English professor’s ass

My English professor’s ass was so beautiful. It was perfect and full as she stood at the board writing some important word. Reality or perhaps illusion. She opened the door. With each movement of her arms and her hand delicately but forcefully inscribing the letters intended for our eyes her ass shook ever so slightly. I had never learned from a woman with a body before. Something slow, horrible and glowing was happening inside me. I stood on the foothills to heaven. She opened the door.

There were a bunch of us in Eva Nelson’s world literature class who had gone to catholic school. Nobody was that different, 18-year-old kids who had grown up going to the Blessing of the Fleet, hooting and drinking beer, who went to Sacred Heart, who played against Our Lady. Hardly anyone in the class was really that different. Everyone it seemed to me lived in a roughly catholic world. But those of us who knew nothing else–we were especially visible. When we had a thought, an exciting thought we’d go: Sst. Sst. Like a batch of little snakes. We meant “Sister.” Sister, pay attention to me. Call me now.

Eva Nelson had been teaching Pirandello. What we really are considering here: and now she faced us with her wonderful breasts. I know that a woman when she is teaching school begins to acquire a wardrobe that is slightly different from her daily self. How she exposes herself to the world. For instance later in the semester I went to a party at her house in Cambridge and she sat on her couch in her husband’s shirt. He was a handsome and distant young man named Gary, he was the Nelson and she wore his shirt and you really couldn’t see her breasts at all but she had a collection of little jerseys, tan and peach, pale gold and one was really white I think. Generally she dressed in sun tones–nothing cool, nothing blue. Nothing like the airy parts of the sky, but the hot and distant tones of the sun and her breasts were in front of me, I was looking at her face and I knew I was alive.

Eileen Myles, Inferno.

Babitz: For great sex, get a vibrator

There’s one thing about being in a bad relationship for longer than you should just for sex: when you get out, all you can think about is sex, and my advice to you is—for great sex, get a vibrator (or do it yourself), and remember how fabulous it was; don’t go trying to get the person back, or you’ll wind up a skull in the desert outside the Bagdad Cafe.

Eve Babitz, Black Swans.

The slippery wet thing with a hard pearly center, jammed in my face

Momentarily, she acted as if she intended to really ravage me, but it was a phoney growl. She didn’t know how. I must fuck Robin. That was my job. She had the largest … cunt, vagina I have ever stuck my finger in. It was big red and needy. I stuck two three fingers in and fucked her and fucked her. I’ve always received complaints that I was rough but I felt like I could have been shoving a stick up this woman, a branch. Her ass was up in the air, it was April and the trees were still pretty bare and I looked through the black rusty cross-hatched window gates of my East Village apartment and I felt detached and I fucked and fucked her with my hand, and twisting her nipples. She moaned and growled with pleasure. Such a woman, I have never met such a horny animal nor have I ever so distinctly serviced a woman before. Do you want my fist inside you. Anything she shrieked, anything.

So this is my late winter stolen landscape. Robin’s hungry butt bobbing in front of my window next to my desk where I write. I felt my home, myself, violated by this animal. I couldn’t stop. This must be what faggots do. The inside of her pussy was hot and warm, it did, it did feel like a live animal. I put my fingertip to her butt-hole but there didn’t seem to be any magic there. I was getting bored. Wanna come up on me. I wanted to be underneath—her pussy on my mouth. Sure, anything. I had no way of framing her true repertoire with these kind of replies. I suspected she had done everything in the past, or on the other hand maybe she was a liar.

Here it comes, the salty hairy organ, the slippery wet thing with a hard pearly center, jammed in my face. I started licking and sucking like crazy. I am wild for the sensation of having my face covered and dominated, almost smothered by a cunt. She was happy. It all seemed one to her, then a great groan and buckets of wet acrid fluid flooded into my mouth, splashing down my cheeks and onto my pillow. Initially I surmised she had come in some new way, but it was pee and now I had drank it for the first time. I swallowed some, but then no I don’t really want to drink piss. I wiped the edges of my mouth and then kissed her. I think she said I’m sorry but grinned at me wiping my face. Do you have any music she said. Take a look—the tapes are on the refrigerator. I lay on the bed, fascinated by the acrid taste of piss, yet horrified at the inadequacies of my tape collection. Da, duh-duh, Da, duh-duh came the opening notes of “Kimberly” and Robin walked naked across the length of my apartment like she was the real Patti Smith.

I think we tried to cram more into her pussy for a while after that and she gave my lips a quick swipe with her mouth, but I really suspected that was not her cup of tea. Because she was not a lesbian, nothing like that.

Do you have a towel? Actually I didn’t. Or I didn’t have a clean towel and I didn’t want to give her mine, out of a desire not to insult one of us. Finally I gave her a facecloth. I guess a towel’s a towel. I didn’t know what was going on. I’ve got to meet my girlfriend she explained. Today she had a girlfriend. A blow to the stomach, received in silence of course. I’m going out too I said. Well then come on, come with me to meet her. I did something in the kitchen sink, brushed my teeth, but I was feeling demolished.

Eileen Myles, Chelsea Girls.

Tango was my game

Looking at myself  in the mirror, wearing this incredible black skirt with a slit up the side so tango-y it made my legs actually look long, with high heels, black stockings, my latest incredible black top, which had baroque lace in the front where you could see through to my cleavage, of which there was a lot, what with these new bras they have now that undo in front, my white-blond hair tousled around my face, tons of eye makeup on my dark eyes, and this matte ruby lipstick that practically glowed in the dark and made me look too tragique for words—I had to admit, I looked like tango was my game.

Eve Babitz, Black Swans.