-Morning-
Birds sing.
Their chirping does not rouse
Gently
But abrasively
Because I want to be deep in dreams.
Your warmth only reaches
So far;
I have to make contact
To sate this
urge.
When our skins
Interact
It’s as if I feel you from the
Root first
To the tip.
You are so cold
In parts,
But our friction is like
The lightning strike
And our scents–
Emergent ozone.
I should have worn a bra with padding.
At this point the arousal cannot be hidden; the option to blame the temperature is always available but it’s so overused.
I don’t know how to feel about Portishead singing in French.
He keeps leaning in to me when I speak. I know the music is loud and it’s excusable in this sort of situation, but I’m still self-conscious.
Does he notice me staring at his lips as intensely as I feel I am staring at them when he speaks?
I’m at a point where I’m not drunk enough to be enjoying myself, yet if I drink more I know I’ll feel sick. He notices my lack of enthusiasm and leads me out the front door. The clack of my heels sounds muffled until my ears adjust to the noise levels outside, once they adjust, I hear the car door open. He smiles warmly and waits for me to get inside.
This time he drives with both hands on the wheel, his posturing less cool and carefree, probably because he’s had a couple drinks and is overcompensating.
It takes a lot before I feel my life is threatened in someone elses hands.
I know where this is leading, but I am not sure whether or not I want this night to end just yet. I watch my reflection in the passenger side window appear and disappear with each passing streetlight. The orange glow makes my face appear as a sort of monochrome creamsicle. Blinking allows me to not become transfixed by my own gaze.
The car comes to a stop. He gets out, but I sit frozen, wishing he’d not walk around to open my door. He does so and I climb out, stepping aside, yet keeping him from closing the door. I grab him by the jacket with one hand and slide the other hand down his pocket, retrieving his keys. I let go and crawl back into the car to slip the keys into the ignition and turn on the radio while ignoring his question: “What are you doing?”. I’m thankful the mix I made him plays; Beth Gibbons trembling, powerfully diminutive voice sings a track entitled “Humming”. I climb back out again and rest against the side of the car.
I pull myself off the car with his jacket and start to dance slowly with him. Sliding my hands under the jacket, I glide them up his taut torso. His hands fall down the sides of my arms and over my back, pausing at my waist momentarily only to fall onto the sides of my hips. I release him and lay back on the side of the car, looking at him.
Is he being cautious? I wish he’d stop following my moves.
“Are you uncomfortable?”
“No.”
He steps in toward me, pressing himself against me, pinning me against his car. My heels only give me a minor boost; my line of vision is still only level with his adam’s apple, which, in fact, might be the most beautiful adam’s apple I’ve ever laid my eyes upon.
I notice him swallow while he slides his hand under my shirt. He caresses my abdomen and I close my eyes. I think I smell a very faint sandalwood.
I slide my leg up his outer thigh and pull his midsection in closer to mine. Brushing my lips along his jaw, I grab his cheek and turn his face, making his lips meet mine. We kiss deeply. I find my breasts pressing into him, but he pushes me back onto the car. He pulls my arms behind my back and slides his hands around my hips, leaving one at my side and the other to reach further down my backside. He squeezes me and finds his way down my thigh. I moan slightly into his mouth while his hand finds its way up between my legs, finding shelter beneath my skirt.
I tense slightly, nervous of what he’ll think of the moisture already present. He had been on my mind for a while already.
I gather he enjoys it from the stiffening against my stomach. My knees begin to buckle slightly. I want him so badly. I unzip his trousers and slide my hand in to greet his firm manhood. I sigh into his mouth and tell him my knees are growing weak.
He lifts me up around his waist, still pressing me against the car. Keeping him within my grasp, I push my underwear to the side and guide him toward the epicenter of my dampness. He thrusts himself within me somewhat easily thanks to my slick entrance.
The excitement of the situation doesn’t allow for either of us to last long within the throes of such passion, which is convenient considering our location. Neither of us noticed if anyone saw us. Fortunately for us, no one complained.
dbjkfbjkdfj
That’s the best way to describe how I feel right now upon reading this news: Natalie Portman is bisexual.
I’m squealing with glee. Now all I need is to have Natalie visit Tampa, run into me, and choreograph it so that her quim lands precisely over my mouth. Then she will obviously realize what she’d been missing in life.
