Photo Credit: "Red Shoes" on Photobucket
It's not that I have no offers, no invitations to play with a younger man. I'm just in the mood to vibrate to sexy memories.......like this one when the former Boy Toy had his way with me.
Don't forget to respond to the cougar/cub survey.
copyright 2008-2011, www.sexyprime.typepad.com; PARTIAL reposts only permitted with link back to original article on SexyPrimeWe apologize for Rebecca Friday being a day late. She did get the post to me last night, but I was out with the Boy Toy. (Boy Toy Friday nights!) Rebecca is always worth the wait, yes? I love this piece: evocative, sexy, mysterious.
Here's Rebecca:
I lived in South Africa very briefly. I travel across from Johannesburg in a 1960’s Ford Farlaine. It is a long trip and at the times quite dangerous. . One could not stop because of the bandits that gathered along the roads. I remember the wonder of seeing nature occur in front of me with such clarity married to a very real uncertainty and danger. Hijacking and theft were prevalent.
Dotted along the South Africa highways, there are these pristine areas that provide food, a clean bathroom and shower. Hell, I had to pee eventually despite the fact that there were actually lions, tigers, gorillas and a few desperate tribesmen. There are these brightly lit, highway rest stations a combination gas station / diner. It is a rather contemporary oasis and was so clean that they looked deceptively new. It was there I discovered my favorite cookies.
Hansel and I traveled from one end of the city to another. We saw the beach in Brooklyn and one of the oldest train stations in upper Manhattan. Ultimately I awoke and found Hansel in the explosion of my apartment wrapped in my white comforter smiling at me sans the nappy beard.
In this story there was a Gretel. Despite the fact that she never actually presented herself She was very much a background player. Unlike the proverbial witch, I offer my cookie without the need to consume the small child. I like fairytales but I prefer the capricious and cruel adult version of them. However I am not either.
I felt like a rest stop, like the one in South Africa abet a romantic one, embracing a wary traveler. A part of a long story that would be mentioned at some point over drinks. When I was, I stopped at, I met and we etcetera.
There is a point that one acts for the flavor and not the story. Is there a difference between sex with an older man and a younger one? No, only the package. It does looks deceptively new.
Perhaps we should rename my post Rebecca kind of, sort of Fridays. But in order for me to keep this post fresh, I have got to live a little. I have been living a little.
Back to ice cream, next week. Cookies mixed with whiskey and boredom get me in trouble.
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I apologize for Rebecca Friday! being a day late. I asked Rebecca for a little more explanation. She got the copy back to me late Friday morning but I had a lunch meeting and a dinner engagement....and the day ended in the early hours of Saturday morning. (R, I wasn't "annoyed", merely anxious for more foreplay.)
Here's Rebecca:
Last night I tried this yummy walnut chocolate organic ice cream, not my usual Haagen Daz. It was similar and allowed something cold to luxuriate over my tongue while providing me with some interesting nutty texture.
Sometimes changing the pattern and sitting back allows you to ruminate over the events. The last few weeks Mercury must permanently be in retrograde or the meek shall rule the earth is really one of the truism of the Bible. It was a "cluster fuck" of nonsense. Any smart person should have broken open the prerequisite stash of pharmaceutical required for such times. I was sober and very busy.
I find that when I am insanely busy this energy manifests itself in surprising ways. This time it manifested itself in a younger energy. I was invited to a birthday celebration in a remote random spot that I can sum up by the whiny hipster who made a felt object d art for the host. It was very DIY. Translation: boring and far from anyplace cute that I could sneak away to. . Then, of course, there was ultimate party killer: lack of witty banter. Intellectual and social blue balls.
Long sigh. Melancholy sets in when there is no one at a party that you would even consider taking to bed--even if it is a fantasy mixed in with a reference from the sexual Rolodex. I was bummed out. Lack of cuteness and the prospect of a long train ride home without taxi intervention does that to you.
After a few shots of whiskey and some unreciprocated saucy commentary with the host. I left. I had to walk off my buzz. I found myself in a familiar neighborhood with even more familiar upscale bodegas. The point I am trying to make is that the upscale bodegas have these German butter cookies that have a wedge of dark chocolate on them. Sugar baby … gotta love it.
A few blocks away was one of my favorite local bookstores. I have many favorite places to read magazines rather than buy them, look at the picture in books and read the various dustcovers--or if time allows read the ending of all the books I want. I even picked up bookstore clerks.
