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Je veux être la fille avec la plupart de gâteau. Regardez-moi dans la glace.
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13 January 2006



We were lying in bed, the sound of the morning radio coming from the other room. We had our coffee and were talking, when I sighed, hearing the opening bars of “Like a Rolling Stone.”

“I love this song…”

“Hey, wait, this isn’t Bob Dylan…” Jefferson and I looked at one another incredulously.

We’d made the same mistake. This song started with guitar and harmonica, in the same key as the other one, and we were both ready to start singing:

inyourprime…Didn’t you?

Now it didn’t really matter what the other song was, and I don’t remember it, other than that the singer was a woman. We talked about our memories of sitting in cars listening to Dylan songs. Mine was singing “Everybody Must Get Stoned...” with my dad outside my junior high. His was listening to “Tangled Up in Blue” in his high school parking lot. I was late to track practice, he was late to math class.

In our strange little parallel universes, I wondered if it was on the same day.

He checked his email; I checked mine and went to kneel next to him as he lay on the couch.

“We’re going shopping today, yes?”

“Uh-huh. You need… what? Presents for the boys? Your mom?”

“Yeah, and my brother and sister-in-law who stayed with the boys two extra days when David canceled his visit this weekend.”

“Such a good brother you have…c’mere, li’l sister.”

He pulled me into his lips, my hands stroking over his t-shirt, fingers splayed out over his nipples. I slid my hands under the shirt and moved it up. He shifted and pulled it over his head.

It was late morning and the light in the living room was clear and bright. I leaned forward and traced a nipple with my nose, the reddish-blond hair soft on my skin. I licked slowly, circling and sucking and kissing. I could stay here all day, his hand on my hair, smiling at me.

He reached down and fingered my pussy, wet and barely covered by my shirt. He moistened a finger with my juice and circled my clit. I gasped and caught the sight of his cock twitching behind the fabric of his pjs. I eased down the waistband and freed it. He sighed.

Now, what to do? His other nipple needed attention, and for that I’d need to be between his legs on the couch. On the other hand, his cock would feel mighty good under my tongue, and I would need to be in the same position for that.

We kissed as I climbed up, sitting between his legs and tending to his nipple with my mouth and his cock with my hand. He was quiet, but breathing steadily.

He pulled my mouth off and brought my hand up into his, scooting himself down, positioning his face under my pussy.

As I straddled him, kneeling on the cushions and holding onto the armrest, I was alert to noises from the outer corridor. I suppressed my voice as much as I could while his tongue swirled and sucked, collecting its reward.

I opened my eyes and stroked his hair, looking down at his closed eyes and then ahead to the table by the couch. A square foil pouch had been left there last night. By whom?

Doesn’t matter, I thought, as I tore into it and rolled it onto his cock.

I moved back, poised over him and kissed his mouth. We smiled. I slid down his shaft and felt him deep inside.

“God, that feels so fucking good,” I whispered, and let my hips take over.

We fucked quietly, steadily, an occasional squeal pinching my vocal cords together as I pursed my lips, determined not to yell.

His hips started thrusting, pushing his cock up while I moved forward and back. I reached down to finger my clit and the heel of my hand pressed into my lower abdomen just as his dick found my g-spot.

Nnngh! Oh … Fuck!”

I kept a finger on my clit and used the other hand to press four fingers into my belly, twisting and humming whenever I felt him rubbing against them. My hips moved on their own now, keeping his cock on spot, grinding myself forward and back, massaging my body with both hands until they were a blur.

My body was shuddering, exploding like those time-lapsed videos of flowers blooming one after the other.

My skin was on fire and I heard my voice in my head, and then reverberating off the walls, “Uhhhhhhhhhhhh…” rising in pitch and volume, the books blurring into one another on the shelves in front of me.

Fuck the neighbors in the hall; I don’t care if Mr. Lansky is perched outside the door listening. I don’t care if Holly’s mom has to fumble with her keys, flustered, in order to get the stroller into her apartment as quickly as possible. This is primal and raw and it is the fucking shit.

I love the way he looks at me when I’ve cum, when I open my eyes and he smiles, searching them for a sign of where I was, touching my face, my cheek pressing into his palm, body slowly returning to its center.

I stared at him, silent, sighing, wanting to speak, but unable.

“I know, baby. Me, too. Crazy much.”

For the second time that day, familiar chords sang out from the speakers:

“Early one morning the sun was shining
I was layin’ in bed
Wond’rin’ if she’d changed at all,
if her hair was still red.
Her folks they said our lives together
Sure was gonna be rough
They never did like Mama's homemade dress
Papa's bankbook wasn't big enough.
And I was standin' on the side of the road
Rain fallin' on my shoes
Heading out for the East Coast
Lord knows I've paid some dues gettin' through,
Tangled up in blue.”

We looked at each other and cracked up.


Blogger Lexi said...

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Blogger Lexi said...

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Blogger Madeline Glass said...

uh, you think? just a little?

thanks michelle; duly noted. the title of the song is not "Everybody Must Get Stoned," but actually "Rainy Day Women #12 & 35."

(wow, i guess that's what i get for trying to spare the non-dylan aficionados google headaches.)

Blogger Viviane said...

Hey, that's the kind of correction I might do...

Blogger Madeline Glass said...

It's a lyric! It's written as a lyric!

Can we stop now, for fuck's sake?!

(walks away, shaking head and looking up at full moon)

Blogger Meg said...

ok, i guess i'm not so bad. i mean, i know the title of the song, but i ALWAYS call it "everybody must get stoned" because if i don't, i always have to end up singing the damn song anyway just so people know what i'm talking about.

Blogger introspectre said...


I love the image of the mom trying to cram the stroller through her door...I cracked up.


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