baserinstincts

The Brush

I was on my way to work.

I’d taken the long way so that I could enjoy a few extra minutes outside as the weather was nice.

Now, I walk quickly. And there are few things I detest more than being stuck behind slow ass people.

I was coming up on a group of school kids loitering on the sidewalk. There was a narrow strip of concrete between them through which one could walk.

No problem. Two decades of living in New York City have made me an absolute pro at effortlessly navigating tight, crowded spots without so much as breaking my stride.

There was a man walking in the opposite direction, toward me.

I glanced at him. He wasn’t very tall, only somewhat taller than me. He was muscular. He wore a t shirt and some jeans. Well built, sexy. Black. Bald. Only passing observations.

We hit the crowd of teenagers at about the same time.

I did not slow down and neither did he. There wasn’t enough room for the both of us to walk through them side by side.

I turned sideways and kept walking. He did the same.

We grazed one another as we passed through the crowd, my nipples brushing roughly against his chest. They stiffened and immediately I felt tingly between the legs.

I didn’t slow down, didn’t turn back to look at him.

But it had me going crazy the entire day.

Hooker Boots

hooker boots (n) -

definition from Urban Dictionary

You just can’t fuck with me when I have my hooker boots on.

Knee high, inky black, smooth leather.

With corset lacing up the back of the calf. Lacing that says “watch me as I walk away”. Laces that say “unlace me, undress me”.

3 and a half inch stiletto heels. You had better get out of my way when I have my hooker boots on. I just might trample all over you, although it would be the sweetest agony you’d ever experience.

Every woman has a pair. Or she should at least.

Hooker boots.

When I need to be reassured, when I need to be reminded of my power, of just how fly I really am, I put on my hooker boots.

My thighs, not at all slight to be sure but very well defined, are even more so in my hooker boots. When paired with some  naughty fishnets, my legs take on a new life. Legs, thighs that men and some women to would love to lie between.

I walk slower.

I stand taller.

I look my would be suitors straight in the eye, a look that says “you wish”.

You just can’t fuck with me when I have my hooker boots on.

My hips, full, round sway just that much more when I walk in my hooker boots.

In my hooker boots, I don’t just get the ordinary cat calls.

No.

They take one look, mesmerized by my strut, my swagger, the work of art that is my walk while wearing my hooker boots, and they fall in love.

They want to posess me.

Those unfortunate enough to have tried will tell you I’m not a woman who will ever truly be possessed.

But they try.

And stare at my boots as I walk away.

Alone but Not Lonely

Alone (adj.) - 1. Being apart from others; solitary.
2. Being without anyone or anything else; only

Lonely (adj.) - 1. Without companions; lone
2. Dejected by the awareness of being alone

(definitions taken from The Free Dictionary)

I began to think about this when a guy friend at work suggested I get a new boyfriend.

I was all but disgusted by the suggestion.

I’ve been enjoying my freedom and independence so much since the aftermath of the-breakup-that-took-way-too-long-to-happen.

My coworker mentioned something about me wanting to be lonely and that he couldn’t understand why.

After this, I firmly corrected him.

“I am alone,” I say. “But never lonely.”

He was thinking of the situation in overly simplistic terms, a flaw that unfortunately ails most men. He deduced, logically yet incorrectly, that if I didn’t have someone in my life then it could only follow that I was lonely.

I broke it down to him like this.

Loneliness occurs when you feel the absence of Other.

Aloneness occurs when you feel the presence of Self.

Penis Envy

I was reading this post over on Funky Brown last week and it got me to thinking.

Is that all men have to complain about?

Inopportune erections?

I’ll do you one better. In fact, I’ll do you three better.

Junior High, 7th grade -  I was on my period. I think I was the last of my friends to get it. I hadn’t even  even heard the phrase “Always with Wings” yet. So my friends and I are in the pizza shop during our lunch break. The period was particularly heavy and my tampon, unbeknownst to me, was leaking something awful. When I got up to return to school, blood had soaked through my gray checked uniform skirt and onto the booth in the pizza shop. The stain was huge, but the worst part was watching one of the employees have to come behind me and clean up my blood.

High School, Junior Year -I was in gym class. One of my bra straps popped during jumping jacks (I’m a big busted woman so my girls were noticeaby lopsided after that). I was supposed to be meeting a guy after school and had to cancel my date for fear of wierding him out with my lopsided titties (I was used to men staring but I wasn’t about to give them extra reason to).

Freshman Year of College - Mr. H, hitherto the fuck of my life, had a mean cock that he wielded with deathly precision. After one particular episode I remember walking home, lost in post coital bliss, when I felt something move in my bowels, or rather, felt my bowels move.

In my pants.

How can you play something like that off? The worst part was that a very astute observer calls out to me on the street and says “Miss there’s something on the back of your pants.” I turn around and muttered that I accidentally sat in something on the bus (because what was I supposed to say…”my boyfriend fucked the shit out of me”…
literally). “Well people will find it looks bad,” she added. 

I had about seven blocks to go.

True story.

So the moral? I’d take an unsolicited woodie over any of the above incidents any day.

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Cinewhores NYC is official!

I’ve finally got it together after weeks of running around like a … well you know the saying.

Voila!

Whore! Magazine presents Cinewhores- Scandalous Sex on the Silver Screen, a monthly salon devoted to classic cinematic portrayals of sex, money, power, and the goodness in going bad (hosted and curated by moi).

This month in NYC we’ll be showing Blonde Venus starring the fabulous Marlene Dietrich as Helen Faraday.

Helen Faraday is a nightclub singer turned housewife, but when her husband needs money to have a life-saving operation, she decides to resume her career as a singer to raise money, she undergoes a chain of events that separate her from her husband and force her to make a choice between her lucrative singing career, and her role as a wife and mother.

Suggested donation is 5 to 20 dollars and the money goes to benefit various women’s organizations.

Free popcorn!

Hey, If it Works for Fruit Flies…

What? Now you can turn “gay” fruit flies “straight”?

I’m not sure why anyone would even bother to do a study like this, especially on fruit flies but I will say this.

Maybe then there’s hope for all the women who’ve ever had a hopeless crush on a gay man and have tried unsuccessfully to “turn” him.

I’m being facetious of course.

I suspect that making any gay man suddenly straight will make him much less charming and spoil whatever it is I love so much about them.

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