Friday, December 9, 2011

the happiest kind of radio silence

Hello all y'all!!

I know I keep promising to write more, and then I write ONE THING and make the ONE CHART, and then I vanish back into the internet-shaped woodwork for weeks on end. It is a bad blogging habit. This time, I have an explanation that is good and is not related to school (which is going really, really well, for what it's worth).

Y'all, I've been having lots of sex recently. With one dude. Who has not appeared on this blog. Who is now (apparently) my boyfriend.

Imagine that.

This guy is a really wonderful person--obviously--but he doesn't know this blog exists, and I like him and respect his very private nature enough to think that he would be really unhappy if I wrote about him, even anonymously. So I won't be writing about him, at least not unless I (1) work up the stones to tell him about my literary endeavors and (2) discover that he wants to be written about.

As y'all might imagine, my attachment to this gentleman means that I'd rather not marinate in writing about sex I've had with other people, so I don't anticipate that I'll be revisiting a lot of my endeavors with Simon or Louis or any of the other people floating through the fishbowl of my sexual history. I won't say that it'll never happen again, but I will say that I have no plans to at the moment.

I'm not going to be removing the blog from the internet. It's going to stay here, and I'm going to periodically check my email and see how everything is going. This blog was an unbelievable aid to me during a difficult period of my life, probably because it existed so far outside of everything else that I do and because my wonderful readership made it abundantly clear that I was finally good at something. Because many people seem to enjoy my writing, I don't see any reason to take anything down. I hope that other people can stumble over here onto this blog and maybe discover some writing about sex that, for the most part, is both grammatically sound and hot. That's what I've been going for, because in my experience there tends to be a dearth of that kind of material.

Please continue to enjoy my exploits as Margot. I've loved writing them for you, and I hope that y'all have gotten as much out of reading this blog as I have from writing it.


PS: The new man in my life really loves his 1930s-1950s pop music, which means that every now and again I am treated to a car ride with Buddy Holly as the soundtrack. It always makes me smile just a little more than it should.

PPS: buddy holly is not my new boyfriend.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Literal Heart-Pants

So, a while ago I posted a Venn diagram about how to find the way into my heart, or my pants, either or. Here is a companion piece, with slightly more explicit instructions (as always, click to enlarge):

Obviously, there's some fine points I'm leaving out of this. And please imagine that every time it says "snore," you are on a date that is shockingly similar to this video about the bond between the anesthesiologist and the orthopod.

Recently I've been into finding new ways to display old data. I think it's part of being a grad student?

A bientôt,

Sunday, October 2, 2011


What's up, puddin' cups?

It's been so long!! I promise I didn't forget about all y'all. Things over here in my fair city have been a little hectic: for example, I no longer live at the intersection of Unicorn Lane and la Ravaudeuse Road but I've relocated to Craigslist Court and Margot Avenue. It's just across town, really. School has also taken a turn for the intense, but incredibly satisfying. For a number of reasons I really didn't want to think about, or write about, sex that I was having or had previously experienced, which will be the subject of a post in the eventual future. The blog took a backseat for a while there. After the crosstown move, my sex drive came back like an 18 year old guy 10 minutes after an orgasm. It's been nice.

But! I'm back. Please look forward to charts and graphs and venn diagrams and stories in the instance that people still read and enjoy this little pocket of the internet. I have very much enjoyed the emails that have found their way over to me in my prolonged absence, and I'm excited to be back!

A bientôt,


PS: I have awesome stories to share. Awesome.

"Your hands. Here."

During my recent prolonged seclusion, I received a rather interesting email from a man I used to know. His name is Conrad.

Conrad was a young man that I knew in my former life as an undergrad. He and I were acquaintances but not friends. We were curteous when we ran into each other—which was approximately never—and we had very few overlapping social contacts. I think we met during an orientation for freshman year, but whatever really happened is lost in the ether. At the time that we existed in the periphery of each other’s lives: he was the vocal head of a political organization whose views were diametrically opposed to my own, and I was a woman of a certain loudness. Despite this, we always managed a polite smile on the rare occasion that our paths crossed.

Before June, I hadn’t really heard from Conrad since we graduated. Every year or so, he’d send me an email and we’d chat back and forth for a while, and eventually it would peter out. He had a demanding career in a field that I don’t understand and did lots of travel to exotic locations for work, and had a Facebook profile full of wonderful photos. He happens to live in a suburb of my fair city. In the early part of the summer, he contacted me and suggested that we get drinks.  I agreed, on the condition that it was after that colossal test that I was studying for.

A few days after my exam, I met him in a park in my city: I brought wine and a blanket, and he brought cheese, bread, and fruit. He told me he took the train in, I told him he could stay on my couch because public transit in our city isn’t always reliable. We settled under a tree, and surreptitiously drank wine and ate a picnic under the cooling summer sky while we caught up about careers. We sat, and then reclined, upon my very Norman Rockwell plaid blanket. We did not touch. I think we said more to each other that night than in all our previous interactions combined. As the park became darker and the evening drew on, some sprinklers turned on a few yards from our spot and we decided that it was time to move. We wandered back to my apartment for more wine. We chattered away, and Conrad made noticeable attempts at being a gentleman.

I was fairly certain of where this evening was headed. I was quite certain that this was exactly what I wanted. I was positive that Conrad was unaware that I had figured it out. I was right.

We stepped into my kitchen as we made conversation about people we used to know: who is married, who is divorced, who has children, who lives abroad.  I found a bottle of wine and opened it, pouring it into two glasses.

“Conrad,” I said, “I have to know: why me, and why now?”


“I’m curious why you wanted to get drinks with me, and why now. It just seems so unexpected! I’m delighted with the company, but I’m just curious as to what your impetus was.”

“Oh! I was just curious about you.”

“Ok. Would you like to sit on the balcony?”

“Yes, that sounds wonderful!”

I take my glass and the bottle and lead the way to the aforementioned seating, and Conrad follows. His hand grazes the small of my back when I walk past him. We sit down on my 3rd floor balcony that faces out to a busy street, and we watch people go by. We invent stories for everyone who passes below, most of which centered on young people going to parties or out on dates, or older people wandering home to enjoy their lives.

Conrad gingerly places a hand on my thigh. I look him in the eye and smile and laugh through telling jokes. His palm is heavier on my skin, rubbing gently against the fabric of my skirt while he transparently searches for the hem. I let my fingers brush his shoulder, then his knee. I look out on the street and describe the scene around us as I feel his hand tracing higher up my leg.

I finish a story and turn to face him. He is leaning towards me, suddenly so close that I can feel his breath on my chin.

We are kissing.

We are touching.

His hands are climbing up my thighs, parting my legs and rubbing their most medial aspect; one of my hands is in his hair and the other still resting, but now gripping, his knee.  He kisses me softly at first, as if testing to make sure that I wouldn’t violently reject him, and then he is bolder. His breathing is heavier to match mine. A tiny moan squeaks past my lips into his mouth. One hand has left my lower limb and the other is running up my waist and back, and settles on the side of my chest wall.

When men lay a hand on the side of my chest—immediately next to my breast, touching my skin with their full palms but not touching any part of me that might be more erotic—my nipples ache with anticipation. This evening with Conrad is no different.

