Pussy like Blown Glass

I got up at 9 this morning, two hours after the alarm had gone off. It was too hot to run outside, so I decided on a few kilometers on the treadmill. There was a boy who entered after I did, he seemed like he really wanted to chat me up, I didn’t feel like it. I look none too fantastic when I’m running, and I had a blocked nose. Was definitely breathing like an animal. But he waited around reading the news-paper, intent on lingering until I’d finished my run. I had all the time in the world, so I decided to do a few extra minutes. He got more and more awkward. Didn’t look like the sort who could handle any amount of exercise. Skinny, pale, cute, but at this point, rather reminiscent of Colin Craven from the Secret Garden (not referring to the band).

Being mean, the moment I finally got off the treadmill (one hour after he’d come in), I made for a dash out of the gym, headphones still in my ears. He caught me though, I could have just left, but I thought it would amuse me to stay for a little chat. It was boring, I think I intimidated him, although I was very nice. Disagreed with everything he said, he didn’t seem to really know what he was talking about anyway. Started blundering and babbling about the US deficit being necessary for the greenback to continue being the internal currency. But didn’t laugh too cruelly.

And Élan’s the one saying I’m cruel now. Was having a quick drink with him after work and after some grocery shopping from the Christmas Presents I’m making for all the people I love this year. I asked him how his girls were and as expected, they were all in that state of mind where they think they’re engaged.

‘Let’s stage a little show for them. Ask them to come by and meet you, and when they walk past the café, pretend you are saying goodbye to me and you’d not seen them coming by, and snog me.’ I didn’t mean it, it’s not something I would do sober, although I must say it wouldn’t hurt me to see a guy like Élan snogging another woman. I cannot expect anything of him, neither do I find any desire in myself for a man that finds romance only in a challenge.

He’s so villainous. When I give him his season greeting tomorrow night, I’ll bring along a blind-fold, strip him to his pants and give him a hand job. He certainly does not deserve it, but he makes me want to play his excessive games. I can be as sexed up and fucked up as he. Pointless competition, but so fun. I told him I will not have a threesome with him last night. He’d called me up at 1, asking if I’d like to drop by. One of his best buddies was with him, they were both really drunk, but had Viagra lying around.

‘No. Two guys? Too much work. To please one can be an effort as it is, to do so to two guys, eh, forget it.’ They are both cute, both probably amazing in bed, but I was absolutely sure I would have had to pretend my passion.

But before that, an afternoon sojourn with a very beautiful girl. Her boy was there, and had her on a leash, her hands bound by little plastic switches I had provided. He pulls her with such violence on the leash he’d noosed around her breasts. I asked him not to; she was immensely beautiful and I didn’t wish to have her hurt. She could not be treated with such crassness, god-damnit.

I didn’t want her tied up. I wanted her hands free, to touch me.

Nervous. She must not hate me after it was all over, she was so beautiful, and so soft. Then I thought to myself, ‘what would I want, were I her. What was the one thing that made any female feel good about herself’.

You know the sort of voice people adopt in bed. The soft, monotonous (but not quite), the dreamy, sensual tone that people take into their speech when they talk in bed as they make love. Her body intoxicated me, every part of her was beautiful, she was the epitome of that Chinese Asian perfection all men would die for. Pale skin, jet black hair, a Barbie doll figure, but far more delicate. Oh of course God is not fair, but I didn’t mind it. Sometimes some women are just too beautiful to be jealous off. She was infinitely more perfect then I was, there was no doubt about that.

I told her every part of her body was completely amazing, and in a way I felt like Anais Nin in Henry and June, while she was with June.

She had the most delicate, the most amazing pussy I had ever seen, touched, tasted. But it was best appreciated by just looking. I’d never seen a minou (and hers was aptly so the paradise of all paradise) as finely made as hers. I’ve seen a few pussies, and they are all fascinating to me, and I can definitely match the pussy to the girl, with the exception of my first girlfriend. Who didn’t shave, so that was a problem. Also, I had been too frightened (boy or girl, the first encounter with the genitals of another person, regardless of gender, will always present a problem). A lot of pussies are just like very well carved up alabaster. Hers was blown glass.

We lie together in her bath, facing each other, her feet on my breasts. I love placing my feet, they are small, about a size 5, smaller perhaps, on the chest of whoever I happened to be cuddling with. I always thought that was sexy. But it was even sexier to have her feet on my breasts. Her toes squeezing them as they crawled up towards the curvature of my neck, and back down.

Women are such amazing things in bed. So, so amazing. If they are soft, and delicate, small and filled with grace. She was not a stupid air-head, for all her beauty. We sat by the little balcony after that, and talked over little sandwiches and grilled aubergine salad. Her mind is so sharp. Her personality is beyond anything I’ve ever encountered. How can someone with such astute intellect as she has be altogether so humble as she is!

I love her, I love her, I love her. I have never been in love with a woman as much as I am in love with her. Completely. And I doubt it’s the same sort of passion I find with discovering a new guy. Certainly, she is new, there’s so much I’ve yet to find out about her, but that’s just not it. She is amazing.

I pity the girls that are always trying to compete. There’s nothing I have against men, oh certainly not. But I think it’s silly to go against your own species, just because you desire the affections of someone, say, like Élan. It’s just one of those things about people that never make sense. Pretty girls are for making love to, not competing with. Because you’ll never be as pretty as they, as I’ll never be as beautiful as she is in her own way.

***

Beside the driver sits a woman. Why doesn't the man tell her something funny, why doesn't he put his hand on her knee? Instead, he's cursing the driver ahead of him for not going fast enough, and it does not occur to the woman either, to touch the driver with her hand. Mentally, she's at the wheel with him, and she's cursing too. -Milan Kundera; Slowness.

Just one of those things, indeed.

I am in love. With a few people, certainly. But that doesn't stop me from genuinely being in love. In the feeling of it, in it's presence, in it being in me. If I tried to comprehend it, I'm sure I would die.

My christmas baking is coming along very nicely, I'll stop thinking about love before I explode and get back to it. For all of you who are looking for a good, easy to follow and very felxible stollen recipe, this dude called Mick Hartley has one of my favourites. I used it last year, and an ex-lover forgave me from not returning his calls for a month.

xoxox