Tale of Two Sisters

healing

This morning, I awoke with the dawn. I felt the soft, warm sunlight dancing over my exquisitely sculpted cheekbones and perfectly placed freckles; I enjoyed my body embraced by the luminous sunlight. I flirted once with the idea of naming my freckles, but then I got distracted. Maybe I will one day. Being temporarily distracted is my specialty, and this morning was no exception. For a split second, I forgot about you, and basked in the rays of sun…and then reality set back in, and I realized that it was not you snoring softly beside me; it was Hobbes.  Again, two weeks after our two weeks, I was crushed. I felt my world come crashing to a halt.

I packed up my powerbook and Hobbes and headed over to The Grove to try and get my mind off things. Writing would help. Coffee would help. Three pounds of Bodega Chocolate would help. I wished I could go to Magnolia with Steph, the two of us indulging in soul-soothing cupcakes the way we always used to.  A tear slid down my creamy cheek.

I stopped at Coffee Bean on the way there, and as I was getting out of the CLK, my blackberry shrilled a familiar, warm ring. Avril Lavigne. An email. From Steph.

I know how you woke up this morning, pathetic and depressed and weepy. I understand how you feel sweetheart, I really do, but it's been three weeks, and it's time to move on. At this point you know what you need to do.

Get under another man. It's the only way.

Dazed, I opened the door of CB, plunging into the familiar, dark brown aroma, trying to dispel my disbelief. What had Steph just written to me? She can be so harsh, so cold. She doesn't understand. You were my world, and you discarded me like a cheap Fendi knockoff.

I stood in line, waiting to order enough coffee and coconut cake to feed all my fans (and I have a lot of fans), when fate brushed the seat of my True Religion jeans.  I spun and stared.  He was standing there, smiling apologetically, holding his wallet.  It was fat with bills.  I wanted to ask him what he did for a living, but you don't ask perfect strangers questions like that, especially at the Coffee Bean on a traumatic morning, with heartbreak on your sleeve like blood from a fresh wound.  I didn't want to seem needy or desperate, so I turned around, gazed hungrily at the menu, plotting my next move.  His wallet was so fat.

I ordered, then stepped to the left.  He shuffled up, now standing next to me.  Our heads turned to each other as if our eyes were magnets, and our gazes locked for a precious second.  He was older, metallic-haired, with deep lines sketched across his face.  I looked down, and he knew I was really looking sideways at him.  I could sense his smile.  Then I noticed his wedding ring, and laughed.
    "What?" His voice was scratchy and a little quavery.  He was nervous.  I knew he liked me.
    "You're married."
    "So?"
    "So you were flirting with me."
    He laughed. "Listen, Red, I haven't said a word to you."
    "I can feel it. You want me."
    He hesitated, fumbled with his cane a little, looked at his wallet. "How much?"

Then my mountain of cake arrived, and when I looked back, he was gone.  Sighing softly, I picked up my delicious burden and struggled out the door.  When I got to my car, he was leaning on it, breathing heavily from his trip across the street. Waiting, watching the door I came through.  Waiting for me. He wanted me.  I was on the long, twisting road to recovery; Steph would be proud of this first step.  I smiled as I opened the passenger door, gingerly helped him into his seat.  I was going to sleep with a married man.  A man who had options, who was weighing his conscience against sweet temptation the way I had weighed my morals against his wallet, but who, at the end of the day, knew a good bargain when he saw one.

mid-insertion crisis

Last night, I invited my chiclets over to my Upper East Side apartment for one of our famous martinis-and-masturbation sessions.  We lounged on Jonathan Adler furniture in strategically elongated positions, nibbled on sushi, and compared our numbers.  I'm not talking caloric intake, our Hot or Not scores, or the number of Hermes scarves we wanted to own by age thirty.  I'm talking lovers, phuck buddies, one night stands.  The odd bathroom rendezvous at a club opening.