I move his hand over the fullest part of my chest.

“Is this what you want?”

He is still, and then he firmly rubs his palm on my nipple, he pushes my breast back into my chest, he grips my flesh firmly in his hand. His other hand mimics this motion on my inner thigh. The moans I make are louder and throatier. We are outside, but unaware and uncaring. His face is pressed into the hollow above my clavicle and he generates sharp sensations that make my hips roll without restraint.

He stops me, he asks me to stand. I do. We walk through the balcony doors back to the apartment, where he puts down the wineglasses and is immediately standing behind me, kissing my neck and rubbing my breasts. He does not massage my breasts so much as grasp them with a firmness that I was not expecting and press them into my ribs as he pulls my body tight against his own. He licks my earlobe and bites my neck. I feel his erection pressing against my flank.

He pulls one hand off of my chest and uses it to hike my skirt up as high as he can get it before rubbing and slapping my ass. I writhe against him, his other arm holding me in place.

He stops. He pulls away. He looks around, and sees the edge of a counter.

“Your hands,” he says. “Here.” He points at the lowered edge of the counter as he pushes my shoulders forward and pulls my skirt up to my waist. I am wearing a laced-backed black thong. I am exposed. I hear him sigh when he positions me.

The cracking sound of his palm on the fullest part of my ass echoes through the empty apartment. My back arches and I moan, I beg him to continue.

He is more than happy to oblige. He slaps me around. He grunts with satisfaction. He stops and starts to kiss the curve where my thighs join my torso. He spanks me some more.

He pulls me upright and walks me towards my room. We do not make it that far: we stop in the kitchen as he presses me against the fridge and kisses me deeply. I wrap my arms around his neck. He kisses down my chin to my chest; he kisses my collarbones and the hollow of my neck and moves down to the space between my breasts. I shrug off my dress’s straps and pull down my bra, his mouth finds my nipples and he sucks and bites them with the same intensity that he used to bend me over and spank me. I wrap a leg around his hip. He presses me against the fridge. It is cool in contrast to my warmth. My pelvis thrusts out against his.

A hand reaches under my raised thigh and traces down to where it joins my hip. It runs under the edge of my thong and pushes it aside as his thick fingers enter my body. I press back against him. I sigh as my nipples harden in his mouth and my pussy clenches around his digits. In short order I am spasming around his hand and gushing all over the floor.

He withdraws and asks to go to the bedroom. I lead the way and shed all my clothes during the short trip. We leave the lights on as we fall onto my bed. He devours me. I undress him. He uses his size to dominate me. I become progressively wetter. He rolls me on top of him as we rub against each other in my bed. I slink down between his legs and take his cock between my lips. I cradle each of his balls in one hand as I run the other up and down his shaft in time with my mouth. He holds my hair in fists.

He comes. He sighs my name and moans louder than any other lover I’ve had. His ejaculate hits my uvula.

We calm down. We lie in bed and tell jokes.

“Margot, I have to tell you something but I don’t want to come off like a creep.”

“Go ahead, Conrad.”

“I have always thought that you are one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I wanted to get drinks with you because I’ve wanted to for years, and I finally worked up the nerve to do it. I’ve undressed you in my mind so many times. In my fantasies I have done everything to you. Every day for the last six months I have masturbated to the thought of you.”

I am astounded. I am deeply flattered. I don’t know what to say.

“I hope I lived up to your fantasies!” I stammer.

“You were so much better than I could have ever imagined.”

We coalesce into each other’s bodies again. The rest of the evening is spent this way: we embrace, we fuck, we enjoy oral sex, we sleep for a bit and do it again over the course of the next several hours. When I sleep he lies behind me, one arm under my neck and the other around my waist, both crossing in front of me and each hand on a breast. He wraps a leg over my hip. I feel his penis, sometimes limp and sometimes hard, resting comfortably in the cleft in the middle of my ass. He is somehow managing to flex while he holds me in our sleep.  I am the peanut in the M&M of his embrace.

In the morning my body is sore. My breasts are tender from his tight grip. My ass has bruises that merge into a handprint. The hickeys on my neck cover about 45% of the available neck surface area. Even though it is June, when I next leave the house I have a scarf around my neck and I immediately buy concealer.

A few days later I leave town for some family affairs, and then I start a period of my education that was more exhausting than I could ever possibly have understood before. Conrad and I lost touch again, this time after several good faith efforts to see each other.  It never pans out.

Conrad vanished from my life as abruptly as he entered it. He is the single most passionate lover I have ever had, presumably fueled by his many years’ worth of fantasies. He left his marks all over my body at the same time as he touched me like he’d touch a work of art. He seemed to walk out of his normally reserved skin and into something more primal and animal and basal, and I reaped the rewards. 

Saturday, August 6, 2011

the key to happiness

Oh hi there!

I know it's been a while. School is rough, my vacation ended up being nonexistent, and I've had some difficulty adjusting to a new schedule. That said, I've done some thinking. I think I've decided that this is the key to success with romantic/sexual interactions:
You guys, we should tell everyone. 

a bientot,

Thursday, August 4, 2011

smiling from ear to ear

I went to undergrad at a small liberal arts college on the East Coast, and I graduated within the last 10 years. It’s a pretty obscure place, but I think that like most of those institutions, it was filled with young people who felt the tension and the urgency of the moment, who wanted to change and fix every injustice in the world right this instant, and who, by all accounts, really weren’t aware of what college was like compared to the rest of the world. Most students didn’t realize that we lived in a privileged space by pretty much every measure (I’m willing to admit, I didn’t until somewhat late in my time there), and those of us with left leaning politics were unlikely to realize how left we were until we wandered out to real jobs and realized that, for example, not everyone firmly believed that man-on-pumpkin sex is a fundamental right that should be taught to children (Thank you, Jon Stewart).

One of the great lies sold to most kids running off to college is that sex is cheap and easy to find for everyone, as long as you show up and have a few drinks. That was, generally speaking, not my experience. What was true, however, was that sexual tension was everywhere, not a lot of people knew what to do with it, and that it was much, much easier to find sex practices that exist on the tail ends of the bell curve in college than it would ever be after. Also true: a reputation was easy to come by, even if it was based entirely in conjecture and misunderstandings: I had a trashy reputation because the girl who lived in the room under mine heard the couple who lived next to me having sex pretty much constantly, and knowing that I didn’t have a boyfriend, she concluded that I was spectacularly easy. Whether or not that last part is tru, confronting this classmate about the fact that if I’m going to have an easy reputation, I’d prefer to have the sex that earns it remains one of my favorite memories.

Anyways. You’re not here to read about the things I did or didn’t love about undergrad.

Going to a small liberal arts college filled with people age 18-23 who really wanted to be having more sex with more people than they actually did always affords a certain amount of hedonism whenever that tension is allowed to be released. I left my school to study abroad for the first half of my junior year, and I came back caring considerably less about what my classmates thought of me and considerably more about getting what I wanted. This played out in my favor, especially on the night of one of the bigger parties on campus. The party was school-funded in a way that seems totally crazy now, but then it only made sense that my college would give money to a group that wanted to celebrate non-binary gender and the full spectrum of human sexuality in the form of a giant party filled with people in, at most, underwear and ridiculous accessories.

