Sunday, May 15, 2011

seclusion

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,

Margot

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 glazed.com: 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 spermglazed.com 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 laravaudeuse.blogspot.com, 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.

Pervs,

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 myfaircity.craigslist.org* 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.

Bisous!
Margot

*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

voyeur


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, 

Margot