Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Sunday, November 28, 2004

Bees are to Honey as...


He’s a sculptor. British. Famous now. We play the same each time he visits. I’m glad. It’s delicious.

Naked on my back in the center of the bed. He dots my torso with oil: the hollow of my throat, the space between my breasts, the valley between my ribs, my navel, the shaven top of mons venus. His hands, artistic and sensitive, with a firm stroke conditioned to molding hard clay, massage my body. His eyes are closed. He is Michelangelo, I know. I am David. Or Pygmalion. His caresses, long and guileless, pursue no end, expect nothing from me so I am able to close my eyes and allow myself to become. I am his creation. Drifting weightless in my body, I feel the lips of my sex gather heat, moisture, open slowly outward.

"It’s beautiful. Your vagina." He says, the breath of his words like a cloud between my legs.

"Aren’t all vaginas beautiful?"

"Some."

"It’s hard to knock a vagina."

"The way it blossoms, I mean. It starts out like a closed scared bud. You give it space. You don’t startle it. You stroke near it. Around it. Everywhere but directly on it. You water it with promise. It swells, it cries, it trusts then slowly, it blooms for you. I feel like the Sun with your vagina."

"I love how you see the world. I don’t let many people touch me the way I let you."

"Why not?"

"It’s not their fault. Women haven’t taught them. They see too much porno. Study golf instead of sex. They tend to dig right into the ‘bud’ before it’s opened, as you say. As if it’s the only erogenous zone."

"I always assumed you have great sex all the time."

"Oh what a life I would have then!"

"How many times would you say you’ve had an orgasm?"

"At work or in ‘real life’?"

"Either/or. Both."

"That’s a lot of sex. Let me ask you something."

"Hmm?"

"Do I look like a Chevy Impala to you?"

"Not from my vantage point."

"That’s how I feel sometimes. As if my vagina is the automatic transmission on a vehicle. Stick the key in, turn it, the car should go."

His head is resting on my thigh. His eyes are fixed on my lower lips. He strokes me with a feather-y finger.

"They touch me with a goal in mind. They touch me for a reaction. And I feel the pressure to give them one so I lose connection with my body. I had a boyfriend once. Philip 3. All my close boyfriends have been Philip’s. Isn’t that weird? When we would make love, and he was inside me, his cock could tell the subtlest things going on inside me. And as soon as I started to cum, he couldn’t help himself and he would cum too."

"That’s how we’re designed. The Grand Scheme. I once saw a program. I think it was Master’s and Johnson."

"I think I saw that one too. Where they have the camera inside the woman’s vagina?"

"Right, and they show what it looks like inside when she has an orgasm. Her uterus pulls up. All her muscles pull up, like they’re milking his cock, urging it to cum."

"To pull the sperm up, right? I loved that feeling, that my body, doing what it naturally does, gives his body so much pleasure. I miss it. You’re one of the few people I have that with."

"I’m honored to be a member of the Inner Circle. And not a bit sorry for the other chaps."

"Oh no? Actually, I don’t expect it from my clients. The time is short and they don’t know my body yet, and I have such a nice time doing it the way I arrange it. It’s very sensual and fulfilling."

"But they’re not members of the Inner Circle?"

I shake my head.

"Just want to be assured of my standing. Lifetime member?"

"Once you’re in, there’s no way out."

He places his mouth on my lower lips, kissing me warm and tongue-less. I sigh.

"Like honey." He says.

I laugh.

"What?" His eyebrows raise.

"That’s what I think of it as." I answer.

"That it tastes like honey?"

"That it feels like honey when it bursts inside me. When I was a little girl, and first masturbated, it felt like I was falling into a big pot of honey. Do you remember the first time you masturbated?"

"I was about 10 maybe." He says, leaning up on his elbow. "All I recall was this unexpected explosion and then being really terrified about this white cream that shot out."

"What did you do?"

"I did it again, of course."

We both laugh.

"Of course."

"How well do you remember your first time?"

"I remember I was about 12 and I remember that the most important implement was a blue Bic ball-point pen. Try saying that fast five times. Blue Bic ballpoint pen. Blue Bic—"

"A Blue Bic ball-point pen?"

"I know. I don’t know. Because it worked. Because I didn’t know I could touch ‘it’ with my fingers. Because I was innocent."

"How did the pen become involved?"

"When I was a little girl, I was very organized, you see. I made sure I wrote in my diary everyday so my life would not be a waste of just play, play, play and accomplish nothing."

"Hmmm. Doesn’t sound remotely like you."

"Very funny." I tussle his hair. "And since I wanted to be more ‘grown-up’ about things, I stopped writing with a pencil and moved on to the very mature Bic ball-point pen. Come here. Lay on your tummy. Let me give you a massage while I tell you."

