pantoum's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- PAINFUL ENGORGEMENT, OR, DELICATE WRISTS I PIN AGAINST THE WALL [Reposting from my secret blog, but Diaryland won't let me move this to April 1st.�Bird] 313. Have been pondering the fact that luscious Pottergrrrl �refuses to pollute her beautiful life� with violent films but writhes from domination. �I love it when you take control� she tells me. And she does. I pin her delicate wrists against the wall and the world falls away and suddenly she is panting and pressing her hipbones into me and her gasps are playing counterpoint to mine. There is something so intoxicatingly sexy about driving four hours to her office, walking that long hallway with my clit throbbing, and then finally catching sight of her. Something so sexy about the flush that spreads across her face when she sees me. And she doesn�t even try to hide the lust in her eyes. And then we�re both pushing her office door closed and reaching for each other and she�s telling me that she doesn�t understand how I can look even more ravishing than she remembered. And she tells me how she fantasized about me, remembered how good I look in black leather. (I do. In fact. Look good. It�s my Cherokee/Spanish coloring and tall frame, prolly.) I love the depths of Pottergrrl�s passion, love that she lets me find those tender places deep inside her and then hold them stretched taunt across her flame. And she takes me that deep too. Some dykes, especially, seem more comfortable operating within a predetermined role, but Pottergrrl and I flow back and forth from top to bottom and everywhere in between comfortably, eager to sample it all. (And it only took her forty-eight years and one willing partner to show her just how much she enjoys being strapped down to a bed. We are definitely making up for lost time now though.) I blindfold her and tell her exactly what I am going to do, and she lies there twitching, her beautiful wet body opening wide for me. Then, afterwards, she asks how it is that I can read her well enough to know exactly what she wants without her telling me. (Oh but you do tell me, baby.) And then she�s screaming and hiccupping and digging her nails into my back and biting my lips and sputtering and begging me to oh oh oh stop�only that's not our word, and so I slow down instead until she is moaning and writhing and losing herself in another round of bucking spasms that I try to draw out as long as humanly possible. I hold the door open and she steps into that unknown place she has fantasized about for so long�and she takes me with her, her able and willing accomplice. And when it�s over and we are collapsed against each others� spent bodies, she sobs into my chest and says �but I just didn�t know.� And gawd do I long for her after writing that. We live four hours apart though and I suspect that our distance is part of the appeal for both of us. Marilyn Hacker wrote the following sonnet sequence, which encapsulates where I am right now�only I don�t want to fuck up a good thing with neediness and expectations. And I don�t want her to go where she isn�t ready to go either. But I miss her when I fall asleep at night, long for her when I wake up in the morning and when I reach for her and discover that she isn�t in my bed, I feel her absence so acutely. So here is the eighteenth sonnet in Hacker� sequence �Taking Notice.�
I don�t know where any of this will lead, but do know that I should have figured out a long time ago that being with another artist is, well, damn fucking passionate.
I told her the first time that we clawed our way into each other. And she does. She understands that I need pain and works her big potter hands up inside me until every cell of my being is stretched and taut and I am at full attention. Then she leaves me there suspended until I whimper and beg and lie wide open to her, letting her take me wherever she wants as she pushes her way past all of my walls and leaves me exposed and spent. ... And here�s a truth: there are few things sexier than watching a woman who fucks you that well stretch a piece of clay into something beautiful or throw a wet clay handle. So why am I sitting in my living room reading sex blogs on a Saturday afternoon when she�s up in the mountains? The good news is that she�ll be here Wednesday for five long, luxurious days and that I found an interesting new blogger while exploring the rubyfruitjungle community. Verbmynoun knows how to write about sex and is insightful enough to recognize that
She taught me a new word too. So. Cool. I like surfing the Web and finding photos of Crisco-coated boys who have trespassed into the forbidden. Meanwhile, I wait for pottergrrrl and throb. Masters and Johnson performed an experiment once during which they kept a woman highly aroused for six and a half hours. The bastards brought her to a pre-orgasmic state without allowing her to climax five different times (!) and gave her repeated pelvic exams. By the end of the experiment, her uterus was double its normal size, her �vaginal barrel� (love that term) was �grossly engorged,� her labia was swollen three times its normal size, and the pelvic exams were painful. She rested for six hours without any sexual stimulation but the painful engorgement continued, accompanied by cramping and a backache. She was, understandably�I�d never do this to you, love��irritable, emotionally disturbed, and could not sleep.� Finally, they allowed the poor woman to masturbate to orgasm and lo and behold she felt �immediate relief� from her symptoms. Well duh assholes. And yet we wonder why those women of old whose doctors used vibrating thingies to help them relax were such frequent, willing patients.... � So, this is a downer after longing for Pottergrrrl all weekend and thinking about all the wondrous things we will do with our toys, but I just read an article about potentially toxic sex toys. (eep!) Seems that many erotic toys (especially jellies and cyberskins) are made with polyvinyl chlorides (PVC) and softened with phthalates. PVC releases toxins during manufacture and disposal and several studies have revealed that phthalate exposure has negative health consequences. One European study found that a whopping ten dangerous chemicals gas out of some sex toys, in fact, and that phthalate concentrations were �off the charts.� This is especially sobering since phthalates are lipophilic (meaning that contact with substances that have lipid content [hey, does my lube contain fat?]) draw the phthalates out of the plastic). And get this: heat, agitation, and extended shelf life accelerate leaching of phthalates. If these were baby toys instead of oh-so-much-more-fun erotic toys, they would no doubt carry a hazard warning. There is good news though (unless all your expensive toys are made of cyberskin): phthalate-free alternatives include hard plastic or the silicone substitute VixSkin and some manufacturers are now using thermoplastic elastomers instead of PVC. And there�s always metal or glass. But hey, metal is cold. And I�ve always been wary of glass dildos despite all those years of running into Cloud, the maker of glass didos, at various women�s festivals. I�ve broken dildos during rigorous sex, after all, and do not care to break glass inside any of mine or my lovers� cavities. I guess there�s always the Solar Vibe though, which is wired with a teensy solar panel (whee!). And Sensua Organic offers organic lube (which damn well better come in a pump bottle). All righty. Enough of that. G�night all. 3:57 p.m. - 2006-4-1 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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