My sister worries about her number like she worries about her weight, chewing away her manicure at three am, nerves frayed like split ends.  She drunk-dials her ex-boyfriends: "Keep me company tonight, I'm alone, aching."  What she means is, of course: "Keep my mouth busy so I won't think about freshly microwaved Krispy Kreme donuts dripping with sugary satisfaction."  Annie would sooner taste the familiarity of a formerly-loved penis than a strange, possibly uncircumsized one.  She rationalizes: "It doesn't count if he's already spent days stretching my rosebud, does it? What's one more assphucking?"

I don't care enough to memorize my number; shiite, I can't even count that high.  I've opened slender, freshly-waxed legs for men I phucked once or twice in the meat packing district, thinking it was safe without regard to how many of my friends they've slept with in the meantime.  It was never done just to see if I still have it, and I'm absolutely positive those MILSM (men I let sodomize me) care about me just as deeply as I care about them, but it still seems a tad risqué.

Because so many of my exes are still in my little black genuine crocodile leather book, they will all be hereafter referred to as MILSMs.  It's also because I'm tired of sending the same reply message to all those is-that-anal-sxe-post-about-me? emails. "No, it's about me. What else could it be about?"  I'm no stuck-up JAP, clearly, but now is not the time for bathroom lovers to start thinking they're phuck buddies.

self-lust

I have a beautiful rosebud. It's pink and puckered and perfectly rounded, a tender ring of flesh nestled softly between my smooth asscheeks. My self-lust is so strong, sometimes it masquerades as constipation; I can feel it there, hard and aching. I stand with my back to the mirror and look over my bare shoulder. I like watching the hole twitch and pulse with pleasure. I inhale my odor, warm and pungent. The strawberry lube wears away, mingling with my own sweet juices. I am sxeually attracted to myself, to my asshole and its odor, the way I clench and itch. Usually, nothing turns me on like the sight of my gorgeous asshole peeping out from between those creamy cheeks; amazingly, however, that alone can't always do it for me. On these (extremely) rare occasions, I conjure up images to help me along. Recently I've been visualizing a large black dildo pressed between my buttocks. I can't see the dildo; I only feel the cool rubber and the hard, lifelike ridges below the smooth head. I fantasize about being crammed, repeatedly, and begging for mercy.

Nothing gets my juices flowing as much as the thought of a man taking what he wants. That giant dildo feels strong, aggressive, and upon a little backwards wriggling, even intrusive. I can escape, even as I write this, eyes closed and asshole open, in the blissful vision of a man with his brawny arms around my slender waist, his hands pulling my hips towards his groin. He doesn't just want to fuck me in the ass; he thinks it's beautiful, and wants to fully explore it. Only a real man, one with lube and anal fixation, fucks like that. And I’m afraid lube and anal fixation have way too much mental airspace in my head.

Don't get me wrong; vaginal is fine. Vaginal is slow and steady and usually wins the race. Vaginal is never completely fabulous. I'm admitting it shamelessly: I worship my lube and anal fixation. I gravitate towards anal sxe. That sweet, lovely asshole of mine practically makes my decisions for me. Sometimes it makes impractical ones, makes me want to wear a Gucci mini and leave the thong at home when I go grocery shopping. It makes me reach for the greek yogurt on the very bottom shelf, so I bend over slowly, tantalizing the shy restocking boy and scandalizing all those jealous, pear-shaped women. I don’t know how to get over the magnificence of my asshole. Maybe I need to go sxe shopping, buy a vibrator for my lonely clit. I can unfixate myself. I can.

Okay, I can’t. I’m stuck all day with my fingers in my rosebud, my back stiff from leaning over the bathroom counter, neck sore from watching myself in the mirror behind me, the pink spasms of my asshole as I climax over and over again. Maybe I do need a man. My fingers don’t ever reach all the way to that sweet spot.

I wonder if I’ve ever really loved a man for his personality. I weigh his wallet and the way he treats my flower, and if I'm satisfied there, I slide right into “I love you” faster than a dildo into a lube-coated hole. I've forgotten what it's like to really truly just like someone, regardless of their penis size or favorite flavor of lube.

