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Thursday, Mar. 17, 2005 - 9:53 a.m.

~ romance is alive and kicking in Queerville, USA ~

Spontaneity and variety in bed can be overrated. Trust me on this.

Not that the occasional out-of-the-blue slap-and-tickle isn't fun. New fuck buddies are always fun -- lots to show and tell, learn and teach. And heaven knows, if you're going to pull a new vibrator out of your hat with a magician's flourish, I'm the girl volunteering to be cut in half by that buzzing toy.

But, a well-scheduled tried-and-true screw can be sexier than any zipless fuck Erica Jong could ever dream up. I think it just takes someone able to squint past the everyday blah and the no-nonsense verbal intercourse until the real seduction and growled whispers blur into sharp focus.

Instead of strewing rose petals in a scented pathway from a clawfooted bathtub brimming with creamy iridescent bubbles to a four-postered bed heaped with satin flounces, Mr. Man pops in to interrupt me while I'm playing Cribbage online. "Uh-huh, uh-huh, it's booty night, ohhhh, what a's booty night!" He does the white man overbite two-step while I make another fifteen-two. "You might want to set up the bed and clean anything you think might need cleaning." And Mr. Man two-steps out of there, hand-jiving and head-bopping.

That's my cue to immediately stop playing to get ready. So, after playing for another ten minutes -- fifteen two, fifteen-four, a pair for six and a run for 12, lucky in cards as well as lucky in love am I! -- I hustle to get ready for my plaid-clad Valentino.

The bed gets stripped back to only the fitted sheet. The bed husbands who never get conjugal visits, our huggable blankey pillows, our silly surplus regular pillows and the pillow I like to wedge between my knees when I'm sleeping on my side all get stacked Jenga-like on a chair. Our trick towels are in the eight-gallon Rubbermaid beneath his side of the bed, folded neatly atop a find from the local discount sex toy franchise. I'm fairly certain Family Dollar did not intend for their vast selection of housewares to be scoured by sicko sexaholics in search of pervertibles, but, hell, what better way to keep your bed pristine post-coitally than by laying down a nice, crinkly plastic-backed tablecloth that cost all of a buck? No after-fuck dozing in a puddle of ewwww for me, thank you very much.

With the tablecloth smoothed out -- plastic-side up -- I spread out two standard white towels across it for comfort and absorbency. I never lay them quite right, but I know Mr. Man will patiently adjust them later, asking me to scoot up my tush while his hands risk death to dart beneath me to twitch the towels into position. Maybe that's why I never can seem to get them quite right. Hmmm.

The creak of floorboards beyond the bedroom door spurs me into overdrive and I grab up a pillow to plop at the head of the bed. I scoop the stack of folded laundry I should've put away before even sitting down at the computer into my arms and dive into the walk-in closet. I can hear Mr. Man clucking as he surveys the half-finished seduction scene, but he just gathers up what he needs and leaves again. I shove the laundry onto a shelf and dig through my bureaus for some frilly frippery. Whatever I wear in bed needs to be washable and non-binding while offering easy access to all my...juicy bits. I yank off my housedress -- what Mr. Man refers to as my dustrag-cum-bib and I fondly think of as my shmata -- and replace it with the first naughty nightie I could find.

"Don't look, don't look, don't look," I chant as I skitter past Mr. Man at the bathroom sink where he is warming his tools of the trade. I give myself a whore's bath already thinking appropriately whorish thoughts and hie my tail back to our bedroom. Tall Jesus candles, my favorite because they are cheap and unscented, cast a heavenly glow as I arrange them safely far from anywhere a clutching hand or abruptly out-thrust foot might reach and spatter out some Crayola-hued wax. I withdraw the big machine from its trick towel shroud and lay it next to the pillow, clicking it on briefly to hear its reassuring airplane droning hum.

My temptress' trap of allure and mystery is set to snare Mr. Man when he returns. The overhead light has been replaced by candlelight; the television, a constant companion when I'm home, is set to a music channel and Jazz Hits Of The Eighties is sending out trumpet trills. Rows of my stuffed animals watched in voyeuristic horror from shelves over my desk, unable to avert their button eyes from the debauchery they've witnessed too many times already. I am on the towel-draped bed in silky splendor, an expectant look on my face. Deftly juggling leather straps, condom, lube and cock, Mr. Man joins me on the bed and lays a hand on my chest to push me back.

This is when the real magic begins, when the music and flickering flames and smell of silicone all weave together to become the heady scent of sordid sex. The reality is so much better and wetter than the fantasy.

"Lift up." The towels get adjusted.

"Did you check the big machine?" A doublecheck, just in case. A power outtage in the next fifteen minutes would deliver a crushing blow to all libidos involved here.

"Do the thing." One day, I'll have learned my lesson and actually say, "Please," the first time around.

"Which thing?" "This thing?" "Or this thing?" "The thing where I do this thing?"