I had never gone to this party before. I was always too self-conscious; too concerned that people would judge my body the way that I had judged myself instead of realizing that when presented with a young woman in lingerie, boots, and a silly hat, most people who want to sleep with women are less judgmental and more carnal. By the time I came back from overseas, I had figured this out. I went to the party that spring wearing a deep purple-red lacy bra, purple lace boyshorts (not actually a matching set, but in the dark it was just fine), a fedora, and leather boots. I wore a long coat over this ensemble to protect myself from the mid-March east-coast weather, and stuffed a flask into my boot to warm me up.

Upon arrival, I found the basement room that was functioning as a coat check and had a beer from the free keg. There were a few nervous minutes between arrival and shedding my coat, and then a few more between feeling exposed and cold to feeling powerful. My friends and I went from tense giggles with sidelong glances to open-mouthed laughter and flirtatious words. I’d like to say that this was all due to the influence of alcohol. It wasn’t.

My friends and I wandered up to the main room. It was filled with college age kids dressed in outfits ranging from next to nothing to completely costumey: there were women striding around the dance floor in garter belts and headbands, men in head to toe leather, women dressed as devils with wings and men wearing leashes while being lead by their boyfriends. The room was hot and rank, the bass so loud my own diaphragm shook. Looking back on this now I could have been a hunter in that room and picked whoever I wanted to be my game.

I found Carl and Elise, two adventurous friends of mine who are protagonists in a story for another time, on the dance floor. We danced together, we ran our hands over each others’ bodies, we pinched sensitive parts and kissed sweaty lips. This was familiar territory. This was both tense and comfortable; it was riding a roller coaster two times in a row.

I felt someone else’s eyes observing us. I turned around. There was a man there—tall, bearded, shirtless, handsome--staring at our scene, and when I turned to face him he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me towards him while he asked me to dance. Our bodies were solid together. I put an arm around his neck and pulled my hips to his while I said yes.

“Do you go to school here?”

“Yes, you?” My lips are grazing his while I answer this question.

“No, I go to a school out west, I’m visiting a friend. What’s your name?” His hand travels firmly from the back of my waist to the fullest part of my ass.

“Margot. You?” I throw my other arm around him, and wrap it around his chest, and trace his back with the nails of my index and middle fingers.


We are done with small talk. I may or may not have asked him his major, he may or may not have asked me mine. That part of the story is unimportant and I only vaguely remember it.

We dance to the beat. We sweat down our torsos—his naked and mine nearly so—and press ourselves together such that when we part, our skins peel away. We start to kiss and we skip the gentle steps. He is kissing me with an open mouth, I reciprocate and lick his teeth. He pulls my lip. I scratch his back. He pulls to the side and sucks my earlobe. My insides surge. I kiss and bite his neck.

He pulls me to the side and presses my body against the cold, stone wall of the room. The carved rock that the building is made of is rough and uneven, it presses into me but I don’t feel any pain. We kiss in between biting and sucking. He is rough. He gets me wet with his aggression. He pulls down the front of my panties and presses a finger into my pussy while his thumb discovers that I have a piercing through the hood of my clit. I moan deeply as he gasps in surprise.

“Is that what I think it is?”

I don’t use words when I respond: I sigh and grunt as I work my pelvis across his thick hands. This answer appears adequate as I reach down his briefs and pull out a solid, thick cock.  I run my hand from base to tip. He responds in kind.

We find the words to discover that as neither of us has a condom, certain practices are off the table. I scan the room across across his shoulder and notice that women and men stare at us, some with a look of proud disdain and some with a look of arousal. Carl and Elise return my gaze and wink. I return my attentions to David.

He rips down the cups of my bra. My exposed nipples are hard and sensitive when he takes one in his mouth, puts his left hand on the wall behind me, and bites and sucks my breast while his other hand works my snatch.

My left leg is high around his waist, my right hand feels him leaking across my palm as I run it over the length of his cock. His sweat and secretions make an excellent lube.

I am pressed into the wall, I feel it scratching against my back. I smell his saturated hair. My tiptoe is my only contact with the floor: my partner is practically holding me up by my pelvis. My nails give him red marks across his broad back. I am coming, he holds me up in suspension. His fingers are thick inside my contracting pussy. He presses his face into my chest and moans deeply when he orgasms into my hand.

We are still for a moment. He slowly pulls out of me, settling my foot on the ground. I unwrap my leg.

He takes my hand from his briefs. He licks it clean of his own semen. He kisses me. We smile. He wanders off into the crowd.

There may or may not be people staring at me, I don’t care either way. I wander down to the coat room and meet my friends for a beer. The photos taken right after this encounter, with my hair long and free and a hat perched on my head, grinning from ear to ear with my friends smiling and laughing and all of us nearly nude, are some of my favorite pictures from undergrad.

I somehow get home. I am exhausted when I flop into my twin bed. My roommate is snoring across the room.

The next morning, I awake with a wild hangover and a dry mouth. I stumble to the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror. My nipples are purple with bruising and my back covered in scratches from the uneven wall. I wonder if my partner’s body shows similar signs. The shower I take ranks as one of the top 5 showers of my adult life.

I find Carl and Elise for breakfast and we go over the previous night’s events. We laugh about it; they congratulate me. I run back to their rooms and show them the battlescars.

One of the great lies of college is that there is sex anywhere and anytime you want it, from anyone. College was, on a romantic level, one of the loneliest times of my life, but I was able to share it with some wonderful people and punctuate it with events that are hard to find as an adult. I’m not sure if the best part of this story is my encounter with David, the marks on my body from after the fact, or experiencing it with Carl and Elise. Everything is wrapped together. Everything is one experience. I am a lucky one.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

oh my lord in heaven

hello all y'all,

School started back up for me about 2 weeks ago, and you may have noticed a dearth of posts in the interim. I'm still here, I'm just discovering the joys of 14 hours a day on my feet that start at 5 am, 5 days a week. It ends August 12. I might write something interesting between now and then, and I might not. it's up in the air. I miss this blog, but I feel like I should be actually having sex if I'm going to be writing about it. Right now, I'm usually so tired that I think I could fall asleep during cunnilingus.

That, my dears, is fatigue.


Saturday, July 2, 2011


I was brainstorming some posts the other day, and instead of something hot, I came up with this venn diagram:

Lo these many months later, everyone still loves a good unicorn sex story!

Friday, June 24, 2011

myfaircity craigslist > personals > casual encounters

a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)

Date: 2011-06-18, 8:49AM EDT
Reply to:
Reply To This Post
[Errors when replying to ads?]

I have a very specific fantasy that I’ve decided I’d like to realize. I would like to meet a man between the ages of 22 and 40 (ish) in a bar that is mutually convenient to both of us. I would like to see him from across the bar. I would like him to see me. I would like to watch him drink a drink with someone else—another woman, another man, someone he came with, or someone he didn’t—while stealing glances at me. I will be by myself. I will be wearing a short skirt or dress, and a low neckline. I will not be wearing a lot of panties. I can wear heels upon request, but I really prefer boots.

