bed talk #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

She remembered her latest conversation with her lover:
“I’ve been masturbating again.”
“When?”
“At night, right before I go to sleep. Your picture, I stare at it, think about your hands rubbing my belly.”
“Is that why you took those pictures of me, to masturbate?”
“No, actually I took them to remember you at a particular point in our relationship, when it was still fresh.”
“And so are you saying that our relationship isn’t so fresh anymore, as in sour? Or just me?”
“No, don’t be so literal. I mean, as in we-just-started-fucking fresh. Anyway, do you have a problem with it?”
“What?”
“Me masturbating.”
“No, why should I mind? It’s your body, and it’s not like I don’t do it myself–”
“You do it in the bathroom?”
“Where do you think I should do it?”
“In bed, like I do. And, anyway, the bathroom is too small, too cold. I guess it’s easier for you men to just unzip and stroke. I need to recline to get any pleasure out of it. How do women come standing up anyway? I love it when I see these ridiculous movie scenes like the one in Sliver, did you see it–”
“No, I’m not up on alot of movies.”
“Yeah, well, this is with Sharon Stone, the actress from Basic Instinct. They got her in the tub jacking off. I can tell you right now that’s total bullshit. It’s much better for women, the way I see it, anyway, in a nice warm and dry spot.”
“You are so unimaginative.”
“Yeah, well I guess I’m imaginative enough to keep you interested–”
“And enough to generate a fantasy around my picture.”
“Exactly! Would you like to hear one?”
“I want to hear about your dream.”
“The one about Erica Jong?”
“Yes.”
“I met her once, a few years ago, when I was living in D.C. She signed my book. I don’t think she likes black people.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She wasn’t too friendly to me. Actually, I think she was frightened of me. I mean, I was pretty fat then, and I looked kind of butch in my black gear, but I thought I looked chic. Guess not, after all.”
“Why do you always refer to yourself as fat?”
“Well, I’m not fat now, but I was then. Anyway, I discovered her at fifteen back home in Ohio in my town library. She made a profound impact on my life, on the way I viewed myself, my sexuality.”
“Were you fat then?”
“No.  When I was small I used to think my breasts were growing too much because I played with my nipples too much.”
“Even then a large sexual appetite.”
“Well not actualized, but I did have an expansive imagination from which to feed my fantasies. I think reading Erica Jong and Nancy Friday made me realize that other people did the same thing.”
“Who’s Nancy Friday?”
“She’s this writer from the 70s who put together a book of sexual fantasies by anonymous women. At the time it was pretty shocking to folk since for some reason they didn’t believe women fantasized or masturbated. I’ve been masturbating since four, myself.”
“My God! Weren’t you the precocious one.”
“You’d never know from the pictures of me as a kid. I looked like every other geek.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why, it’s true. I hated myself then. I was wearing glasses, thick ones that slid down my nose, my mother dressed me in these horrible clothes that overemphasized my ass, or else put me in old outdated clothes that made me look old. When I was fifteen people thought I was in my 30s. No one liked me, especially since they knew my parents wouldn’t let me go anywhere or do anything.”
“But you came out all right after all that.”
“And look how long it took. Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate their wisdom in keeping me from falling into the traps alot of my classmates fell into. I discovered that a few years ago at my 10 year reunion. They were all married with kids, or with kids and working at really dreary awful jobs.”
“And that made you happy?”
“Well, I felt it to be poetic justice. They had their glory days in high school, while mine were yet to come.”
“And now?”
“Mine are yet to come.”
[Laughter]
“Don’t laugh, it’s true. I’m still waiting to grow up, to finish this goddamn book so I can get on with this business of adulthood.”
“Guess what, darling–you are already there.”
“Oh don’t tell me that. Please. I haven’t even begun to create my masterpiece that is to be my life.”
“Your grand entrance, so to speak?”
“As grand as the moment you ravished me in my own kitchen.”
“So tell me about this dream of yours.”
“Erica Jong?”
“Yes.”
“I think she represents someone else. Erica wasn’t sexy in this dream. She was old. Dried up. I think it was a symbolic dream, like I was being shown a way to communicate my own feelings of being outside, of seeing others as not so powerful, not so overwhelming.”
“And–”
“And it was like this–Erica was teaching at this industrial college, a branch of Smith College. I know, this is ridiculous. But anyway, I said to her ‘we all have a place here. all of us belong here no matter if we are Jewish, white, black, Hispanic, or Asian. She looked at me strangely, like I was telling her something in a foreign tongue. I felt like I got through to her, but that she didn’t like what I was saying. And that her time of glory was done. I got the sense that we were speaking on a creative plane.”
“And sexuality doesn’t reside there?”
“Yes, but on a slightly different level. I still want to know what brought you to my bedroom, my life, in the first place. And so what am I? A free range for you to play cowboy? explorer? conquerer?”
“Nothing close. A friend, a sexualized friend with a smart mind, and a smart mouth to boot. I could ask the same of you, especially now when you are dressed to provocate, so delicately erotic tonight. What am I to you?”
“A lover, a paramour, a friend…with a delightful tongue–”
“The better to taste you with–”

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