Perhaps the only way I'll slide into real love is to slide into "like" first, but that's so... vanilla. It's right up there with vaginal. And, as you know, I prefer chocolate.

whirlwind

I don't believe in love at first sight. It's a cliché, a desperate wish. Women who believe in such urban legends are all surface. I'm much more. Men who fall in love with me need time to reach past the fabulous exterior. Time spent sounding the depths of my personality, listening to me talk about myself. My favorite things. My not-so-favorite memories.

Love on a first date is another story, one interspersed with blushing glances over plates of pink ginger salmon tartare with steamed watercress and sesame oil. Your hand grazing mine, lingering hesitant. Diffused heat prickling my skin under the freckles. Unspoken knowing.

I had felt traces of this connection from the moment you slid into a neighboring stool at the martini bar. Words slipped out of your mouth like green olives, smooth and glossy with gin. "Hey, Red." Friday night and we were both alone, drinking. "Make it dirty. On second thought, make it filthy." You were talking about more than martinis. I could feel the spark, and I knew it had absolutely nothing to do with how soused we both were. It was lust and passion, yet somehow, more than just sxe. Suddenly I understood what they meant by "whirlwind romance". I felt dizzy already.

We exchanged names and blog addresses. You slurred, "When can I see you again?" I seized my opportunity: "Tomorrow night. Dinner." I named the most expensive restaurant I could think of, with no intention of picking up the tab. Call me selfish or a bitch (you won't be the first) but it's my favourite first-date test. A man who won't pay for the first dinner won't run fifteen blocks to the twenty-four-hour drugstore that carries my favorite brand of facial tissue because I'm crying about fat camp at four in the morning, either. I don't want to waste my time.

Luckily you passed the test with flying colors. Actually, it was only one color: green. As you pulled crisp, beautiful hundred-dollar bills out of your Italian leather wallet, I felt the unmistakable stirring of emotion. I felt tender beneath my still-tough facade. I wanted you to be there for me, always.

You sat quiet as I talked, your expression one of deep thought. When your eyes closed I knew you were imagining us together, cuddling naked in the velvety dark or taking long walks with Hobbes in the rosy morning. I could picture you at my door, smiling proudly with your hands full of small boxes, robin's egg blue with white ribbons.

Finally, you yawned, a clear signal -- it was getting late. On the cab ride to my apartment you came to life. You leaned in closer and kissed me, your lips hard and insistent. I surrendered as you moved in, your eager hands leaving a trail of dewy sweat up my inner thigh. My sweet moans filled the cab, but the driver didn't mind; you tipped him a twenty.

When I woke up this morning there was a swirl of cotton in the place you fell asleep last night, right after I finished blowing you. You must have had to go to work early - very early; it was five a.m. It was sweet of you not to wake me up when you left, but I wish you had. I forgot to give you my number last night, and you forgot to leave me yours. Still, neither of us could forget the unique beauty of what we shared. And I know you'll find me again, because when you fall in love on a first date, none of the usual rules apply. You don't need to call me. You'll show up on my doorstep one day, hands filled with blue and platinum, hoping to surprise me. But I won't be surprised at all.

being a lady

I have to admit, Steph had to convince me to be in on this blog. I was fairly reluctant about posting intimate details about my life on the internet, but she assured me that everything would be fine, and that people would love us (unlike that whole devastating sorority mess at NYU). And you do! You really do! Thank you all so much for the lovely notes and comments you have been leaving. Your support and love means so much to us, especially since we are having such a hard time right now, being so far apart from eachother.

I think that Steph is a little more traumatized by the whole fat camp/former fattie thing than I am. I sort of take it in stride now, whereas she never shuts up about it. It’s almost like a broken record sometimes…but it’s one of her quirks that is just so adorable, you know? I love you, Sissy! It’s also safe to say that I have my yo-yo under control a teensy-weensy more than she does. And by yo-yo, I mean my weight. She fluctuates a little more than I do, mainly because she just can’t seem to grasp the brilliant method I have down for contolling my weight: yogurt.