After we have this exchange of glances for approximately 20 minutes, I will get up and head for a bathroom. He will follow me. We will lock the door, it will be just the two of us—no stalls, please—and he will fuck me from behind, while standing, and pressing me either against the sink or the door. He will lift up my skirt and unzip his jeans. He will rub my clit until I orgasm with his cock buried inside my pussy. He will spank my hips and ass hard enough to leave hand-shaped bruises.

There are some non-negotiable aspects to this fantasy:
1)  There will be no sexual contact without a condom. The end.
2) There will be no talking. A major aspect of this fantasy for me is anonymity. The only sounds out of his lips should be the wordless noises we make while fucking, and we can make those in abundance.
3) We can both reserve the right to abandon ship at any time, end our activities, and call it off. If the man choses, he doesn’t even have to follow me to the bathroom and start at all. I can walk out the front door of the bar instead of fucking. Free will is extremely important to me.

A little about me: I am a graduate student in my mid-20s, medium-tall, voluptuous-muscular build, with short blond hair, green eyes, and clear skin. I have breasts that have been described by a number of people as “epic.” As this ad is clearly a little bit more verbose than the average one, I promise I’m not a bot, but I AM extraordinarily picky.

About you: You are between 22-40, you have meticulous hygiene, you are in decent shape, you don’t dress terribly, and you don’t wear tons of cologne. At some point during our communications, you’ll send me a photo of your face, and I’ll send you one of mine if I decide I’d like to. Any photos of penises or headless torsos are grounds for immediate disqualification.

Depending on how well this encounter goes, there can be more like it. I’m not necessarily looking for something more regular, but I’m not NOT looking, either.

from    A Stranger      <…>
to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <>
date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 10:35 AM
subject            a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)
hide details 10:35 AM (13 minutes ago)

For years, I’ve had a fantasy about a former classmate: she’s a tall, voluptuous woman, with a toothy grin and a sharp wit. I am in her apartment, we are kissing and clawing: her at my collar and me at her skirt; I turn her around, pull up her hem and down her panties as I press her against a wall. Her breath has a beat in the middle when her chest hits the plaster. I unzip my jeans with one hand and the other is in her, I am biting her neck as we fuck. In this fantasy, there aren’t words, and a condom is a fine price to pay for realizing this story.

I’m 6’2”, broad-chested, brown hair, sharp dresser. I’m happy to talk to you about the long-term ramifications of recent political decisions after this meeting. The attached photo is from a recent trip for work. I have a bachelor’s degree and work in a competitive field. My field requires an aggressive nature, which I’m happy to bring to the floor.


from    Margot la Ravaudeuse <>
to         A Stranger      <…>
date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:00 AM
subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)
hide details 11:00 AM (just now)

Dear A,

Your email has spectacular grammar, and your photo is both of an attractive man and does not feature a penis! Well done. I think your fantasy meshes well with mine: your height and build are very much in line with men that I am attracted to, and I love aggressive men who both know when to stop and push me to that limit. Please don’t leave any marks on my neck, but I want you to bruise my hips and scratch my thighs. Is that in line with your fantasy?

I’ve enclosed a photo. I hope I resemble the object of your desires.


from    A Stranger      <…>
to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <>
date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:15 AM
subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)
hide details 11:15 AM (3 minutes ago)


It’s funny, when I opened your email I had a moment where I thought you were the woman I’ve been fucking every night in my thoughts for the past few years. You’re not her, but you are extraordinary.  I would be flattered to help you realize your fantasy, to the letter.

How do you feel about Old McFlannery’s Brewhouse, at 14th and jones, at 8pm? I don’t live too close to there, you don’t have to, but they have bathrooms that I think would work well and an excellent gin and tonic.

A (do you need more of a name?)

from    Margot la Ravaudeuse <>
to         A Stranger      <…>
date    Fri, Jun 18, 2011 at 11:36 AM
subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)
hide details 11:36 AM (just now)

Dear A,

A is plenty for me, 8pm works fine for me. Old McF’s is exactly where I had in mind. I promise not to wear a lot of panties.


I am at Old McF’s at 7:50.  I am wearing a short, pale green dress, with pockets and a plunging neck. I wear a black gstring under the skirt, a small wallet tucked into the top of a boot, and a kerchief in my hair (it’s disposable). I am drinking a gin and tonic.

The door opens. It’s june: there is a gush of hot air from the outside world that accompanies A as he walks into the bar. He is as advertised: 6’2”, brown beard, salt-and-pepper Kennedy hair, impeccably tailored pants. He is out of place by about a $50 a month dry cleaning bill. He looks at me, winks, and walks to the bar without further acknowledgement.

I fidget in the booth. My nipples harden against the tight fabric held against them. I pinch one when I rest my hand on the table. I shudder; I sigh involuntarily at my own touch. I notice through the corner of my eyes that A is the only person who saw all of this. He is standing slightly off from exactly across the bar from me and he sips a porter. He is observing me over the rim of his glass. It is my turn to wink.

I finish my drink.

I stand.

My skirt has crept too far over my thighs, I pull it down a few instants later than I should after I stand up. A raises a solitary eyebrow when I slink across the room to the bathroom before he follows me there.

I open the door to the bathroom: there’s one toilet, and across the room one sink, with a stack of paper towels. A pushes the door open again before it has a chance to hit its frame. His pupils are enormous. He grabs me around the waist, pulls me in, kisses me, and his hands are immediately under my skirt. His movements are choreatic: impulsive, brisk, flexed, and erratic. My lips swell with his aggression.

He breaks the kiss and pulls out a condom at the same moment as he unzips. He hands the condom to me, I rip it open and sheath him. He spins me around, presses me against the unlocked door, and bends me over: my short skirt hikes up, and he rips off my suggestion of underwear.

I am surprised: A pulls back on my thighs while pushing down my shoulders as his knees spread apart my thighs. He kneels behind me, spreads apart my ass and presses his face against my swollen pussy. He licks my folds, moans into my body, and I feel the rhythm that his arm is defining against his shoulder, his cock, my thigh. My back arches and my hips press into his mouth: this is a welcome surprise.

A stands. He is miraculously hard as he penetrates me with no further preamble. Our moans are deeper and throatier. He slaps my hip: it echoes and I shriek. He is kissing my back, his free hand is wrapped around my hip: he pinches, rolls, and flicks my clit.

The bar sounds on the other side of the door have hushed considerably in the last ten minutes.

A is relentless. His hips move faster, I feel him drip sweat that rolls down to the cleft at the bottom of my back. I do not notice that his voice is becoming louder and deeper due to my own wailing against the cheep wood of the bathroom door. My pussy tightens and relaxes; it clenches and releases his cock while I gush all over his hand.

Thirty seconds later, the ringing in my ears quiets enough to allow me to hear him grunting and sighing against my neck with his orgasm.

We are still for a moment.

He pulls out of me, and pulls down my hem. I turn around and face him.

He kisses me and stands to one side as he pulls open the door.

I step out.

The 35 people in the bar are silent: 70 eyes stare at me, 35 mouths are slack-jawed. I walk out the front door of a bar I don’t frequent.

from    A Stranger      <…>
to         Margot la Ravaudeuse <>
date    Sun, Jun 20, 2011 at 3:07 PM
subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)
hide details 3:07 PM (5 hours ago)


Thank you.



to         A Stranger      <…>
date    Sun, Jun 20, 2011 at 8:32 PM
subject            Re: a specific request – w4m – 26 (have bicycle, will travel)
hide details 8:32 PM (21 minutes ago)

Dear A,

Of course I will.