Yes, darling, bookstore clerks can be quite really great. It is all the frustration that builds up when you approach you late 20’s. The Ivy League education has you hawking periodicals under the premise of “radical independent book seller “ at $8.00 hour. The ticks and tocks of time running out on your student loan deferment while you ignore any request for a book on Oprah’s book club. Frustration, education, privilege, and poverty it makes for great sex. I still get my books discounted at that store…wink wink.
I am sorry, back to the story at hand. My eyes glazed over the books in the window. Folks, I could tell you this was my intellectual stupor but it was a slightly tipsy, perhaps drunken one. I stood staring for a long time at titles in the window trying to determine how long it would take for my vision to stop blurring. As the book covers came into focus, this voice asked “ Is there any thing good?”
A hipster in a grey hood. Not too tall, he had the nappy starter beard that is so trendy now. I would bring up another biblical reference. However, someone already told these kids they were god. So I will it go. I will call him Hansel.
He was gentle, fragile, precious and a little lost. A rather beautiful boy at 23, Hansel had a backpack between his legs. He looked so young that I thought for a second he was a runway. He was, but he wasn't. He seemed to share my melancholy and suffered from the same lack of cuteness and a long train ride home without taxi intervention.
I did what any woman would do in this situation: I offered him a cookie. Then I asked him if he wanted to go to the beach. Quite frankly, I find that staring into the wonder of nature is overrated. Immersing yourself in and on the wonder of nature is priceless..
Next week back to the routine.
Susan is annoyed because I prefer the long foreplay on this on.. But since this is a column about sex. I don't want to lavish on the obvious but rather languish on the details. So yes, Susan. I did. Yes Susan I will tell you and the readers about it next week.
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Could it be true? Our Rebecca, who has professed her preference for older guys, might be toying with a boy?
Again this week, Rebecca gives us a Quickie, a tantalizing tidbit that has me at least begging: More! Details! Did you do him or did you not? (If she doesn't spill next time, I will take her out for drinks and get the story.)
Here's Rebecca:
Hansel
I had my own moment with the concept of indulging intimately with a younger man. On a late night I was standing outside a bookstore peering in the window. This young man; very young man wearing a grey hoodie, looked over at me. He asked “ Is there anything good?”
I turned, I noticed these clear sparkly eyes. He was a strikingly beautiful man-child. Almost Red Riding hood-like. Quite frankly it seemed that neither of us wanted to go home alone but we didn’t yet have anyone to play with.
So I smiled at him and offered him a cookie.
This week has been dreadful another extension of the last week. I haven’t had a chance to sit with my Haagen Daz to truly digest this moment enough to indulge you. No, I will not leave out the details as I did in my Sapphic encounter but till next week.
Cold spoon, hot mouth.
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Our usually loquacious Rebecca has a short post today. But even a few words from her can make our day, right?
Here's Rebecca:
I have had the worst day, yesterday. So this Friday there will be no post with exception to this:
Things are not what they seem.
Haagen Daz is not a European company. In the 1950s , a fellow from the Bronx named Riben Mattus developed the brand of ice cream that he wanted to associate with old European charm. WASPs have Ralph Lauren and Ice Cream has Riben Mattus. SexyPrime has Rebecca Friday's. My writing has sexual content, sexual themes but it is not about sex.
This week the work has been exhausting, so I am taking a hiatus on content. Till next week, I am keep a cold one in the freezer.
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Before Rebecca finishes her story of the one night with a lesbian lover--she confesses her preference for older men. She writes so well that even a Cougar might be inspired to take another look at older guys. (Well, not necessarily this Cougar....but some others.)
The last two paragraphs pose some questions for intellectual discussion on the conundrum that is a sexual feminist. Rebecca is outspoken against the patriarchy, yet prefers older white male lovers (and, honey, that group IS the patriarchy.) I consider myself a feminist but I love a hard-thrusting dominant man. As women, we are all reconciling our sexuality with our feminism in our own way every day. We would love to hear from you on that.
Here is Rebecca:
We have the Cougar Chronicles on this blog, cool--but what about those of us who chase old men? I love the kind-of-sorta oldies. I now am focused on the ones that are only slightly chipped with character.
I have eliminated “the irregulars”; these men are like that t-shirt in the discount bin of the department store. There is some manufacturer's defect or perhaps they were damaged with frequent handling. It has forced them to be life’s odd fit. Over time if a suitable purpose for these men has not been found, they just become increasing unappealing, a troglodyte if you will.
There are fantastic old men out there; with style of the Hemingway, Steven McQueen kind. They have been dads, husbands, friends, lovers, but I find I can speak to the man, the man that the others have forgotten about.
