springtime

It is spring here. There aren't leaves on the trees yet, and the wind is still cold, but the sun lasts later into the evening and I am starting to shed my layers. In the deepest parts of winter I will wear leggings under jeans, with knee socks and boots, and a tshirt under a tshirt under a sweater under a coat. I am not fucking around when it comes to preserving warmth, and I have figured out over the 10+ between me and puberty where the intersection of loathing winter and how to look like a girl with a figure—and not like a potato in shoes—while maintaining body heat lies.

In spring, my city wakes up. We shake off six months of extra layers and shimmy into skirts; we shed cold nights indoors for cool evenings in parks. Men and women eye each other up as they pass on the street because the light jackets of spring and the faces not obscured by hats and scarves are novel, and we notice just how beautiful our neighbors are. We peel back the dry onion skin of december into the flavorful moistness of march.

I am a person who opts to ride my bicycle year-round, in all instances except for when the roads are impassable due to ice, snow, or slush. My boots keep me warm and protect my clothes, and I have been known to wear a wool ski mask that hides my face. In winter, when I ride the wind stings my eyes and tears stream out of their corners, when I arrive at my final destination and take off my bag steam rises off my back. Spring is a welcome change. My hair flutters behind my ears, and I wear a single light jacket over my dress. Before summer, I still wear tights under my skirts, and their hemlines float behind me.

I love riding in the spring: I love the fresh air across my face, and I love being able to ride fast without the wind biting my ears. I race myself through my city: I stand on my pedals and lift myself off of the saddle for bumps, and shift my weight to accommodate uneven roads. I dismount my bicycle and my thighs are the same jelly as when I have been riding a man.

I wear skirts on my bicycle. They stream behind me, flying up or down in the breeze, showing off my thighs as I pass. It is thrilling to me that my disorderly clothing might provide a show to some passers by: I am quick enough that any flash is an accident and soon rectified, but the shape of my lower half is unmistakeable. I wear shirts that plunge in the front and my breasts bounce and sway with the unevenness of the perpetually badly maintained roads of my city. At the end of most rides I am acutely aware of the smell of my body, of the flex of my legs, of the bend of my back, of the soreness of my groin. It is not lost on me that a bicycle ride is not wholly unlike sex.

There was a period in my life when I had a piercing through my clitoral hood, which lasted for about a year and a half and that I then removed because it interfered with the sex I preferred to have. In spring, I will sometimes replace the jewelry for a bike ride. It has happened that I swing my leg over the top tube, hop up on my saddle, and lean forward as I start to pedal, only to notice a newer sensation. I ride to my destination, aware of a more vibratory sense in my vulva, riding faster and choosing routes that I know may be more stimulating. I avoid roads with lights and pick straightaways. I lean forward and give my quads a workout. The speed, the texture, and the public-privateness of my adventures are exhilarating: the wind over my skin and the work that I do makes me fully inhabit my body, and my ride allows me to have moments of truly unbridled happiness.

I arrive at my destination, flushed and serene. I am smiling, calm, and relaxed. My thighs quiver with every step, I am aware of the way my body moves in space and the way it feels in the world. Thoughts of things I plan to do later with a lover slink through my mind: those thoughts are simultaneously more urgent and more fantasy. The prospect of the ride home brings a tingle.

I leave my jewelry out most of the time: I don't want to become desensitized to this particular stimulation, and springtime, with its freshly uncovered skin and bold glances, is the best time of year to enjoy it.

the size of the friend zone is variable

Some friends of mine and I were talking about the fundamental problem, and we came up with a corollary:

Of course, there are outliers and exceptions, and I'm pretty sure the integral of this function is directly proportional to how wet I am around the object of desire/affection.

I'll get back to a regular schedule of smuttiness shortly.

contrat de mariage

This isn't a pickup line so much as a pickup story.

I very briefly lived in France as an undergrad. I wasn't, strictly speaking, studying abroad because I was not affiliated with any French institution and I was not taking classes, but I was living in Paris and conducting some independent research that was funded by my home university. I lived in a neighborhood populated primarily with North Africans, and I am a tall, voluptuous blond (my measurements aren't for public consumption, but my dress size would be an 8-10 if it weren't for my shoulders and breasts). French women do not, generally speaking, look like me. I stood out in that crowd.

CONTEXT: I am walking home to my apartment after buying vegetables. It is sunday afternoon. I haven't showered, I'm more than a little hungover, and I feel like I smell. I am wearing a navy blue dress with a cache-coeur neckline (my favorite). A man sees me in the crowd and aggresses his way over to me.

THIS DUDE: easily twice my age and then some, easily four inches shorter than me and then some, easily 50 pounds heavier than me (I'm not a lightweight) and then some. He is wearing a linen suit. He is not beautiful.

THE EXCHANGE*:

Him: “Miss, you are so beautiful, would you happen to be in need of a husband? I have the papers right here!” and he pulls out a large document labelled, somewhat comically, “MARRIAGE CONTRACT.”

Me: “No thanks, but good luck with that.”

Him: “Well, if not a husband, how about a fuck?”

DID IT WORK: I am not now, nor have I ever been, married.

*En français, pour ceux qui en ont envie:

Lui: “Mademoiselle, vous etes si belle, est-ce que vous avez besoin d'un mari? Voici mon contrat de mariage!”

