Steamy

The Need of Memory

a friday fantasty from the imagination of Miss Virginia Prude

I can hardly breathe to think of it, that it was—it is—real. That you wanted me with such unchecked determination. That you spoke my name, one word laden with meaning, hushed like a lover. Like one who loves

That you came to me in the night smelling of club and cigarette, all hands and hunger, fingers all places at once, the ache of it with me still. That you drew my leg across your hips, your hand drawing across my thigh, your eyes half asleep. You pressed your lips on my neck, ate my mouth with your lips—so full, so clever. Wrapped your lean arms around me, drew me into your body. The intensity of it leaving me as hazy as a dream.

I want to remember: your confessions, your fantasies. That you wanted me in you and on you and you on me and in me. I want to remember your fingers in my hair, lifting it away to reveal my face, turning us in front of the mirror to watch me take you in.

I need to remember your smile, breaking like a door that opened to shine a blade of light across your face. So rare to see a man smile in the midst of hunger—pure, impulsive, like a secret joke, a riddle just for two. And your glee…at being under my hand, under my control, submitting to the press of my hands on your wrists, the ever-lengthening stretch of your body, the pressure and stroke of me everywhere while your skin tightened along all the delicate edges. The tension in your voice groaning out your readiness.

I need to remember the way you longed for me, with hunger and the need to be touched, to touch, to be lost in the sensation of one another. I need to hold on to the soft touch of your kiss on my inner thigh, of your chin glistening in the bed sheets. The husk of your parched voice asking “Do you like this? This? This?”

Will it continue, the richness of these things? Your skin in my mouth, my tongue on your neck, your hands on waist, your lips on my breasts? I hedge against uncertainties, against the vagrancies of personality and time. In case this fails, in case one night is unexpectedly, unforeknowingly, our last. I stokepile memories, rebuilding these things in my mind, in my body until I am sure they are real.

…recommendations of steamy things to wear for curvy girls.

Dahlings! Miss Prude is ever-so-sorry, but she in unable to produce another Steamy tome for you this week or next, as she is gallivanting around the globe with a younger man. She will however give you another brief suggestion from Miss Virginia’s Closet.

Now, please recall that Miss Virginia’s recommendations are especially for curvy girls, so this suggestion comes with a caveat. Miss V does not think this little (and she does mean little) get up is especially, shall we say, supportive of certain curvy parts. But Mr. Prude gives to two thumbs up (among other things that are up), so she is including it here for her braver readers.

Everything in this “skong” stripper get-up is fully accessible. It’s already pretty inviting with the mesh and the tininess, but the split-cup bra makes it even better. Split cups may not make any sense when it comes to foundation garments, but when it comes to getting frisky they are ever so lovely if you partner wants to play tongue-and-seek those  perky little nipples of yours. (At least those don’t start sag with the rest of the parts, right darlings? They are always read to sit up straight like a good girl should.) True, “skong” may not be a real word, but if your tango partner likes the view from behind this will certainly do the trick. Sadly this get-up doesn’t come with a pole, though you could order one here. Get into this outfit with a pair of hooker heals and you’ll be ready to shake your money maker with the best of them. (Swing those tassels darlings!)

Miss Virginia will be back in a week or two with a new Steamy story. Good- bye darlings. Don’t do anything Miss V wouldn’t do–and well, that does leave you with quite a few options–even though if you are evangelically inclined. Ta Ta!

…A mostly fictionalized account of what Miss Prude wishes her amourous teenage years had included. This, and dating boys in bands. Sigh, don’t you kind of miss it? Well, enjoy!…

We were young then, and much in love, those days when he took my fingers into his mouth one by one, his lips a caress and a question. And then, a soft exchange, the pads of his finger tips on my tongue, long fingers, an artist’s hands, which I sucked with long strokes, my naiveté not quite catching the connection to other pleasures in other places.

It was the typical awkwardness of teen love – first times (too dry, too tight), bad angles (back seats, park benches), and of course, the ridiculousness of ‘protection’ (so embarrassing, so silly). In time though, we found our way–I always wet and ready for his touch, eager for new experiences; for the probe and search of his fingers, the paradox of his body at once both velvet and hard. Who can forget those early exploratory couplings? The instinctive arch of your body towards his, the thrust of his hips into your own. And finally, after weeks of near-misses, that first cresting gasp under his touch alone, the wave of your pleasure rolling over his fingers—or better yet, the pulse of your body sliding over his lips, his tongue, his wet and hungry mouth.

I never minded the ways we had to sneak and bumble. Mad couplings in parking lots, me astride him in the bucket seats, his jeans pulled low, my skirt hiked high. It seemed we were always half dressed then, boxers splayed open by a body with a mind of its own; satin things pushed aside, the lace wet with anticipation. Oh! And his army surplus coat used as a picnic blanket to save our backs from grass stains, my knees dented with the impression of pebbles as I sucked him, aroused by the salty drops first on my tongue, then rush in waves to my mouth.

Or if even those small minutes of solitude could not be managed there were always hands slipping behind belts, fingers under waistbands, palms sliding up a thigh and under the hem of loose shorts in the back row of movie theatres, or once, in the high shelter of a ferris wheel stopped mercifully long at the top of its arch.

And of course, almost as sweet as the every-time-we-can coupling were the love letters tucked under windshield wipers, flowers left on doorstops, silly stuffed animals with red satin hearts. And the phone calls, so long one of us would fall asleep on the other end. Or the heated glances across the classrooms–too obvious by far to other students and to teachers who turned towards the blackboard and rolled their eyes. Novel then, and thrilling were the kisses behind locker doors, hands held at orange picnic tables over Snickers bars and Diet Cokes.

Then always, after a week of those fine preludes, the weekends would arrive, when curfews lengthened and parents went out leaving behind empty rooms. There in whatever space could be stolen, there awaited the damp pull of skin against skin, and the new moans of hunger in the dark.