Hey, you! You've probably memorized all the warnings about copyrights and depictions of sex from your hours of eye-glazed erotic surfing, so there' s no need for me to repeat them. Just remember: Karma is a boomerang.
Intelligent comments appreciated, all others ignored: susan282@yahoo.com
Truthfully, I wasn't that upset when my friend Carol cancelled our Sunday afternoon in New York. We were buddies from college, and I hadn't seen her since her wedding three years ago, but she was a new mom and I suspected her mind would have been focused on nothing but the baby. I didn't want to hear cooing and crying all afternoon; I didn't want to hear any discussions of disposables versus cloth.
It was too late to change to a later flight, though, which meant I'd have an afternoon and an evening to myself before the Big Monday Morning Client Meeting. This wasn't so bad. I love New York, just like the plastic bags say, and by the time I checked into my hotel and dropped off my bags, I was ready for some exploring.
It was cold out, sure, but it was that kind of bright fall crispy cold, when you have to wear a jacket but you don't have to zip it up. I was feeling a bit lascivious -- good loving at home the night before, the thrill of anonymous travel, the decadence of an expensive hotel room all to myself -- so I figured I'd play at being a princess for the afternoon. I put on a long black wool lined skirt, a black ribbed long-sleeved t-shirt, black boots that went a bit past my ankles, black socks, black coat. Nothing else. Time to explore the city.
I made my way south to the Village, where I could wander through used bookstores and watch the beautiful people mix with the freaks and the artists and the scenesters. I stopped for a cup of tea. I read a chapter of Hemingway and snickered at his machismo. I poked through antique shops and didn't see a single thing I'd let in my door.
What I was really doing, though, was stalling. I came to Greenwich Village on a mission, and the more I prolonged it, the better it would be. I'm not a clothes horse, understand; I like natural fibers, single colors, functional fabrics. I'm jeans, not pantsuits. But I wasn't myself that day; I was playing a role, acting a part, and I was far away from home. So I stepped up into a fancy boutique like I could afford it.
The rush hit quick, like the ready-to-wear version of heroin. Within minutes I was in a smoothly-lit dressing room, stark naked in front of a full-length mirror, watching my hard nipples carve two arcs in a silky green dress as I dropped it down over my head. God, what a rush! I twisted, turned, bent, posed, watching my tits have the first word, feeling them swim in the sensation of a silk/rayon blend. It had two spaghetti straps, a tapered waist and a hem that ended a couple of inches above my knee -- though when I grabbed the sides and swung them, like I was at a dance, it rode higher and higher until I could feel my cunt seeing light from underneath the dark.
You understand.
It went on like this. I sent sales clerks on wild goose chases all afternoon, while I pretended to look again and again for just the right holiday party dress. They were black and red and even blue; they had sequins and high collars and long skirts. I'd skip from store to store, slipping from one glamorous piece to another, all the time waiting for the knock on the door from the clerk, who wanted to show me just one more glittering thing as she hoped in vain for a big commission on a $500 dress. I felt a little bad about that, true. But I was careful never to distract them from other customers who looked like they could really buy some of the things on sale, and anyway, I gave them plenty to remember me by. Another possibility? Yes, of course, let me open the door. Oh, it's okay. I had hoped for more of a rise out of them when I let them see me half-dressed, but I guess when you look like a model to begin with and you sell clothes at a pricey Manhattan boutique, you don't get all breathless about an average-looking black-haired woman in between outfits.
But I sure did. I was careful not to touch myself -- it would be so, so embarrassing, not to mention expensive, if I were to stain a dress I couldn't afford -- but my oven was heating up. Fabrics stretched across my burning nipples. My pussy playing peek-a-boo all day long. Leggy blondes watching me change. How could I not get excited?
I figured I was building up steam for a heady session with my shampoo bottle back at the hotel. Then I went into another shop, which at first looked just like all the others with its blond wood and blonde workers ... until I wandered in back. The clerk, bless her heart, left me alone -- she was too busy attending to some other blonde who was trying on one expensive outfit after another, suede skirt after hand-knitted sweater after cashmere sweater, monopolizing the store's only fitting room. I walked past the fitting room and up a few stairs to the back section, which was full of purses and shoes and half-priced summer clothes. Then I turned around and looked down.
The fitting room was below me. A piece of frosted glass was mounted there, but it was held in place by metal bolts about an inch long, leaving a gap on all sides. It looked very stylish and all, but it was a lousy way to protect the privacy of the woman in the dressing room ... who was slipping out of her suede skirt and standing there, bare-assed, wearing nothing but a purple shirt and a well-trimmed tuft of hair above her pussy.
I had been on the cusp of moisture all afternoon, so when I froze in my tracks, the only sensation I noticed was liquid pooling between my lips ... and a tremble in my knees. And my pulse shot up instantly. She bent, twisted, slipped on a leather skirt; I stared hard, reminded myself to breathe, reminded myself to continue going through the motions of shopping. There were eight purses on the rack in front of me, and for the next 10 minutes, I studied each one of them like it was made by Botticelli.