Sunday, June 19, 2011

sand dunes

It’s May, 2008. I am working as the plankton of the scientific food chain, which while it did not afford me much in terms of upward mobility without the acquisition of another degree, it did provide me with a regular income, vacation days, and free evenings. I was taking advantage of all this spare time by being on vacation with Simon in one of the gayer spots on the American coastline.

We spent four days enjoying our unfamiliar surroundings. We explored some beaches, saw some flea markets, walked miles and miles in quaint villages, ate some delicious in-season seafood, and purchased some high-quality leather goods (which is a story for another time). 

Simon and I had a little thought that we wanted to realize on this trip.  Our last night, we set out for a walk along the beaches well after most of the sleepy vacation town had gone to bed. We walked along back roads, him in jeans and me in a knee-length A-line linen skirt with no panties. We walked hand in hand; seeking out a spot that we weren’t sure was real. We had a beach blanket and a pocket pack of tissues in tow.

There were few cars out that night. We walked out of the town, and wandered and wandered until we came across a beach that was made of sand and patches of grass that was situated away from the road by 25 feet and dunes. We slinked out into the moonlight, spread out the blanket, and laid down, side by side, on the oversized terrycloth.

His familiar touch across my thighs was magnified by the openness of the beach: his hands were firm on my muscles, kneading them and heading up to my hipbones, then spreading my legs apart with his knees and my labia with his fingers. It was not a warm night. We both had our hoods up as we writhed, with gooseflesh appearing on the outsides of my legs and the heat from my partner’s body warming their more medial aspects.

There was a zip, a fumbling of buckles, and the insistent pressing of Simon’s cock against the aching opening of my pussy. I raised my hips into his, my legs wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck, and I felt the satisfying stretch of him entering my body.

We rocked back and forth, tangled in each other, feeling the sting of sand whipped up from the beach and listening to the sound of waves overcoming our heavy breaths. I looked up into his face to see him surrounded by nothing but stars.

When a rare car drove by from the north, the headlights would trace out over the dunes, and we were hidden in their shadows. If someone were to drive by from the south, they would be treated to the sight of pale, muscular calves and thighs—mine—wrapped around a slender man’s frame.

When Simon came, he thrust into me, moaned into my ear, and wrapped his hand under my head between my hair and the sand. My pelvis is tilted up, his orgasming cock is pressing against my swollen g-spot and pushing me into my own climax. I cry out, I bite his neck over his pulse to stifle the sound, I run my hands under his hoodie and leave scratch marks across his back that I discover when we get home.

When we are done and coming down, we pant and wrap the blanket close in around our bodies to keep out the slightly too-cool air. Simon kisses my forehead. The air is crisp and salty, there is a car driving by and the dune’s shadow lengthens, shortens, and disappears. After a time, we separate, we grab some tissues to clean ourselves off, stand up, and dust off the sand from our bodies. We pick up the blanket and wander across the dunes.

There is a trace down the inside of my right leg of Simon’s semen leaking out of my pussy: our tidying attempts were clearly incomplete. I didn’t protest: the viscous fluid helped my thighs slide past each other as we walked back to the bed and breakfast. We stopped by the ice cream shop on the edge of town before going back to bed.

Friday, June 17, 2011

A universal plan for preparing for licensing exams.


How I miss all y'all! I've received some incredible emails over the past 5 weeks, where you've offered me kind words, encouragement, support, and all around personal cheerleader-style communications, and I'm truly appreciative. Thank you. For those of you who've been asking how this whole business has been working for me, let me present you with a flow chart (click to enlarge!):

I wish I could tell you that I've been secretly writing smut and stashing it away, but I've been a touch busy recently and as a result I've been both unwillingly celibate and preoccupied with learning stuff for my career instead of documenting exploits. I'm nothing if not goal-oriented. There has also been some more difficult things happening in Family la Ravaudeuse, which occupies a lot of my mental real estate. The short version: I do my best to be zen in the face of stress, I'm taking today off, tomorrow I have an 8 hour exam that largely determines the rest of my career, and I think I'm going to go for a run and then go to the movies.

Again, I'm truly grateful for the support and encouragement I get from this corner of the internet, 

À bientôt,


PS: I leave for five weeks and come back with MORE followers!? Daaang. Soyez les bienvenus!

Sunday, May 15, 2011


Oh hello voyeurs,

The time has come. I have taken my last exam, and now I have to spend the next five weeks preparing for one of the more petrifying standardized tests I will ever take. I love fucking, and I love writing about it, but between now and June 18, please consider me to be on hiatus. Hopefully I'll be able to write all y'all a smut-filled postcard.

je suis toujours la votre,


Search terms

A little while ago, I mentioned that Blogger and Google let me obsess over my adventures in the internet version of talking too loudly about taboo topics in public places in ways I never quite imagined. I can tell where most of my readers are from (mostly Americans, followed by the UK and Canada, with a healthy dose of non-anglophone countries: Spain, Switzerland, and Germany), what browsers you use (Firefox), and I have discovered that, for whatever reason, Buddy Holly is the most popular post ever over here in la Ravaudeuse-ville. My suspicion: it’s directly linked in the first post I ever had at the site that sends me more readers than anywhere else, Fleshbot (followed by Leah Lays London, Reed and River are Fucking, and Unicorn Sex Party: hello, all y’all!).

Far and away the most fascinating thing that I can track are the search terms that people use to find me. The most popular is, of course, “Margot la Ravaudeuse,” but after that it gets increasingly weird/awesome/baffling. There are a lot of permutations of “la ravaudeuse,” which is probably due to the fact that I didn’t stop to think about the fact that my nascent blog has a name that is really fucking hard to spell. Here are some of the other ones, in no particular order:

“the way into my heart pants”: quote marks necessary. I love the idea that the way into my readers’ collective heart-pants is what I have found.

Unicorn sex stories: pretty sure that’s also due to that first post on Fleshbot, the Unicorn, which seemed to strike a chord with a lot of people. Every word of it, except for the names, is true.

Voyeur: This is the only single-word search term that has lead many, many people here that isn't a variation of the spelling of "ravaudeuse." I had no idea when I wrote the post of the same title that I was tapping into such a vein!

Means that sad: I don’t think that those three words are used together in the whole of this blog. No idea what’s going on there.

Sperm wait, what? Ok, sure. That’s a fetish that doesn’t do a whole lot for me, and that I’m pretty sure I don’t mention at all, but if the folks over at found and liked my blog, it would be foolish not to thank them.

middle aged women telling stories of ehat makes them orgasm: The best part of this search term is that (a) I’m not middle aged, (b) that’s definitely a “ehat [sic]” up in there, and (c) it has been used greater than 1 time to find this blog.

good oral sex pickup lines: oh my god yes please use my blog for this purpose, that’s fucking awesome and I love it ever so much.

black woman hairy pussy: it amazes me that a person can use such specific search terms and find my blog, which definitely uses each of these words multiple times, but not that whole, specific idea. It amazes me even more that this is a search term that’s been used more than once to lead here.

sweaty pizza unicorn: I want to go to wherever there’s a lot of sweaty unicorns with pizza. Or what have you.

song "i want your pussy on my face": if any of you actually write or find this song, please let me know. I’ll be over the moon.

just uncut cocks: that is definitely not what lives at, but it’s definitely a welcome guest.

why is my google reader play full of porn?: I believe that’s because you made it that way. Unless we’re talking about a play that someone wrote about google reader that is accidentally full of porn, which is an entirely different phenomenon.
sex stories with a unicorn: I think I’m way less literal than this person was looking for. 

