That bodies bump into each other in beautiful ways, and in violent ways, and in funny ways— and sometimes all at once. That the most arousing descriptions are the ones that are the most forthright. My own top five list includes a classic, a young adult novel, a correspondence, and works by two contemporary authors whose prose consistently. Ah yes.
This one. Buy Now. Her thighs were spread out to their utmost extention, and discovered between them the mark of the sex, the red-centered cleft of flesh, whose lips vermillioning inwards, expressed a small ruby line in sweet miniature, such as guide's touch or colouring: could never attain to the life or delicacy of. How is it worse than mine, love? Yes, it is worse in one part or two. It is thrilling to hear that word and one or two others you have not written on a girl's lips. Write me a long long letter, full of that and other things, about yourself, darling.
You know now how to give me a cockstand.
THE SURRENDER An Erotic Memoir, by Toni Bentley
Tell me the smallest things about yourself so long as they are obscene and secret and filthy. Write nothing else. Let every sentence be full of dirty immodest words and sounds. They are all lovely to hear and to see on paper even but the dirtiest are the most beautiful. This is a young adult novel.
Tag: fictionalized memoir
I wanted to go treasure hunting in Spitalfields Market and meander along the rainbow rows of narrow homes down the Portobello Road. I wanted to walk through the parks, get lost in the city's serpentine streets, visit art galleries and museums, attend ballet classes, host elaborate dinner parties, cook my own breakfast every morning, take photographs, do arts and crafts, write letters and emails, spend afternoons in the Reading Room at the British Museum, and ride the tube to the end of each line.
The restaurant provided staff meals three times daily for the waiters, porters and chefs.
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If meal duty fell upon you that day it meant preparing breakfast for twelve chefs and three porters, lunch for around thirty staff, and dinner for as many as forty. All but me frowned upon meal duty for it was considered an interruption and additional chore to the day's impossible list. The consequence was baked beans from a can, cheap white bread held under the salamander for fifteen seconds, sausages, bacon, and scrambled eggs for breakfast every day of every week for months, even years.
My colleagues didn't mind. On the contrary, it was the kind of fuel they fancied in the morning. And there I stood alone. I couldn't understand why chefs who cooked beautiful, quality food for strangers all day wouldn't want to take the same care over their own meals. When it was my turn to cook breakfast I prepared a buffet of roasted vegetables with maple syrup and fresh herbs; porridge with wild berries, raisins, walnuts, and pumpkin seeds; melted cheese, tomatoes, lemon and grainy mustard on toast; pancakes with yoghurt, pinto beans, salsa, or stir-fry.
And there was an outcry. The masochistic Scot was most vociferous. Where's the fucking meat! What the hell's happening around here? Cooking's about pain and stamina. What next? No more double shifts? Soymilk options with our coffee? I was not one of the guys, but that didn't make me feel any more of a woman.
I found it virtually impossible to feel attractive and feminine, or intelligent and confident, while being scolded for burning the butter, while running around in a tizzy with an unflattering cap on my head, a dirty apron tied around my check polyester men's trousers and thick chef's jacket, bits of lettuce and a cherry tomato stuck in between the grids of my shoe - sunless, sweaty-faced, greasy and exhausted. At half past midnight I'd return home from a double shift and lonely Sabrina would be waiting up to mother me and smother me.
Sabrina had found the flat one afternoon while I was at work, and deluded herself into thinking it could be converted into a Zen temple or an artist's loft with some imagination and a couple of hundred quid. On my time off I was too physically and emotionally pulverised to show much enthusiasm for Nordic grey, bamboo and cappuccino paint chips, Ikea catalogues, feng shui experiments, and make-up sessions because, said Sabrina, 'everyone looks better in make-up'.
It was only a matter of time before my exhaustion was mistaken for rejection and she splashed back at me. You look terrible. You're a slave. Why are you driving yourself into the ground? You never get out. You never smile. You're afraid to admit it isn't for you. Afraid to quit because you think it makes you a failure God, think bigger.
Start your own business. I could help you. Steve has connections.
Stop limiting yourself. Stop beating yourself up! We were at Heal's and she wanted to borrow my fountain pen so she could write a wish list as she came across the objects of her desire. We parted aisles to wander separately, but when we convened at the prohibitively pricey plates, saucers, and mugs, I noticed that she wasn't holding my pen. She sort of giggled and shrugged, and said a bit too casually that it dropped along the way but she didn't know where. You don't have to scold me, punish me, and treat me like a child.
It's not enough that I'm sorry, you want to slap my hand and make me feel ashamed of myself. And after nine months of restaurant labour, I delivered myself from that as well. It's a disturbing sight, but when I ask him about it he assures me it's fine, is even a bit annoyed that I ask. Mozart's 'Serenade for Winds' is in gentle submission and the toy car has finally stopped screeching outside. I suffocate him and I strike him, yet I never stroke him. I never touch him tenderly or genitally. I never speaks to him seductively. I never draw attention to the fact that my pubis is either pressed against, or hovering just above his face.
We never speak about his erection, his masturbation, or the inevitable orgasm - not during the session, and not afterwards. The topic of sex is plainly not up for discussion. He's not here to analyse his sexual penchants but to satisfy them. He wants it to be playful and cheeky. He wants our time together to be spiced with wit and infused with good sportsmanship.
About Lena Dunham’s Memoir, Overshare and Lack of Boundaries
I'm not the sexual object. And yet, curiously, when I have tried blocking his nose and mouth with my palms, smothering him with a pillow, and strangling him with my bare hands, he's lost his erection. Thus I have to conclude that his arousal is contingent upon my sitting on his face. I was searching for alternatives to the restaurant scene when I came across an advertisement for an assistant private chef. Together with the indefatigably cheerful chef Jerome, we prepared dinner five nights a week and brunch on Saturdays for a wiry twenty-eight-year-old millionaire and his thin, anaemic wife.
We spent our days creating a single, impeccable, French-inspired masterpiece for him, Mr M, the young epicurean, and a low-salt, low-carbohydrate, sugar-free, organic, wheat-free, dairy-free, red-meatless meal for her. That was the real reason I was hired, because, after all, you don't need two trained chefs to do what we did. It was Jerome's impression from looking at my CV, and our subsequent interview, that I was a culinary misfit: I was a woman for starters, and then he could see that I'd never stayed in one kitchen for longer than nine months, and that I hadn't worked in a single Michelin-starred restaurant, whereas he had been poached from a three-star Michelin restaurant, Mr M's favourite, in order to come and work for him at the mansion.
I'd hopped from Malaysian to fusion, from Cajun to French, to Japanese, to vegan to Mediterranean, to running my own catering business and bakery for a year. I told him I was interested in international, vegetarian and nutritional cuisine. I remember harping on for too long about pickling watermelon rind and caramelising tomatoes for dessert. There's nothing new in cooking. Nothing that hasn't been done before. What works is what's always worked. There's no innovation in flavour combination. These things, they're what you call gimmicks.
Related The House of Yes: an erotic memoir
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