whereupon I discovered the stash of his current issues of Playboy, Penthouse and Hustler. Now, I had a new spot to play when they went out. The first chance I had after they would close the door behind them, I would immediately run to their bedroom, lock the door, open up my father's dresser and grab a Penthouse. I'd kneel down next to the bed with my chosen issue and would strategically place my crotch over the wooden-edged corner of the bedframe. And as I read, I would rub against it. I soon started to realize what these sensations were that I had been reading about. And I was determined to make myself 'cum.' Whatever that was. But, I knew it wasn't going to happen with the corner of the bed.

Now, I had always played with myself. But, had never really discovered my clit. After feeling it come to life when I would read Forum and rub against the corner of the bed, I decided that at night I would just have to play with that part of myself a little more intensely.

This is where it gets a little strange.

Cos I don't really recall exactly how I started to do this. I didn't really know what I was doing with my fingers and I soon realized I enjoyed having a bit of fun with random objects 'down there' and one of the random things I soon grew attached to playing with was my Carmex. The small white round glass jar with the yellow metal lid. I was already addicted to putting the stuff on my lips, the tingle I felt along my mouth when I did so, and that fantastic Carmex smell. And one night after applying the stuff, my hand was wandering while the Carmex was still in its grasp....the cool glass seemed to feel really good against the lips of my pussy....so I started to place it upon my clit. And I soon realized it felt really good to rock the circular container of Carmex all around my little pea.

I began to do this every night.

When my parents would go out I would read the stories of Penthouse Forum incessantly, and then at night I would fantasize about being in such scenarios while I rubbed that Carmex container all around my clitoris.

When one night....

....BAM!

There it was.

I came.

I thought....Wow....No wonder people write stories about that!

I also thought.....next time I can do it BETTER.

And an addict was born.

Soon after, I discovered my father's porn collection.

Oh, what a great day THAT was!

So, now that I'm older there are two ways to get into Strumpet's pants.....

1. If you are a man with a wickedly perverted sense of humour and a dirty, dirty mind who is not afraid to use either in the bedroom....

2. .....or you could just put on some Carmex.