That’s right, yogurt. Specifically, smooth, creamy, deliciously tart yogurt. I refuse to eat anything else for breakfast. Every morning I wake up, slip out of my Dior nightie and into the steamy embrace of my shower. Then I wrap myself in a silky, fluffy, high-thread-count towel and head to my kitchen. In my stainless steel refrigerator there is a shelf filled with neat rows of small, gleaming white plastic containers. Strawberry Kiwi, French Vanilla, Mocha Latte, Key Lime, Apricot Mango, White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake: flavors as unique and delightful as I am. I choose one and peel back the top, exposing the shiny underside. Like the proverbial silver lining in every cloud, the seal reminds me to look on the bright side. I smile as I dip my gold-plated spoon into the container, and watch it emerge, dripping with thick white goodness. I trace the spoon's contours with my tongue, gently teasing, before I lick it clean. Delicious.

All that sweet fat-free yogurt keeps me in the fabulous shape I am in now, as well as having some extraordinary side effects, my favorite being that you don’t poop anymore. I don’t like pooping; futhermore, hot chicks really shouldn’t poop. EVER. It’s a disgusting bodily function that should never be performed by any beautiful woman who wants to be socially accepted. And you know what else? It makes my passion for back door action so much more enjoyable, and so much less embarrassing. I mean, who wants to deal with the awkward grossness of dealing with – quel horreur! – poop after a a fantastic session of anal sxe? Certainly not I.

I remember the day I discovered another use for yogurt. I was wearing cashmere, so it had to be winter. In a rush to get to work, I had skipped my shower that morning. My hair was piled messily on my head; my makeup was half-done. As I waited for my colleague Erin to meet me for lunch in the cafeteria, I unzipped my purse and pulled out three yogurts. Lemon chiffon, butterscotch, pina colada. Two too many choices. I was tired from my previous night's activities, and the labels blurred in front of me.

I don't remember how he introduced himself, or what I said in response. Maybe something about my yogurt; I'm not sure. All I know is that we ended up licking each other's creamy leftovers from the same spoon. Butterscotch, I think it was.

Erin arrived and the focus shifted, became less intense. Light banter replaced flirtatious dialogue. The yogurt kept coming. When Erin left, he said "I hope you're not going back to work, too. I want to keep talking." I said, "I won't leave", and he understood my deeper meaning. "Come back to my office, it's not as cold in there." We were, after all, in an airconditioned office, and I was, after all shivering. Okay, let's face it, had I been warmer than a bowl of chili on a hot stove, I would have feigned hypothermia to follow this man back to his corner office.

He's standing in front of his chair, I'm bent over the desk, facing him. He has a lovely view of my cleavage. I'm saying, "I'm a lady, you know. I'm not have sxe with you." When a lady says this, she means vaginal intercourse. Everything else is permissible; he knows this, and opens his desk drawer, pulling out a bottle of Astroglide. Ewww. Somehow, Astroglide just signals all the wrong things. He shook it and watched, frustrated, as a smattering of drops landed on his desk. "Damn, I'm out."

I left the room and returned with my spare yogurt, the French Vanilla I always kept a spare in my cubicle.

CENSORED: THIS PART OF MY STORY IS TOO DIRTY TO PUBLISH. IT'S AKIN TO A DELETED SCENE, ONE THAT WAS TOO DIRTY FOR THE "GIRLS GONE WILD: ANAL EDITION" DVD.

Afterwards we lay naked and sprawled out on his antique chaise lounge. We talked about everything, and this part I recall clearly, the details lodged in my memory forever like bits of licorice in teeth. Before I knew it, it was early morning and the sunlight was making kaleidoscope patterns across our bodies and the mess on the floor. "Wow", I say, gingerly walking across the floor. Our clothes are everywhere, like dirty dishes, and then I see the empty container of creamy white French Vanilla yogurt.

"Yeah, it's a great view, isn't it?" He's looking out the corner window. I stood naked, dazed and confused. At least it wasn't Wildberry; that stuff is impossible to get out of carpet.