Obediently, he turns over laying his long body diagonally across the bed. I rub my hands together warming the oil then place them on his neck. I decide to start from the top and work my way down. My thumbs press into the stiff muscles.

"Mmmm." He closes his eyes. "So tell me."

"I remember I was laying on top of my bed, on my back, writing with my diary in the air above my head, when the pen gave out. I shook it a few times and still, no ink. So I licked the tip and placed the diary beside me, turned on my side and began making ‘scribblies’ on the page."

"Scribblies?"

"You know, like circles? And the ‘scribblies’ became pubic hair that I, for some reason, drew a triangle around."

"For some reason."

"I don’t know. I was young. I was acting on instinct."

"And over each line of the triangle I pressed the pen really deep and hard until, like a scissor cut, I was able to remove the triangle with the pubic circles, from the page."

"Why?"

"I told you. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I went to get the scotch tape either. I just did."

"Scotch tape."

"Um-hmm. Once I was safely back in my room, after retrieving the tape, just to make sure no one barged in, we didn’t have locks on our doors, I tucked the desk chair under the knob of the bedroom door."

"Very clever. If I ever have a daughter, I’m gonna have to keep an eye on her bedroom door."

"You leave her be."

"We’ll see. So? Now I must know. What did you need the scotch tape for?"

"On the back of my door was a full-length mirror. I unzipped my low-rise hip-hugger maroon jeans—"

"You remember what you were wearing?"

"They were my favorite pants. And I put tape on the back of the paper triangle and taped it to my pubic bone, to make it look like I had hair."

He laughs. I dig my thumbs into his flesh.

"Be nice. It was erotic to me. Then I put my hands on the top edges of the mirror, and gyrated in a way I thought might be sexy. I imagined there was a man in the mirror and I whispered coyly to him:
"Oh hello"
"The man said something back and I giggled shyly. I writhed a little for him, making my jeans slip further and further down, revealing more and more of the paper triangle and setting off a warm pulse just below the triangle."
"What?! Oh!" I feigned embarrassment to the man, that somehow my jeans were open and I was exposed."
"Slowly, I re-zipped the jeans but didn’t button them and continued my conversation with him, allowing the zipper to fall, tooth by tooth again."

"You were a vixen even then."

"Some things never change."

I wriggle my hips, pushing my pussy into his butt. He wiggles back.

"Then somehow, in the middle of this scintillating conversation, I had the desire to be even sexier. Sexier meant more pubic hair."

"Ironic. Compared to you now."

"And then again, some things do change."

I lean down and kiss his neck.

"So I stopped the game and my jeans were still half off, hugging me below the crotch and I reached for the pen."

"Ah ha! Now we get to the mighty pen."

"Yes. With the triangle still taped to me, I began to draw more squigglies and curly-q’s. The lower the pen went, the deeper the warm throbbing became. Pretty soon I couldn’t stand anymore so I lay back on the bed and continued the motion going lower and lower to the very tip of the triangle. The lower I went, the more intense the feeling. Of course. I lost interest in writing squigglies and turned the pen around to the side with the blue cap on the end and began to circle it lightly, directly onto the flesh between the two puffy lips."

"Your clit."

"Yes my clit. But I didn’t know it was ‘my clit.’ I closed my eyes and let my mind and my body, absorb this new sensation. And the sensation married itself to a movie in my mind. I felt myself, my body, this sensation, climbing a mountain—climbing, climbing, up and up and up until suddenly a warm honey seemed to burst and pour out from a space inside me into my entire body; and I felt as if I had fallen from the height of the mountain into a heated pot of luscious honey."

"Mmmm."

"But as I fell, I heard myself make a noise and I pulled both my upper and lower lip in tight, like this, pressing them together with my teeth."

"Why?"

"I don’t know. The noise was so unexpected too and I just felt like this was something I was sure my parents shouldn’t hear. Although, still, I wasn’t sure why. I just knew this was private. And for a long time, I hid the pen in a drawer by the side of my bed and it was the only thing I could use to play with myself with. I don’t remember when I discovered fingers. Or when I finally unclasped my lips during sex."

"So the pen is mightier than the sword, you are saying." He winks up at me.

I lay my entire body on top of the length of his. Our bodies lift and fall in unison.

"Thank you for taking the time with my body." I whisper in his ear.

"My pleasure."

"You’re a good bee."

We lay quietly for a moment, then I whisper:

"Can I say ‘hello’ to your stinger?"

"Again, my pleasure." He moans as he rolls over.

(Two days later, I get a package in the mail with no return address or card attached. It is a box of forty Blue Bic Ball-point pens.)




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