I told you too much last night. In an effort to instigate sex talk I tell you that I wrote about the incident with the air conditioner at that hotel in Hollywood, and what those moments of remembering did for me during the writing process. The sound of titillation and surprise in your voice aroused me, and maybe I let it lead you down the right path, towards this blog, and not the other that you read all the time. (I can tell. Archive whore! Are you going to continue in your obsessive way to torture yourself with my stories of ex-pat novelists and overworked attorneys as innocuous and inconsequential as they are? Thousands of miles and timezones and finger fucks away? The moment you sank those long and knowing fingers into me in Berlin, I was yours, you idiot.)
You said to me- you should start a blog- like Pussy Talk- and post your writing there, I would love to read it. Darling, what a novel idea. If you knew how spiteful and nasty I can be you might chalk it up to some unhealthy pathology, and who needs to be compared to the wife? O writes that she does not want what the wife has- the house, the ring, the dirty dishes, (the false promise of fidelity sanctified by God, adds Kitty). Fuck, I don’t want any of it either, and what I want less is to be compared with her in any respect. I want my own life, and the ability to grant you entrance into it freely, and not out of desperation, need, survival.
What I was writing about was this: again, in this heat wave, the light bouncing around the concrete surfaces of Hollywood proper, seedy and dirty and alive as it is. Humidity high enough that moisture runs down the small of my back as I drive to meet you. After our initial aggressive I-hate-you-for-being-so-far-away-for-so-long sex, I get up to adjust the air conditioner. I’m in that chemise you like so much; the one in cream and black satin, edged with the lace that contrasts so nicely with the deep golden brown that the polynesian in my skin has given me. I bend over to adjust the settings- my glasses are probably on the floor or under the bed by this point. My tangled hair slips over my shoulders.
God, this is what I like about you so much. You are patient and gentle and as truly thougtful as Arent and Heidegger ask us to be, and yet you are able to tap into this deep animalistic part of you and act on it with truth and ferocity and instinct. You see the curve of my waist, the back of my knee, the press of one thigh on the other and you move. With a creak of the bed and a barely supressed grunt you grab my hip with one hand and with the other push the fabric up over my ass, exposing its fleshy whiteness. With insistent fingers you spread me open, pushing youself into me from behind, the tip of you cock searching for its mark. I lift my cunt up to meet you, drawing you into me, clutching you from inside, taking hold of my breast to pull on my nipple and come.
I love it when you do this- so atavistically raw in your behavior I’m sent to the edge immediately. You tease me about my resistance to the slow fuck, but you deny your allegiance to the movement now, and pound me against the desk, the door, until the handle releases and the door swings open until it hits the end of the chain. You remark later about how much you would have loved to push me out onto the balcony for everyone to see what you wanted from me. As you say this I imagine what it would have been like to look over the edge of the railing, the cool metal wedged under my breasts with you at work behind me, giving the Southern conventioneers in the pool below something to remember about L.A.