In short, I am easy; I like style, finesse, and discernment, so it trumps all the usual general market bullshit. A mix of the new shit and some old shit, as they say. This male style mix often comes in the weathered, worn packages of a man with life experience.
These men are not about being the best in bed but about being themselves. It is a slow ride sexually. I get to appreciate the view without the benefit of the “blue” pill
In a beachfront hovel, I discovered how fantastic an old man could be. I got to that moment via some old school terminology. He asked to kiss my pussy. The phrase curled off his tongue and was spoken with a salacious grin. Well it gets me right there …
The tunes, a combination of rare David Bowie acoustic CD and some Joni Mitchell. This is the soundtrack of the last few hours of summer with the waves crashing against the shore. His beard ultimately smelled of pussy, weed and vanilla soap. He said I tasted like Peanut butter chocolate ice cream. Hands down the best compliment I ever had. We shared the wonderful combination of laughter and sex on the last weekend of summer.
Oh, yeah, I was on this diatribe about my sexual exploits with a woman. Well, boys, while you concentrate on bigger faster and harder, women still have you trumped. The orgasms, the food coma makes the memory of that night with a woman all a little fuzzy. But other than that, it is a good file.
I have never heard a lesbian sing a song about kissing a boy and liking it. They probably did it once, moved on. There nothing-here folks …so I am keeping it moving.
The real conversation was what do we as woman know about each other without the definition of men. There is one school of thought by, Charlotte Bunch in her 1972 article “Lesbians in Revolt”. Bunch argued that "lesbianism threatens male supremacy at its core," not because women were having sex together, but because they withdrew their energies from men. Bunch and others were influenced by other anti-oppression struggles, and believed the downfall of male supremacy would lead to the “collapse of racism, capitalism, and imperialism.”
My conversation is about how women define themselves without the masculine template. I live in a small version of that world. Times have changed. A woman is a vice presidential nominee; gay woman marry and have children together.
The sensibility, the politics of this country, still remains a decidedly patriarchal one. Why should women be expected to live a life determined by the patriarchy? I experienced that realization in my brief Sapphic moment. So the file isn’t closed; it is just more enlightened.
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Rebecca is a big tease in part two! A lot of philosophy and not much action. So. Rebecca, will you tell us next week: Who did what to whom? And how? Did a big dildo make an appearance?
Here's Rebecca:
When I am writing, I buy my pint of Haagen Daz. It will sit in the sink until it melts. It is the one thing that is much better soft.
Where were we? Calm in the face of diversity. I started thinking really hard and saying over and over in my head: Gina Gershon, Jennifer Tilly, Gina Gershon, Jennifer Tilly, Gina Gershon, and Jennifer Tilly
My "Sexual Rolodex" came up empty under L. I was being undressed by a woman, kissed by a woman, felt up by a woman. I was in quite a conundrum because sex was to be had, a dinner had been purchased for me. The two courses and the dessert sealed the deal.
I did not have any lesbian sexual references. “Bound” ( Gina Gershon, Jennifer Tilly) was a good movie, made by a man. Lesbians always seem to be spectator sport for men in contemporary porn. All of my conversations about Lesbians were from a male perspective. Every man I have meet thinks lesbian sex is hot. This is not exactly enlightening.
What did I know about lesbian sex? As a child I dressed in jeans and white t-shirts. A “tomboy” so people accused me of being gay. If I spurned someone’s attention, I was gay. For that matter if I walked down the street with my mother holding hands, we were gay. I thought those boys and men were just stupid.
In general, I just never got it. The switch that discerned homosexual attraction never flipped for me. I grew up middle class poor in a black neighbor hood. There were tons of woman who were “masculine” in their dress, their manner or both. These strong people were single working mothers. The dress and the manner was simply a means of getting things done. To my knowledge I never had any dealings with gay women.
My family never talked about it. By that I mean there was never a derogatory comment made, that I could remember. The ladies had their friends and we didn’t tell tales.
But I knew trannies, I knew gay men, I didn’t know any lesbians. It seems that gay woman are either shy or they were truly underground. But what was the reason? Weren’t lesbians the ultimate feminist icon?
What the fuck?
Now I am in the throes of this sexual encounter so I had to get back to the matter at hand—sex with this pretty fantastic woman. I now had something in common with men. I knew nothing! I did what any woman would do, what any man should do. I let her run the show.
