Viewing the local antiquities

"No Viagra!" 

"I know."


"You are not—Here." She puts her hand to her neck.

The gift of water 

With ten minutes left, Ming's round face peeks out from under the clear shower cap that keeps her hair dry, dry for the next client. I soap her shoulders, breasts, belly, thighs: Washing her clean from our juices, clean for the next client, clean as the enamel of the hotel tub.

Kneeling, I soap her stiff twisty bush, the plump lips of her twat warm now in the showerspray, but cold when the lube met my fingertips as I started to stroke her. She was on all fours above me; I had my knees up and my legs spread, while she had her head down working my crotch:

Gliding warmth as she curled her tongue round my balls: kissed the wrinkled skin of my bag, liptugged the matted hair: using the same lips I'd later kiss: using the same tongue I'd later French:

She babied my balls, sweetly lapping and sucking: contouring them, cupping them, taking them into her mouth: as gently as if she were carrying eggs. Warmed and wetted, they loosen, hang low in their sack: She presses the tip of her tongue inward between them, finds the sweet hairless spot where I can feel her catlike roughness.

Her slit smiled before me flushed from my stroking but I only lipsmacked, licked, nibbled one cheek, then the other: then pushed her cheeks forward:

And she moved her head, and her tongue, further down. I swung my legs into the air and locked them round her back.

Kneeling, I soap the little saddlebags of Ming's cheeks, shaped so like Lan's. "In you go," Lan would have said, using her cozy voice.

Lan's skin was pale gold, though she called it "yellow." We brush our teeth at the sink in the morning, the mirror still steamy. Being so much taller, I stand behind her and caress the nape of her neck, her shoulders, back: but with my eyes only.

"Hirsute," Lan said her sister had called her, which I thought, then, merely, meant "hairy." That sister:

"17 grey hairs. My sister counted them."

That sister again, who had given her the front-opening brassiere in green (not her color) we'd cheerfully opened and stripped off last night.

The shower beats on my back; I've got my eyes scrunched shut against the soap and the steam and the spray but I sneak a look through my lashes, down at Lan's 32Bs.

Jaw set, lips compressed, Lan peers up at the work to be done: She scrubs hard as if she were cleaning the kitchen tile: Soaping and rubbing my armpits, chest, belly, thighs: She kneels into the spray: I brace myself and lift a foot, as if I were a horse lifting a hoof for the groom. She washes my sole, my heel, my toes:

Her hair, cut straight across her forehead, so carefully glossy, dry, will have gone dull now that she's gotten it wet; there's nothing like conditioner in my bachelor apartment.

Her hands stroke volume into my flesh, as a painter's brush strokes color into the canvas.

Behind the sliding glass shower doors, the world floats fresh and clean and new.

When we were very young, our father told us stories in our bath: Steadying my head with one hand, his other hand, cupped, pours water over my hair: A cascading life mask that flickers and vanishes.

For those of who remember the '70s 

The highly slack [ahem] Trojan "X-Rated [ahem] Box Set is a must-have.

Shrewish girls just in from the country, lubricious DJs, cheesy sound effects, Rastafarian patois, the almost-sound of fireflies in the studio yard in the hot still night, and those thick and gummy bass lines—it's all here, just like you remember it—except much, much dirtier. The heavy beats will let you know where you are coming from and going to.

The lyrics are even better than the moaning and groaning. There are so many to choose from: Stranger and Gladdy's How your panty get wet? ("I was watering my garden! You can ask mama..."); Lloydie and the Lowbites' massively tight Fatty, Fatty ("Work it whichever way you want to, whoa-ah Fatty..."). But my lyrical favorite is Matador and Fay's novelty item Grand National:

We are back at the Grand National Sex Park, and this is the rundown of the horses: 1. Jockey Shorts, 2. Big Dick, 6. Legs Wide Apart, 7. Silk Panty, 8. Miss Brassiere, 9. Kotex Rubber, 3. Sweet Water, and 9. A Pregnant Woman.

And they're off to a wonderful start! Jockey Shorts is off in a rush,
followed by Silk Panty, and Big Dick in the middle of the track ...

But I don't want to give away the climax.

Seen!

Friday pussy blogging 

I have a sentimental attachment to the blog for which Laura writes, "I am yellow (curious)"—it was one of the very first sex blogs I read. Here she is:

i *heart* my cunt:

i am a slave to my cunt. well, that's not entirely accurate. but it's fair to say that my pussy seems to pervade most of the things i say and do. it hovers over most of my actions; it colors most of my thoughts; i feel as if i am driven to serve its needs and desires, sometimes to my detriment. don't get me wrong, i love my pussy with all my heart. but sometimes, it gets in the way of important and pressing matters—like paying the bills, avoiding arrest, and staying honest and committed. how many times have i gotten myself into a pickle because i let my pussy do the thinking?

i've bought shit i had no business buying simply because my pussy demanded it. for kicks and thrills, i bought dirk a platinum blonde wig to wear. never mind that i hadn't the money to pay for it—my pussy wanted dirk in a blonde wig, so i voluntarily committed myself to economic bondage by charging it. fuck the future, my pussy seemed to be saying, it's all about the now! and like the willing slave i was, i bowed to my pussy's wishes. i offered no resistance.

my pussy has a thing for jailbait. i meet many adorable and sexy boys who enjoy flirting with me and seeing me during my lunch hour. though my cunt is no benevolent despot, it's not always the unthinking hedonist either. instinctively, my cunt realizes that if i partake and get caught, my days of getting laid are over (and no, getting raped by prison guards who are 40 years removed from the golden dewiness of their adolescence doesn't count). so it allows me to admire from afar and fantasize to my heart's content. it knows enough not to ruin the delicate balance of cost and reward. it knows i need to function at a reasonable level in order for it to continue its existence—after all, any good parasite knows that it's foolhardy to kill its host. you just don't kill your bread and butter if you know what's good for you.

sometimes, my cunt will ignore its self-protective instincts and will try to compel me to do its bidding—no matter how potentially embarassing the consequences. it was during these rare moments that i found the gumption to resist its whims—i held fast in my conviction that i wasn't going to shoplift that playgirl magazine from the local barnes & noble, no matter how sure i was that no one was looking.

my pussy can get greedy. i have violated a sacred trust with my closet polyamorism in the past. it wants access to more than just one cock. my pussy's philosophy on cocks can be summed up quite nicely by ex-senator phil gramm's quote on guns: "i have more guns dicks than i need, but less than i want."

despite the trials and tribulations that my cunt subjects me to, i wouldn't trade my pussy for a cock, no matter what.

unless. of course, it involves squatting in a port-a-potty.

[All rights retained by Laura the tooth.]




NEXT WEEK Pagan Moss. Antiquarians, if you'd like to guest post about pussy drop me a line.

LAST WEEK Melissa Moon.

FRIDAY PUSSY BLOGGERS Eden, Freya Brett and Hiromi, Pagan Moss, and the ever-informative DirtyTalkingGirl (from last week, actually. Unaccountably, I missed her), and Prospero (from last week, again. I'm thinking Angel being out of town affected me more than I thought).

Quickly, I reach down my right hand and wipe the lube and her cuntal juice off on the sheet, keeping my torso vertical so, while she waits, head down, she isn't disturbed by the action:

before grasping her cheeks:

mounting her—