I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.
Now I just want to hear Eva Green and Christian Bale going the bi route, then I will know there is still hope for us.
My day was just made a little brighter. I can now fantasize about a Nat Portman+Christian Bale love tryst without it being completely fantastical.
Note: I couldn’t stand Natalie Portman until I watched her play “Sam” in the film Garden State. Even then I liked her mostly because she reminded me of me. I really became enamoured after seeing V for Vendetta and Closer. And her working with Gary Oldman makes her worthy of my envy.
In school:
My professor took an eternity on “Sveta’s” presentation so now I will have to wait to present mine tomorrow. But after the Portman news, I think I might include her into the presentation. When I get to the part where I described Christian Bale as moi moosh (my husband), I will then add Nat as my mistress! bwahahaha
Moi dedushka = Einstein
Maya babushka = Gertrude Stein
Moi Papochka = Ozzy Osbourne
Maya Matb = absent
Moi Dyadya = Stephen Colbert
Moi bratb = Brad Pitt
Maya cectra = Angelina Jolie (incestuous clan, I have)
Maya cobaka = Nina the shih tzu!
Maya machina = 1979 Chevrolet Chevelle
Moi moosh = Christian Bale (On Xorosh b posteli *chortle*)
(I’m hoping my professor chuckles at the last part about him being good in bed.)
I <3 wordpress’ blog stats.
I was particularly amused by the search engine terms used to find one of my blog entries: “rubbing crotch video”. So, someone out there is searching for ‘rubbing crotch videos’ and I find this very amusing.
Let’s take a moment and visualize what sort of person would run a search for ‘rubbing crotch video’, shall we?
…Think…
Seriously, imagine a figure and bring the figure to life with a cacophony of colorful adjectives, please.
If so inclined, leave it as a comment.
If you want me to like you leave it as a comment.
If you’d like me to fantasize about having your babies leave it as a comment.
If you’d like me to manifest the proper member to impregnate you leave it as a comment.
If you’d like to see me disintegrate in a vat of acid leave it as a comment.
In other words, I’d like to see some participation. Also, I’d like you to do it before reading mine so I don’t contaminate your thoughts with my own!
Okay, here’s mine:
It’s male, because I consider males to be far more depraved and corrupt and more likely to type something like ‘rubbing crotch video’ in a search engine (as opposed to the wholesome and virtuous female 
)
I would imagine him in his 30′s and definitely single. He’s got what I kindly call ‘cul-de-sac’ head, which refers to the receding hairline of men (Think Hunter S. Thompson). He also sweats profusely, is unkempt, and lives in his mother’s basement in a small town somewhere in the bible belt of the US.
This man is a machinist with a severed thumb and last copulated with a female in his late 20′s (when the receding hairline was only minor and the thumb was more than a knub) after deciding to go to a bar with some work buddies. They were both fairly drunk and she was rebounding from a 4 year relationship. She was homely, which was par, but of course appeared more comely with each imbibed drink. She asked if she could go back to his place, but he said his roommate had guests over, being too ashamed to admit he still lived with his mother. So they walked to her apartment and fumbled inside, sloppily kissing and groping one another. He flipped the light switch and she immediately flipped it off. Casanova tripped, knocked her down and they decided the hallway would be the best place to commence this act of drunken fornication. Neither of them had condoms and in their drunken and excited stupor, decided it best to fuck without protection. The coitus lasted all of 2 minutes and Casanova passed out without even pulling out, not noticing she’d already been asleep for at least one-third of the act. She awoke 4 hours later and pushed him off her with pure repugnance. He eventually awoke, zipped his pants, realized she’d already gone, and he left for home.
The following week he discovered something quite disturbing and to this day still resents her for never warning him of her unsightly case of herpes. He regularly reenacts the moment they entered her apartment in his head and demands the lights stay on. He’s a hermit and spends most of his time in the basement playing video games and perusing porn sites when not running searches on ‘crotch rubbing videos’.
This man will commit suicide before reaching 40 by way of hanging. Song most likely to be randomly playing on the radio during his suicide? Ironically, (I’ve Had) The Time of My Life by Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes from the soundtrack to his favorite film: Dirty Dancing.
I’ve been thoroughly entertained.
What stereotype can YOU come up with and how detailed can you get?
Thank you and good day.