Saturday, May 14, 2011

how to end a dry spell.

Louis meets me at the southwest corner of the block where I am at a supreme-court-themed party (my friends are VERY specific people), because I insisted that he walk me home because my skirt is too short, it is too late, and I am too drunk. We walk arm in arm, catching up with each other about the events of the past few weeks: his huge work upgrade, my finally finishing the most challenging year of my academic existence. His hand slides across my waist to rest on the curve of my ass.

He tells me he wants to bend me over a car parked on the street.

He asks me if I can tell how hard he is from where I am, pulled to his right as we briskly march down a cobblestone sidewalk.

I feel my pussy tingling, waking up from a hiatus. I lick his earlobe and tell him to walk faster.

We are at my front door. I fumble with the keys. We enter. I walk up the stairs in front of him, my impossibly short skirt riding up my hips and showing my thong-clad pussy through my tights. His hands are running up my thighs, helping my skirt on its way north.

We are at my apartment door. He presses behind me as I search for the key. My skirt is at my waist, he finds the top of my tights and pulls them down, his breath is breezing through the hairs on the back of my neck and tickling my ears. His hand spreads my thighs and fucks my pussy on the landing.

I cannot find my keys.

I press back against him. I go from the beginnings of sexual response to the edge of orgasm in approximately ten seconds.

There is a zipping sound, and the ripping of a condom wrapper. I am momentarily empty, and then his hands are on my hips again, his cock is parting my labia and entering me, I am standing on my tiptoes with my face pressed against my front door. It is 2:00am, I barely consider that my neighbors might be awake to enjoy the show. The pane of glass in my front door rattles with our thrusting.

His right hand pulls the front of my tights down and finds my engorged clit. He brings me to orgasm and I stifle my cries as best I can, hoping not to wake my roommate whose bed is approximately 8 feet away through two doors from where we screw.

He pulls out of me and pulls off the condom. I find my key in an unfamiliar pocket of the jacket I only rarely wear. I open the door. We make our way through the darkness to my bedroom, shedding clothing as we go. I turn on the light. I take his latex-tasting cock into my mouth, he moans deeply and holds my hair in fistfuls. I am kneeling on uneven hardwood. Saliva rolls out of my mouth, onto my hand, onto my thigh, down the slant of my thigh to the floor. He hardens more. He moans, pulls my head off his erection, and puts his hands under my arms as he tells me to get on the bed with my legs in the air.

His face is buried in my pussy, one hand is inside me and one is pressing apart my thigh. I am dissolving in my own orgasm.

Another condom. He stands as he penetrates me.  My legs are over his shoulders, then spread apart by his hands, then wrapped around his waist as he pushes me back on the bed. We roll over and I am on top, his face in my breasts. I slow us down. I am savoring this, the cock that stretches me out and presses against my swollen tissues, the hands that spank and spread the globes of my ass, the mouth and teeth that bite my nipples while calling me a whore.

I am lost. I try not to leave marks as I kiss him, kiss his neck, cry into his ears and come, my snatch wrapping and seizing around him.

I ask him to fuck me from behind. He is thrilled to comply. We roll over; he grabs my vibrator off my nightstand and gives it to me immediately before lunging in.  The fronts of his thighs slap against the backs of mine. His hand leaves large red marks on hips. I press the vibrator against my clit, I pant, I hold off as best I can and so does he, until he doesn’t anymore and thrusts aggressively against me while making purely primitive, purely male sounds.

He pulls out. I fall onto my stomach. My breath is rapid. His head is in the small of my back. He kisses both of the dimples on the back of waist. My hands are in his. We are like this for a minute, until we rearrange ourselves under covers, with him on his back and my head in the hollow of his arm. We sleep.

The next morning, we are on our sides, my stomach to his back and my arm around his waist. We mutter morning pleasantries to each other. He rolls on his back. We kiss, small light kisses on cheeks and noses, then heavier, more purposeful ones on mouths. I straddle him. I kiss him. I slip down between his legs.

I take him into my mouth. I feel him stiffen; I wrap a hand around his shaft and one around his balls. I alternate running my hand with my mouth and using just my hand while licking each testicle. I feel him get impossibly hard, and I back off. I feel him soften, and I apply more pressure, with my lips and tongue to the parts of his dick that make him instantly harden, with the knuckle of my hand cradling his scrotum to his perineum and indirectly to his prostate.

I bring him to an edge, and then I bring him back. I repeat.

My pussy swells and drips. I moan against his cock. His hand reaches between my legs and he half-laughs, half moans to find how wet I am. He asks me to stop sucking him off, he begs to eat my pussy, and I comply.

Sucking cock brings me close to orgasm on its own. Being flipped over and feeling a light, then slightly more substantial, tonguing, accompanied by hands that spread apart my labia and penetrate my cunt sends me over the edge much more quickly than I expect.

The climaxes that I reach with Louis’s face between my thighs are of heights that I cannot attain by myself. With him, my mind empties, my body opens and my spine enflames, every nerve from every part of me firing off. Muscles in my pelvis that are otherwise quiescent make their existence known, my throat makes sounds that come from some more basal part of my organism. The sensation from Louis’s lips and his own moans of satisfaction reverberate against my flesh.

He arises. He kisses me, his mouth tastes like my body. He puts on a condom, puts my legs around his neck and thrusts into me without preamble. I am squeaking, squealing with pleasure and oversensitivity as he fucks me and my post-orgasm pussy tightens even more around him. I move my legs down, I wrap them around his waist, he holds my arms over my head, he thrusts into me and sweats.

He pulls out. He pulls off the condom. I lift my torso, and with him straddling my thighs I take him into my mouth while cradling his balls and stroking his shaft.

“Margot, you can squeeze me harder than that.”

I accept the challenge.

His breathing changes. He thrusts against my face.  I feel him orgasm before he makes a sound, his ejaculate shooting straight to the back of my throat in a high-pressure stream. His voice is guttural, his orgasm continues. What I can’t swallow leaks out from my lips onto my hand, and falls on my stomach.

He stops. I pull my mouth off. I smile broadly. We flop over and sleep for another hour. We wake up. We make coffee. I am calmer than I have been in weeks. He seems happier than I have ever known him to be. In my kitchen, we hug like friends and kiss each other on the forehead. He leaves to meet his brother for lunch.

I go back to bed. The left side—the side he slept on—smells of man. I have no obligations today aside from enjoying anything that I want to. I smile, and run my hands across my body, thinking of all the things my lover can make me feel.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

votes of confidence

I was supposed to see Louis tonight to break my dry spell, but unfortunately that did not pan out. I was bemoaning this to a friend of mine, and she knows me really well. This is what she sent me to explain to me that everything will be fine (as before, click through for bigness):

Thanks, Siobhán! I like to think you're right, and in the even that you are, I want dudes in the middle to make themselves known to me.