"Mr. Mannnnn....yes. THAT thing. Yesss." A moment to consider. "Thank you."

"Did that hurt?" He's a teaser, my Mr. Man.

"Oh, do that more. But not like that, like the other way. And up about half an inch."

"Are you awake?"

"MMMMhmmmmm. Just do that for one more minute or two hours."

"Uh-huh. Time for me to get some girl."

"Wait, wait! It isn't ready!" The Supremes are suddenly in bed with us as one of my hand futilely waves in a "Stop!" motion.


"Oh, THAT's a good thing. Remember THAT thing."

"I will. You tell me that everytime about the same thing."

"That leg doesn't want to be touched."

"I'm touchingggg it. I'm touchinggggg it."

"Stoppppppp." I know, I know, any minute some Brylcreemed patriarch from the fifties will pull us over and give us a reason to cry. C'mere, a little dab'll do ya.

"Here comes the club to kill the baby seals." Definitely pillow talk of the highest caliber, said as the big machine momentarily menaces Mr. Man's vulnerable head before zeroing in on its real target.

The beginning of the buzzing is Mr. Man's signal that all systems are go and the troops are on red alert. Alarms are kahooga-ing, armies are storming gates, tidal waves are thunderously crashing, sirens are wailing, widows are gnashing their teeth and tearing at their hair, metaphors are mixing, and Mr. Man, captain of all he surveys, valiantly rides the roly-poly rollercoaster beneath him. Look Ma, no hands! Because his hands are terribly busy, filling holes and twisting nipples, stroking hair and letting his palm get bitten, all while he keeps his body somehow levitating over me to avoid disturbing the big machine's delicate angle.

Heated phrases are stuttered from between my clenched teeth: "Do it, do it, d-d-d-do it, d-d-d-d-d..." and "I want, I want, I want, I want," the ever-popular, "Gimme, gimme, gimmeeeee!" followed by the "Excuse me," since gas is almost always passed when that much force is involved, with the occasional, "Don't! Don't! DO IT NOW!" roared out loudly enough that the neighbor's Shih Tzu barks in response three floors below.

Mr. Man knows the drill: The Girl gets hers before he gets his. If he is lucky, my thighs will not scissor shut, shutting him away from where he most wants to be and he'll get to rut away happily until my "Ows" start sounding sincere. He understands that I outweigh him by a solid hundred pounds and that my powerful thighs could catapult him up and away if he drops his guard and lets one of my questing feet get purchase on his ribcage. He considers himself very lucky if he hobbles away from one of our sexual encounters with nothing more than angry red scores five-wide on his neck and arms and pale, heel-shaped bruises on his back dangerously near his kidneys. Is it my fault that at the height of ecstacy, nothing seems like a better idea than to peel back Mr. Man's skin to expose the veiny workings within or hook my fingernails into the soft flesh of his neck and tug hard?

The towels, saturated with the sizeable puddle I usually make, get wadded to one side so Mr. Man can spoon me in relative dryness Sweat and lube get counted as occupational hazards while once out of my body my ejaculate is a biohazard as far as I'm concerned. After lying there underneath Mr. Man's impressive display of trapeze artistry blended with Mission Impossible technical tricks, I'm too drained to do anything but appreciate the warmth of Mr. Man's skin curled up against me, his hands wrapped around mine, his breath warm and laughing in my ear.

"One day, you're gonna kill me."

"Noooo." Consideration. "Maybe. But not on purpose."

I'm usually allotted six to eight minutes of post-coital canoodling before I'm urged to stop snoring and to go get washed up and ready to be tucked in. The bathroom seems far away when I'm staggering on unsteady legs without my glasses on. By the time my teeth are brushed and I've halfheartedly washed my makeup down to crack 'ho standards, Mr. Man has the sopping towels deposited in the hamper, the tablecloth wiped and refolded, the candles blown out, nightstand lamps clicked on, and the bedcovers pulled back up and flipped down at the corners for me with my pillows plumped and in position. I gracelessly flop into bed and dangle my feet out from beneath the blankets. Mr. Man has the lotion already warming in his palms and his long fingers work on my feet as devotedly and tirelessly as they have expertly worked on other parts of me.

Clothespins ripped from nipples and hurled across the room followed by a vehement gesture worthy of an Italian taxi driver. Lube making squelching and quooshing noises in a suction syncopation. Fingers scrabbling beneath Mr. Man's white cotton tee to get at what I want. French kisses mingling toothpaste flavors cut short to get to the "good stuff." Hitachi wands masquerading as hand puppets. Pockets of gas popping as my hands cover Mr. Man's ears and he obliging sings, "La, la, la!" Cocks trading out for fists because the hole wants more. And we must obey the hole.

Lesbian bed death, my sweet ass. This is twisted steel and sex appeal meeting sexy same-old, same-old. This is sweeping romance worthy of a Harlequin novel. This is Best Lesbian Erotica (with a new millenium trans twist tossed in) at its finest. This is true love and real sex.

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