by hannah
July 30th, 2010
When I think of male genital piercings, my mind often goes to a dreadful place—a place of Cosmo horror stories and sky-high gynecologist bills. It drifts to that scene in The Sweetest Thing, in which it took an entire emergency response unit, a handful of neighbors and their grandmothers, and an impromptu rendition of I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing (“Singing relaxes your throat!”) to detach Selma Blair’s mouth from her partner’s bedazzled member. Yep, genital piercing has gotten a lot of bad PR over the years…
I don’t blame the majority of you for voting against hole-punching your happy place for the sake of good sex. There is pain and risk involved, and when you can much more easily read a Kama Sutra guide or buy a quality bottle of warming lube, why subject yourself to that?
But what if you met a guy who just happened to be pierced? Would it be worth a trial-romp, just to see how it feels? I say: Definitely yes…
by hannah
July 22nd, 2010
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 13: ORAL FIXATION)
I scan my kitchen counter: A half-full bottle of Skyy Vodka…maybe; a bottle of Monogamy cab—definitely not; and a black bottle of 1994 Colheita Porto that my dad sent me for New Year’s Eve—to celebrate my engagement. I pick up the black bottle. My dad, who drinks this stuff every night while knocking back a large cigar, still thinks I’m going to develop a taste for it. The stuff typically makes me gag, but it’s strong, and I need to get rid of it before it brings back any more bad memories of how my New Year’s Eve should have turned out. I open the bottle and pour two glasses. I stroll over to Ben.
Ben is reclined on one end of my couch; his jacket is draped over a chair, his shoes are kicked under my coffee table, and he’s recounting the night he and Yvonne strong-armed her ex-husband over recipes. Her ex got the bar in the divorce, but she refused to give up the title to the dishes she’d helped perfect.
I hand one of the glasses to Ben. “So the large white envelope I saw you holding was filled with…”
Ben nods. He hands his cigarette to me.
“Stealing recipes, Sopranos-style…nice.” I take the cigarette, kick my heels off, and recline on the opposite end of my couch.
I place my feet near his crotch, take a drag, then take a sip of the port—and wince.
Ben starts rubbing my feet with his free hand.
“Somethin’ like that. Yvonne’s stubborn. She kept saying: ‘He’s got the best pub grub thanks to me, and that’s what everyone wants right now.’” Ben takes a sip of his port—and winces. “But, like, fries with six different dipping sauces. You know: fancy stuff.”
I hand the cigarette to Ben, who takes a last drag and then drops it into his glass of port. “This stuff sucks.”
We both laugh, looking at one another through the spirals of leftover smoke.
“I’m told you eventually develop a taste for it,” I say. “So, Wiseguy, back to the night of the Great Recipe Caper, were you packin’ heat, or what?”
Ben tilts his head and winks. “Sopranos-style.”
He grabs both my feet and tugs me toward him. I have just enough time to set my glass down next to the couch before he reaches over, grabs my hands, and pulls me onto him. His hands run up the length of my jeans and grab my ass…
by hannah
June 28th, 2010
From Sex, Life, & Hannah::Volume 1, Spring Season (CHAPTER 12: POST-EJACULATORY REMORSE)
I’m in my closet preparing for my date with Mr. Smyth. It’s been nearly three weeks since our last date, and it’s our two-month anniversary. Not that I think he’s keeping track, but…
I grab a short dress (as in, I-thought-it-was-a-sweater-when-I-first-saw-it-on-the-rack short) and hold it against my body. Yup, it still falls just below my ass. I smile; it’s perfect.
I throw on the three-quarter-sleeved black cashmere aphrodisiac and a pair of strappy black heels to match. I head to the bathroom.
My face is better, but there’s still a yellowish-green tint around my eyes and nose. I grab the MAC cosmetics bag filled with the all-new makeup I bought the day after my accident, and try to remember how to apply everything in it. And generously—just like the full-figured goth girl behind the counter did. My phone rings.
“Something strange happened today.” It’s Jack.
“Strange? To you?” Jack saying something strange happened to him is like Rocco Siffredi saying he likes having sex in front of the camera.
“Anyway…I get on the plane—”
“Oh, so you finally decided to leave Maui.”
I’m still not happy about that. After Holly proclaimed she never wanted to go back to Montreal and Lola prodded her on by saying we were all welcome to stay as long as we wanted, Holly convinced Jack to stay there with her an extra few days.
“Stop being bitter.” Jack sighs. “Anyway…I find my seat and start putting my bags away, when this stewardess saunters up to me, her full ass swaying from left to right, and says in this thick French accent: ‘Sirrr, I theenk yuu ave ze rong zeet.’ And then she ushers me to first class!”
Of course. Jack gets to extend his vacation, fulfill some childhood fantasy he’s been hiding about my sister, and nabs a ride home in first class. I on the other hand, get to rush home to a job I hate; riding in a cramped seat, sipping on a small plastic cup of ginger ale, and munching on a bag of preservatives.
“But that’s not the strange part!” Jack interrupts my self-pitying ruminations. “Halfway through the plane ride, she whispers in my ear ‘Get te ze batrum, an liiv ze duur apen.’”
“Great accent, Jack.” I mean it. “You could almost pass for a French slut.”
“I’m trying to give you the full flavor of the situation.”
I tell Jack I prefer not to taste anything he’s ever been involved with.
“Whatever—I get up and look around, and there’s only two other people in first class; one’s asleep, and the other is grooming himself while reading some boring financial paper.”
“No other stewardesses?”
“No, they were all busy serving the poor people in coach.”
I put Jack on speaker phone to try my hand at the concealer.
“So I get in the bathroom, and I have no idea whether to get naked or start washing my hands. Five minutes pass, which feels like an eternity when you’re stuck in the only type of bathroom smaller than a port-o-potty, and finally the door starts to open and I pray it’s the busty French airline tramp and not the gross fat man picking his ear.”
“And…” I prod…