Monday, May 9, 2011

a very complex decision-making rubric.


I am in the midst of my longest dry spell in the last 5 years. It's not really that long--maybe a month?--but I have noticed that my friends are much happier with me when I am having sex more regularly. In light of that, I am considering taking my graphs to* to see if I can find a young man who is altruistic enough to have sex with me so I don't get all crabby at my friends (click to embiggen):

I thought a Venn just wouldn't do here. Here's to kind, giving perverts.


*not a real craigslist. Also, I clearly don't live at the intersection of Unicorn Lane and la Ravaudeuse Road. Don't try to find that place.

Friday, May 6, 2011


In my day job, a working knowledge of anatomy and physiology is a requisite. My education provides me with this information in a variety of different iterations: there is microscopy, there is biochemistry, there is gross anatomy and the physical exam. There are infinite ways to view the body, and every field that takes care of it develops a unique perspective and language to talk about the organism we live in. Many of these perspectives are things that you can only see on other people, and never on yourself, without a particular creativity or circumstance.

A friend recently had surgery. He told me over burgers that he read the operation report as soon as he was lucid. We have an infinite fascination with the parts of our bodies that only other people can see: the inside of my friend’s spine is a vision he himself only understood through the lens of the surgeon’s notes.

There is a particular anatomical, surgical posture that most women loathe but will experience at some time or another: the dorsal lithotomy position. Supine, thighs spread apart, ankles cupped in stirrups, examiner viewing the full expanse of the anatomic perineum: from the mons on back to the coccyx, and from the inner crease of each thigh across. This diamond of flesh is one of the houses of my identity. It is an inflow and outflow of my body. I can observe this patch of my body (and I have on multiple occasions), but its biological responses to stimulation are things that I never see. The mirror that reflects back to me the image of my own anatomy is not convenient to hold when I’m more interested physiology.

I have spent much of my sexual, adult existence wondering: what do my lovers get to see that I never do?

I have an answer to this question.

One night as I was videochatting with a friend, I sat on my bed and angled the top of my computer so that she would get a full view of my face instead of an unfettered look up my skirt, and I had an epiphany. I’m sure I’m not the first one. In fact, I’m positive that I’m not and that there is, in fact, an entire industry based on the thing that it took me greater than two decades to figure out.

If my laptop was angled correctly for my curiosity, I could get a full view of my anatomy, and my own sexual response to stimulation. The idea gripped me. I had to test my hypothesis.

After my video chat was done, I stripped below the waist. I sat on my comforter—white, with lime green dots—with my thighs spread up and apart, and no stirrups cupping my feet in this makeshift dorsal lithotomy. My computer screen reflected to me a larger than real image of my vulva: I saw the paleness of my thighs and belly, the reddish line where the elastic of my panties had been, the triangle of brown hair on my mons, and the darker, pigmented skin of my outer labia.

I followed a routine, but with a new sense of curiosity. I snaked my left hand down my stomach, and parted open the fleshier outer lips to reveal their pinker, more delicate inner workings.  The sight is familiar to me: the right inner labia is a small ridge, barely there at all, and the left protrudes from my body by somewhat less than a centimeter, with an abrupt angle. They are hairless and slick, and at their top they fuse to form a thin, slender band of tissue that just barely drapes over my clitoris. Many of my partners have commented that I have a somewhat minimal topography: my clitoris is small, hides behind its hood, and is barely visible when dormant. When I am not aroused, it is about the size of a button that holds down a man’s collar.

At the moment, everything is a light shade of pink and slightly paler than the lips on my face.

I watch my right hand join my left. The middle finger reaches down to the opening and finds it wet. It moves back up towards the clit and rubs it in a circle once: I am surprised to see the whole of my sex move around when I do this. I know that none of these landmarks are fixed, that all of it is fluid and flexible, and I have seen enough porn to see other women’s vulvas manipulated like I am manipulating my own, but there is some novelty to see the whole of my labia moving around in unison when I manipulated my clit.

I repeat this motion.

I sigh.

I notice on the screen that my labia are changing: they become thicker. They are redder. There is more shine to the opening of my vagina. I can watch my hips gyrate in involuntary circles in response to the sensations coming from my own touch.

I am transfixed.

My left hand explores my opening. A finger, then another, slip in and curve around, pressing on the back of my pubic bone. I hold my wrist at an unfamiliar angle so that I can still observe my experiment.

There are oscillations: I go back and forth between feeling and witnessing. Looking at the screen and feeling momentarily self-conscious can back off the feeling of approaching an orgasm, but then the sight of my arousal arouses me further. These oscillations are, ultimately, ascending to a peak.

My labia are red and engorged. My clit is obvious and sensitive, the hood no longer obscuring my view. My short fingernails are white bands that contrast with the deepening tones of my flesh that they help to expose.

The orgasm is powerful. I momentarily close my eyes, I pant and enjoy. I have the presence of mind to open them and observe. I am surprised that the waves that I feel are not immediately visible: I feel my insides wrapping around my fingers but this muscular contraction is impossible to view.

In the same moment that I am coming, I feel and I see, and I pull my fingers out. This changes everything.

I can observe undulations of my body. I can see my vagina pulling in and pushing out. I can see fluid leaking out from me and down to the sheets. I can see the colors changing in my labia. I am in wonder of my own body, how the physiology and the feeling are tangled in each other.

I am the observer, the actor, and the object.

Monday, May 2, 2011

grad school

hello sugarpies,

We can use terms of endearment, yes? Excellent.

I have to let y'all know: the next two weeks of grad school are going to be really, really unpleasant for me, and then for five weeks after that I have to go into academic seclusion. It's lame, but it's the way things have to be.

I have revised another chart to perhaps illustrate my dilemma a little bit more clearly:

The addition of the green line is meant to further illustrate this problem. That is: I DON'T WANNA, but I have to. From May 16 to June 18, I will be living under a rock that is shaped like the flat part of that red line. This blog may suffer as a result. I'm sure all y'all sympathetic readers can understand, and I'll be missing each and every one of you pervs.

Je vous embrace, 


Friday, April 29, 2011


I have a crush on the gym. The gym at my school is windowless and a touch dank, with a variety of machines that are fully functional about 80% of the time. Because this is a gym associated with a grad school and it is not frequented by undergrads, most of the population to be found here are less interested in checking others out and more interested in maintaining either optimum health or blowing off excess steam. It is full of beautiful, distracted people; all of them in their own worlds and forgetting their stressful careers in favor of the treadmill, the weights, or pickup basketball.

Athleticism and sexuality are deeply intertwined in my psyche, and I'm fairly certain I'm not alone in this. It's not a great leap to start at spandex on the stationery cycle and a sweaty acquaintance’s grunting with weights. At a zenith it is almost impossible to complete a workout without salivating.


2:00pm is not a busy time at the gym. The people who manage to come then are people who take a late lunch, who have irregular schedules, or are students. People at the gym at 2:00pm are in the habit of sweating. They are acclimated to old tshirts and short shorts in a kind of exclusive public that is limited to only other people like themselves. The early afternoon is my favorite time to check a workout off of my task list. I walk in, exchange my membership card for my locker key and a towel from the extraordinarily bored clerk, and walk across the stationary bikes to the locker room. I stand in front of my locker for a minute, collecting myself before I strip and costume in black spandex shorts, a grey tanktop, a headband, and running shoes. I gather my water bottle, my key, and my ipod, and I head over to a stairstepper.