Margot: “Non merci, bonne chance.”

Lui: “Si vouz ne voulez pas m'épouser, puis-je vous baiser?”

by the river

There are two rivers in this city: one that divides us from our neighbor to the east, and one that divides downtown from the west. The river to the west is scenic and lovely, with a well-planned and meticulously maintained stretch of grass and trees on a path that cyclists and runners enjoy in abundance. The river to the east is primarily utilitarian, with shipyards and bridges out to another place. It is punctuated with small, manicured areas, like the city government came out of its stupor once every half mile and realized that people who live here might occasionally want to enjoy that waterfront, too.

I live closer to the river to the east. I've definitely enjoyed the path on the river to the west, but when I want to go for a quick run—usually around five miles, sometimes as few as three and occasionally as many as eight—I head east for large stretches of sidewalk with nobody else on them. There is a half-mile stretch of a riverfront park, with recessed benches for looking at boats floating by and for enjoying the pleasure of being outside. When I run through here, I'll sometimes stop, stand on one of the wide concrete berths between the immediately-riverfront, hidden benches and the pedestrian path, feeling the wind and sun over my body and allowing myself to be, momentarily, somewhere else.

The benches are recessed away from the path, such that when I have taken the occasion to sit on one, my head is about at the same level as a passerby's ankle. The concrete barrier that I sometimes stand on is about three feet wide, and spans 80% of the length of a bench, with a gap in the middle and some steps for easy entry into one of these cubbies. I have an imagination about this slightly recessed, hidden space: it's outdoors and public, yet hidden.

**************

It is May. I am walking down the riverfront path with a date: a man near my age or slightly older, with broad shoulders and healthy build; darker skin than mine and with a short, full beard. I am wearing a headband in my hair, a knee-length apricot dress with a cache-coeur neckline with a loose skirt and a tighter top, two inch heels, and black boy-short panties. We walk by the river, with a cool early-summer-late-spring breeze on an otherwise warm night, after an otherwise uneventful dinner and a bottle of red. The wind stirs the edge of my dress. My breasts shake and my thighs slip past my labia with each step. My date tells a joke. I tell a rejoinder. We laugh.

He takes my hand and pulls me to him, and still laughing, still teasing, kisses me lightly. His hands are around my waist, and when he pulls away he pinches and tickles me. I jump and giggle, he pulls me in again, and kisses me again, tickles me again. He suggests that we sit on one of these benches and watch as boats lit up with revelers glide down the river, and takes my hand and leads me down the steps to the recessed seats. The bench is cool concrete. We can hear the clip-clop of people walking by, oblivious to us as we settle in and the night air shrouds us away from prying eyes.

He and I continue joking, continue our laughs—a little quieter now—and continue our light exploratory touches. These turn into kisses and him pulling me into his lap. My hemline is creeping up. He kisses me more forcefully, presumably to quiet me a little bit. I am sitting with my back to his chest, twisted around in this embrace, and he starts to run his hands over my arms and thighs. One hand slips through the crossed front of my dress, one runs up my thigh, under the skirt, straight to my pussy.

He whispers into my ear, “Margot, give me your panties.” I pull them down my legs, bending over in his lap, and slip them over my heels, and hand them to him. He slips them into his pocket.

Our voices are quieter and our breathing heavier. He pulls his hand out from between my legs and puts a finger in my mouth. I look him in the eyes and lick it clean. He is getting hard, and I am shifting around in his lap. I turn around and face him, straddling his pelvis, and his hands hide under my dress, gripping and kneading my ass as we start to kiss more deeply. We are writhing against each other; hidden by the height of the berth and shadows it creates.

A woman on the path behind the bench is laughing as she walks by. There is the creak of someone riding a poorly-maintained bicycle.

I lift myself up a little as my date unzips his jeans and pulls out his fully hardened cock, and I lower myself onto it. I kiss him to stay quiet: my knees are on either side of him against the concrete, he is thrusting into me slowly as I ride him; then he is gripping my hips and holding me up as he starts to fuck me faster. My dress spreads out over our legs like a blanket. We moan quietly into each others mouths.

A couple is walking by and chattering away in low voices. I hear their feet as they stroll past us.

I feel suddenly warm and tense yet relaxed; mixed with a certain sense of fear or dread that is quickly overwhelmed with a sense of pure bliss, coming out of my center and going to my fingers and toes. I stifle a cry. My date kisses me, digs his fingers into my flesh, and hardens and spasms inside my body. There is sweat on our foreheads and running between my breasts. We sit like this for a minute, catching our breath, in a warm post-coital embrace with the cool breeze ruffling through our hair. I stir. He pulls my panties out of his pocket and hands them to me, I use them to catch his fluid as I stand up. I smooth my hair, then smooth his. We walk out of our hiding place, and throw my panties in the nearest trash can.

We walk to our bicycles. I ride in front of him, bent over with my skirt flying everywhere. We make our way quickly back to my apartment, where the plan is to shower ourselves clean of the city grime and spend the rest of the night making as much sound as we like while enjoying each others' bodies.

Trends

Some friends of mine have been teasing me a bunch recently about my taste in men (I love them hairy), and combined with my propensity towards nudity, I feel like this is an appropriate graph to explain some of my behaviors.

Things I love: red wine, pantslessness, and hairy men. Yes please.