So, folks, while I remained calm in the face of diversity, I was having sex with the feminist icon, a lesbian. I also re-examined my Sexual Rolodex. I found a file I hadn’t had a chance to discard. D for Dildo.
My ice cream is nice and soft…till next week.
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Opening the email containing a new Rebecca post is exciting. I never know what she is going to say next. Whatever it is--I always love it. I hope this inspires some of you to comment on your own L Word experiences. (Rebecca: LOL means Laugh Out Loud.) And I cannot wait for the second installment of "Nothing Under The Letter 'L'". Rebecca leaves us in mid-foreplay, panting for more, doesn't she?
There is this song on the radio, rather it has become this anthem: “ I Kissed A Girl”. The Kate Perry video of the song opens with her in cute girly outfit stroking a pussycat. This sounds like the music industry's need to capture the consumer dollar with a really lame song. But hell, the news is slow, Britney is sane, Paris has been MIA . It is an election year so we don't need to stir up any intellectual sexual conversations with Kate.
So my version of “ I Kissed A Girl “: Well I have done that and more. My girl entanglement started with the dreaded concept of Internet dating, once again the beginning of the downward spiral of frustration and disappointment.
I met a fellow online. Drawing conclusions from his photo and the “IM – ing , I thought that he seemed do-able or, worst case scenario, fine dining experience – able. My intellectual cogs are well oiled now, and time has passed. I often wonder how can one be flirtatious in an “IM”. Quite frankly even now I have no idea what LOL means. I do know that flirting in IM seemed to work then. I was confidant.
He was a no-show. No call, no show--nada. I was in my favorite restaurant in Williamsburg In the glow of a candlelit room I could stuff myself with all the organic cuisine and fine wines I could afford. I was bummed just a little and started to chat up a friendly woman sitting next to me at the bar.
She was a neighborhood regular who knew the chef. We started gossiping. She was also dining alone. So we got a table and had dinner together. Why not? We had a nice conversation with all the “get to know you” parts that introductory meetings have.
We were both having a bad night, each with our romantic troubles. We'd both been stood up, both literally and figuratively. I told her that I'd been hoping for at least a free dinner and possibly to get laid. I said the last part in jest. Wink, wink, ha-ha. She said to me straight face; “I will fuck you and buy you dinner.” If men did that--well this would be a different column entirely and I would not have invested a good portion of my income in Haagen Daz.
The way she said it--so matter of fact--Well, it was damn sexy. She had a nice rack as well. This lady had a point. She could buy me dinner and she could fuck me. I agreed and I ordered two courses and dessert. The restaurant has this fantastic salted chocolate tart; I couldn’t resist.
The kissing was good, passionate even great. As I was being pushed up against the exposed brick walls of her apartment and my breasts were being felt up, I thought: “Nice.” I was in a well-appointed home, no leather couch or big screen TVs, but a clean open kitchen facing a living room with throw pillows and knick-knacks, family photos. soft lightening, candles--even a big sleigh bed with white sheets. Yes, clean sheets is the truest indication that there is a woman in the house. The bed was made and the sheets were clean.
Then this image comes into my head. A sister once told me that when she gave birth to my niece: "Well they shoved her crotch in my face and announced 'It is a girl!'" I saw that image and heard my brain announce: “ It is a girl!!!"
I had a conversation a long time ago, with a man friend. He told me that all men are quite the same. Yank slowly or fast or insert, slowly or fast. All men need to release. They are all the same, plus or minus a few kinks with the pre-production and post production (of semen) process. However, all woman are different. There are no manuals. None.
As with most of my physical encounters the “Sexual Rolodex” came out this time too. The “Sexual Rolodex” is the culmination of my knowledge, my go-to mental manual of sex tricks, devices culled from personal experience, books or film. Note: There is a difference between the Sexual Rolodex than the “Sexual Wish List”. But that is another story.
The Sexual Rolodex is your personal sexual “how to “ guide. The straight version of my Sexual Rolodex came out first. So I threw that one way and suddenly the Lesbian Sexual Rolodex came out. Cunnilingus, fingering, fisting. These were worst-case scenarios, not any real references.
I believe in remaining calm in the face of diversity so I started thinking really hard and saying over and over in my head: Gina Gershon, Jennifer Tilly, Gina Gershon, Jennifer Tilly, Gina Gershon, and Jennifer Tilly.
Oh. Well my ice cream is melting. So more next week.
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Some weeks ago Rebecca told me the story of her her mother's pubic hair that she tells below. I laughed so hard, I had tears in my eyes. Ever since, I have been badgering/begging her to write about pubic hair. At last, she has. Nobody could do it better.