She stretched herself out between outfits, I noticed. She'd hunch over at first, then arch her back and pull herself up until she stood like a statue in front of the mirror. I studied her hard nipples, her little patch of pubic hair, her dirty blonde roots, her private shorthand of facial expressions. Outside the fitting room, she looked as haughty and unapproachable as any other New York glamour girl; inside, she seemed as vulnerable and self-critical as, say, me.
For a while, as I pretended to focus intently on patent-leather purse zippers, I wondered if she was my doppelganger, trying on fancy clothes she can't afford as a kinky distraction. Then she picked the suede skirt, the leather skirt and a fancy pink sweater and put them on her gold AmEx. So she's not me ... but I can fantasize.
Into the dressing room I went, chattering about how cute those skirts looked on her and how much I wanted to try them on. I got real naked real fast, and then waited -- waited for some other woman to discover the gap in the wall, waited for her to catch a furtive glance. I waited to put on a show for her, posing in a skirt with no top, posing in a sweater with no bottom, posing nude and giving myself a mischievous smile. When she stopped and stared, I'd start teasing myself -- rubbing the soft underside of my breasts, circling my insistent nipples, stroking the insides of my thighs ...
The fantasy had to stop there, though, because she never noticed. Two women went to the upper part of the store; neither of them so much as glanced at me. I slipped in and out of more clothes than I could even remember -- unbelievable, that I'd try on an $800 leather skirt and not even savor the moment -- until I reluctantly handed them back, put on my boring old clothes, and headed out into the dwindling light.
It was colder now, but I was burning. The last daylight was fading; the cute shops were closing, the bars were getting louder, the restaurants were setting their tables and the locals were heading home with shopping bags in their hands. I had nowhere to go, no one to report to, no place to be -- and I was feeling wanton.
I don't remember making a conscious decision to get on the subway. I don't remember really thinking about where I was going. It just seemed like the next logical thing to do ... the kind of slippery lack of thinking that's responsible for so much erotic joy in life. I remember getting off the train at the Port Authority. I remember crossing through a maze of tunnels and finding myself on a busy corner, my breath visible in the air. And I remember hunting for the urgent pink signs.
And there I was -- safely locked inside my own little booth, with a big video screen in front of me and a fistful of dollar bills in my hand. I was going to get my rocks off like a man -- no apologies, no eye contact, just a raw visual smorgasbord. I first learned about peep-show booths in college, when some dorm friends drove us down to Rhode Island at two in the morning and insisted that we girls check it out ourselves. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who struggled with my lust that night, but that's another story. The guys explained the basics -- money goes in here, channel changer is here, make sure the floor and the walls are clean, make sure no one's reaching through a glory hole. And have fun.
The first thing I saw was a woman's asshole filling an entire screen. A cock was poking into it easily, pulling out, and poking back in an inch each time. I felt a literal shock go through my body, like someone had pulled a gun on me: My breath was suddenly shallow, my muscles tensed sharply, my fingers and toes started tingling. Next channel: Some silicone queen was bouncing up and down on some surfer guy, only he was fucking her ass, not her cunt. Next channel: A woman slowly licked her way up the shaved slit of a leather-clad mistress with a riding crop. Then another couple going at it. Then two women on the same dildo. Then a woman fucking herself with a dildo with a cock in her ass. Then three guys shooting come on a woman's face.
Perhaps you think conventional male-produced pornography simply objectifies women and reduces them to a collection of body parts, all designed to further the patriarchal oppression of a system that judges men by their wealth and women by their looks. I won't disagree. I marched around proclaiming that kind of thing in college; I actually believe it's true. But my god, this stuff turned me on. Within moments my shirt was bunched up around my neck, my skirt was in a loose bundle at my waist and my fingers were flying. I stopped only to feed more dollars into the machine, two and three at a time. I came hard and fast and it never stopped; I rode a long wave, minute after minute, pinching and pulling and sliding my fingers deeper and deeper up inside of me. I tried my damnedest not to moan -- no sense giving the guys a reason to linger outside my booth -- so I bit my lip as I twisted harder on my nipples and jammed a fourth finger into my now- wide-open pussy.
The images were a blur, and even though I tried to study them carefully -- How can she do that? Doesn't that hurt? How does she get it out of her hair? -- they just flew by in a haze of flesh and juice. I didn't realize anal sex was so popular, or that so many women did it without a condom in this day and age. I didn't realize women could handle a dildo as big as my arm, much less ride it fast and wild. I didn't realize that shaved slits are in. I didn't realize how much this stuff turned me on.
I made myself stop when my $10 was gone -- the machine would have taken the $5s and $10s in my wallet, but I knew my limit. I was getting frankly worn out, and as I worked the tension out of my system, I came back to earth and realized I wasn't in a terribly safe place. So when the screen suddenly shut to black -- right in the middle of some guy's money shot -- I caught my breath, licked my fingers clean, straightened my clothes and burst out into the night.
No one followed me as I walked back to my hotel, just north of Times Square. I could feel that my pussy was a mess -- thick juice matting in my pubic hair, smeared all over my thighs -- but it felt good to feel wanton. I could feel my chest flushed, burning, boiling ... I walked quickly, just another anonymous New Yorker covered in black, blending into the crowds. But my mind felt like a neon sign, flashing over and over again: Pussies. Assholes. Cocks. And a sweet, sweet blonde in a red leather skirt, bending and prancing and savoring the feel of her own flesh.