Exercise equipment forces a certain posture: eight inches taller, hips thrust backwards and shoulders pressed forward, a rhythmic, complimentary flex-and-release of the buttocks is a hypnotic undulation. Everyone is on a different tempo. I pick a machine and settle into my own pace*. I start to sweat. From here, I can watch people enter and leave.

There are two gentlemen who never fail to catch my eye.

They are both about four inches taller than I am. One has a darker complexion, with dark eyes that crinkle at the corner when he smiles. He has transformed over the past few years from slim and willowy to solid, with the same narrow hips and waist but with a new broadness to his back. The other is larger and square: he shows off his chest hair with a tank top and sways when he walks. His stubble perpetually offsets the apparent youth of his rounded face. They are workout partners. They are friendly. They laugh loudly in between sets and stifle grunts during reps.

They always smile and wave at me when they come in: “Hey Margot! I see you're giving it hell today!” the crinkle-eyed one says to me. He teases me like this all the time.

“I do my best, Jack!” I grin back at him. He and Ted meander over to the weight room.

I finish on my machine. I am bright pink, my hair is dripping, and my shirt sticks to me. I clean the equipment off and go to the weight room for the second half of my workout.

I am on autopilot: the routine of sweating is comforting and helps me dissipate the stress of my day to day. The moment after a normal workout is, for me, not altogether unlike a moment after an orgasm: there is clarity, tranquility, and a very particular odor. I am almost there, but not quite.

I walk into the weight room. It is empty except for me, Jack, and Ted. They are ignoring me, and spotting each other: Jack lies on the bench and Ted is over him. I get an exercise ball and some weights. As I lie on top of it—hips pointing towards the ceiling, knees spread apart for stability, chest opened with my arms at my sides, toes pointing towards the only other two people in the room—I am made acutely aware that I am ovulating by both my posture and the sounds coming from my companions.

I lift my weights. I put them down again. I do this again, with a moaning, grunting sound at the peak of exertion. My eyes are closed and I am focused on the tension in my muscles as I complete this self-assigned task.

Up. Down.

I do not immediately notice that my friends are now silent. There is no more clanking and ringing from their side of the gym, there are no more grunts, and there is just some faint chatter between the two of them. I am focused.

I complete my set.

I open my eyes and sit up.

I notice that from across the room, my two friends have barely changed posture, but they are no longer focused on bench presses and are instead focused on me. I am suddenly aware that gym shorts are an extraordinarily revealing garment on a sexually aroused man. I smile at them, and bounce a little on the  exercise ball.

“I didn't know you lifted weight like that, Margot.” Ted is half-smiling. “I didn't realize you were that strong. Would you mind coming over here and help me out with spotting Jack? I can show you how if you've never done it.”

I have spent a considerable amount of time moaning into my pillows and bringing myself to orgasm to the fantasy of this moment**. The gym is cold; my nipples harden as I step over.

I stand at the head of the bench. Ted is behind me and off to the side. He and Jack are both covered in sweat: I can smell them as I approach and now that we are so close it's overwhelming. The smell goes straight from my nostrils to my gut to my vulva.

Jack unracks the bar. There is clearly more weight on it than I can be expected to spot. He does a rep, then two, then starts to falter. I lean forward like I am useful here, and so does Ted, both his arms around me. This is completely ineffective for spotting and absolutely perfect for getting me wet. The two of us grab the bar and rerack it for Jack, who is panting heavily.

Ted pulls one hand off the equipment and puts it on my hip, pulling me back to him and breathing on the back of my ear. I inhale sharply as my lower back angles itself of its own accord to his touch. I am frozen for a moment as he puts his other hand on me and peels down my spandex without saying a word.

Jack is still panting, but now he is paying attention. There is a characteristic bulge underneath the shiny nylon of his shorts. He runs his reddened hands down his body to his pelvis, under the elastic to his growing penis, which he pulls into view.

Ted is kissing my neck and rubbing my clit as he pulls down his shorts. I grind my hips into him with a rhythm from earlier in the afternoon. He asks me to turn around. I do. He pulls over a second bench and sits down.

Jack puts one hand on my thigh, and asks me to step back a little. No, a little more. He asks me to straddle his face, knees on the racks on either side of the bench. He continues to stroke himself as he guides me down. I sigh. My hips sway back and forth over his face while he sucks on my labia and clit.

Ted is staring straight through me and stroking his cock. I return his gaze, put my hands on his thighs, and bend forward. His salt-tasting erection is in my mouth, my hands are still on his legs for balance and one of his hands grips my sweaty hair, the other cupping his testicles. Jack and I make the muffled sounds of people who love the taste of orgasms, while Ted sighs and squeezes my body.

We continue like this until I cannot form a tight seal when I try to silence the moans of my orgasm. I am shaking as my pelvis gyrates at a frequency faster than the one I consciously set, despite Jack's firm grip on the bend where my hip meets my thigh. I whimper and am still for a moment.

 I stand. I take Jack's hand off of his penis, and as a gratuity for the service he just provided me, I straddle his hips and fill my pussy with his erection. I am tight from the orgasm he gave me. He gasps,  grabs me and digs his fingers in. I ride him, facing his feet.

Ted walks over, swings a leg over his friend's lower half, and feeds me his cock. I wrap one hand around his waist and pull him in and the other forms a ring that follows my mouth. His hands are in my hair. He groans and fills my mouth with come. Everything tastes of salt and musk.

My pussy starts to tighten around Jack. My thighs burn as I ride him through climaxes: first mine, then his. His fingers leave small, red bruises over the crests of my hipbones.

I stand, my legs shaky from exertion. Jack sits up and pulls me down next to him, as if he were spotting me in my unsteady stance. Ted collects my shorts hands and hands them to me with a towel. The three of us are flushed and grinning. Jack, who is so very considerate of the needs of others, grabs a rag and the bottle of spray cleaner for the bench, and wipes it down.

“Do you have plans after your shower?” Jack asks me. His voice is the same as half an hour ago, when we were friends who went to the gym at the same time.

“I was going to grab a coffee and maybe a sandwich.”

“Mind if we join?”

“I'd be delighted.”

I kiss them each on the cheek. Ted slaps my ass lightly as I walk away. I half-smile at him; he half-smiles back.

The receptionist is completely asleep at the front desk.

*Recently, this pace is almost, but not quite, entirely Girl Talk, Robyn, and Cut Copy-based. You know, if you're interested.

**How meta.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

other people are also into charts.

So I have my google reader full of porn, and then I have my google reader for my real life. This chart showed up in the latter from a blog I absolutely love, copyranter:

To see the big version, mosey on over here.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Thank you, google analytics!

I have one Mr. X over at The Sex Experiment to thank for the idea for this one, after a series of emails about how it is that people seem to find our respective blogs: 

I'm preparing a post to elaborate on this fact in the near(ish) future.

All y'all are the best readers ever, and also clearly huge, huge pervs. I wouldn't have it any other way.