Public hair in all it glory!
My first experience with pubic hair occurred during an incident with my grandmother. She babysat the children of the neighborhood. . My sister and I helped out with the basic diaper changing, etc, etc. One of the baby girls had a long hair, discovered during a diaper change and cleaning of the area that my grandmother called "the who’s and the what's".
Odd, that pubic hair— but she was a baby. The pubic hair was a one-off; no big deal. There was no need to call in the doctors over a single hair growing in an odd spot. One should ignore such odd hairs. My grandmother eradicated it completely with the largest pair of garden shears available.
My grandmother prepared everything with a single knife, cutting meat, preparing school sandwiches, spreading butter—all with a large machete. Seriously. I think she was just a utilitarian and thought, "Why have a set of knives when you can have one?" The theory also applied to scissors. She had one pair of garden shears that she used for everything.
My next pubic hair experience was one of those unforgettable events: A "What the fuck!!" moment.
There was pool near my house when I was growing up. My grandmother would never let us go… it was a germ thing. But on one very hot day, my mother volunteered to take us.. I was rather isolated as a child. I looked forward to socializing with other children. This was going to be fun.
My mother wore—and I remember so clearly—a white low-cut one-piece bathing suit with denim "booty" shorts. It was 1977 and my mom was very sexy in that au-natural way, no make-up with the Afro and the attitude. I noticed that people noticed my mother, but I shrugged it off. I was 7 years old. I was serious about cartoons and even more serious about ice cream.
At the pool, I was in my swimsuit and my mother was taking off her shorts—and people were noticing. My black mother in a white suit—very sexy …except for what looked like a small nappy rug completely covering her entire pelvis. Her pubic hair! My mother acted as though she had not a care in the world.
Normally a situation like that would elicit a guffaw, followed by quiet that was supposed to convey ignorance of the embarrassing situation. However, we were at a pool surrounded by the neighborhood children. Everyone with the exception of the lifeguard was about crotch height—and pointing and snickering at my mother. I never managed to learn how to swim.
Even now I clearly remember standing and screaming: "What the fuck!!"
Despite my rather dubious relationship to pubic hair, it was my right of passage from adolescence to womanhood. I feel a little naked without. I don’t like it over-stylized. I prefer a contemporary take, the 1970's Helmut Newton look. I also find that, for a woman on the fleshier side of the vulva, some pubic hair can be slimming.
Lately pubic hair has been missing from the female form completely. The idea is that a woman sans pubic hair, a.k.a. "The Brazilian", is "clean" and "healthy." This is nothing new. Sugaring, a method similar to waxing and threading, has been around for centuries. From the Hamams in Morocco to the salons in Spanish Harlem, there has always been a room where these things were done. In fact, Cavemen had a hair removal system.
I am examining the role of pubic hair in forming our current cultural identity in America. The question is this: "Why is the complete removal of all pubic hair the "standard?". Are we influenced by porn or more traditional industries like beauty and fashion? Is it the of equating bare with being “clean” and “healthy”? Or does that translate also to being "young" and "virginal"?
There is still a fear of the Vagina, a "grown up" a womanly vagina with hair. The hairy vagina represents a woman, past her adolescence and quite possibly in her reproductive prime. The presence of hair could even be considered dirty to some.
This is nothing new either. In 1866 the artist Gustave Coubet. painted L’Origine du Monde—the origin of the world—and I encourage you to seek it out online. This painting of hairy female genitalia was created in a time when morals were being examined as they are now. I have seen the painting; and I am sure that it is still very shocking to some.
But folks, this is the 21st century! Has anything really changed? The fear of the sexual woman still exists. The sexual woman is either fetishized or demonized. As always I believe in choice and information, so I am not here to bitch about Brazilian Waxing. I do question these social mores that form the social standards in a society where we teach abstinence education, where we have pro-life agendas and creationist theories.
Decorate your pussy however you like but practice safe sex and support Planned Parenthood. Remember that we still have to fight for that right to be sexual.
What the fuck????
The cultural standard comes from patriarchal religious factions that are willfully ignorant. It was how our country was founded but now is the time for a "change." It is an election year and you can make a choice or the choices can be made for you.
I am telling my lovers that pubic hair in their teeth is their right of passage. The other option: I will be pulling out the Haagen Daz and licking the spoon. As you know. I am still very serious about ice cream.
Trojan is doing this campaign called "Evolve". I think it is very savvy and smart. Please go to TrojansCondoms.com to check it out and support
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