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From: Susan Susan <susan282@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} New York (voy, f-mast)
Date: Wed, 22 Nov 2000 12:10:07 -0500
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New York (voy, f-mast)

Hey, you! You've probably memorized all the warnings
about copyrights and depictions of sex from your hours
of eye-glazed erotic surfing, so there' s no need for
me to repeat them. Just remember: Karma is a
boomerang.

Intelligent comments appreciated, all others ignored:
susan282@yahoo.com

-----------------------------------------------------

Truthfully, I wasn't that upset when my friend Carol
cancelled our Sunday afternoon in New York. We were
buddies from college, and I hadn't seen her since her
wedding three years ago, but she was a new mom and I
suspected her mind would have been focused on nothing
but the baby. I didn't want to hear cooing and crying
all afternoon; I didn't want to hear any discussions
of disposables versus cloth.

It was too late to change to a later flight, though,
which meant I'd have an afternoon and an evening to
myself before the Big Monday Morning Client Meeting.
This wasn't so bad. I love New York, just like the
plastic bags say, and by the time I checked into my
hotel and dropped off my bags, I was ready for some
exploring.

It was cold out, sure, but it was that kind of bright
fall crispy cold, when you have to wear a jacket but
you don't have to zip it up. I was feeling a bit
lascivious - good loving at home the night before, the
thrill of anonymous travel, the decadence of an
expensive hotel room all to myself - so I figured I'd
play at being a princess for the afternoon. I put on a
long black wool lined skirt, a black ribbed
long-sleeved t-shirt, black boots that went a bit past
my ankles, black socks, black coat. Nothing else. Time
to explore the city.

I made my way south to the Village, where I could
wander through used bookstores and watch the beautiful
people mix with the freaks and the artists and the
scenesters. I stopped for a cup of tea. I read a
chapter of Hemingway and snickered at his machismo. I
poked through antique shops and didn't see a single
thing I'd let in my door.

What I was really doing, though, was stalling. I came
to Greenwich Village on a mission, and the more I
prolonged it, the better it would be. I'm not a
clothes horse, understand; I like natural fibers,
single colors, functional fabrics. I'm jeans, not
pantsuits. But I wasn't myself that day; I was playing
a role, acting a part, and I was far away from home.
So I stepped up into a fancy boutique like I could
afford it.

The rush hit quick, like the ready-to-wear version of
heroin. Within minutes I was in a smoothly-lit
dressing room, stark naked in front of a full-length
mirror, watching my hard nipples carve two arcs in a
silky green dress as I dropped it down over my head.
God, what a rush! I twisted, turned, bent, posed,
watching my tits have the first word, feeling them
swim in the sensation of a silk/rayon blend. It had
two spaghetti straps, a tapered waist and a hem that
ended a couple of inches above my knee - though when I
grabbed the sides and swung them, like I was at a
dance, it rode higher and higher until I could feel my
cunt seeing light from underneath the dark.

You understand.

It went on like this. I sent sales clerks on wild
goose chases all afternoon, while I pretended to look
again and again for just the right holiday party
dress. They were black and red and even blue; they had
sequins and high collars and long skirts. I'd skip
from store to store, slipping from one glamorous piece
to another, all the time waiting for the knock on the
door from the clerk, who wanted to show me just one
more glittering thing as she hoped in vain for a big
commission on a $500 dress. I felt a little bad about
that, true. But I was careful never to distract them
from other customers who looked like they could really
buy some of the things on sale, and anyway, I gave
them plenty to remember me by. Another possibility?
Yes, of course, let me open the door. Oh, it's okay. I
had hoped for more of a rise out of them when I let
them see me half-dressed, but I guess when you look
like a model to begin with and you sell clothes at a
pricey Manhattan boutique, you don't get all
breathless about an average-looking black-haired woman
in between outfits.

But I sure did. I was careful not to touch myself - it
would be so, so embarrassing, not to mention
expensive, if I were to stain a dress I couldn't
afford - but my oven was heating up. Fabrics stretched
across my burning nipples. My pussy playing peek-a-boo
all day long. Leggy blondes watching me change. How
could I not get excited?

I figured I was building up steam for a heady session
with my shampoo bottle back at the hotel. Then I went
into another shop, which at first looked just like all
the others with its blond wood and blonde workers ...
until I wandered in back. The clerk, bless her heart,
left me alone - she was too busy attending to some
other blonde who was trying on one expensive outfit
after another, suede skirt after hand-knitted sweater
after cashmere sweater, monopolizing the store's only
fitting room. I walked past the fitting room and up a
few stairs to the back section, which was full of
purses and shoes and half-priced summer clothes. Then
I turned around and looked down.

The fitting room was below me. A piece of frosted
glass was mounted there, but it was held in place by
metal bolts about an inch long, leaving a gap on all
sides. It looked very stylish and all, but it was a
lousy way to protect the privacy of the woman in the
dressing room ... who was slipping out of her suede
skirt and standing there, bare-assed, wearing nothing
but a purple shirt and a well-trimmed tuft of hair
above her pussy.

I had been on the cusp of moisture all afternoon, so
when I froze in my tracks, the only sensation I
noticed was liquid pooling between my lips ... and a
tremble in my knees. And my pulse shot up instantly.
She bent, twisted, slipped on a leather skirt; I
stared hard, reminded myself to breathe, reminded
myself to continue going through the motions of
shopping. There were eight purses on the rack in front
of me, and for the next 10 minutes, I studied each one
of them like it was made by Botticelli.

She stretched herself out between outfits, I noticed.
She'd hunch over at first, then arch her back and pull
herself up until she stood like a statue in front of
the mirror. I studied her hard nipples, her little
patch of pubic hair, her dirty blonde roots, her
private shorthand of facial expressions. Outside the
fitting room, she looked as haughty and unapproachable
as any other New York glamour girl; inside, she seemed
as vulnerable and self-critical as, say, me.

For a while, as I pretended to focus intently on
patent-leather purse zippers, I wondered if she was my
doppelganger, trying on fancy clothes she can't afford
as a kinky distraction. Then she picked the suede
skirt, the leather skirt and a fancy pink sweater and
put them on her gold AmEx. So she's not me ... but I can
fantasize.

Into the dressing room I went, chattering about how
cute those skirts looked on her and how much I wanted
to try them on. I got real naked real fast, and then
waited - waited for some other woman to discover the
gap in the wall, waited for her to catch a furtive
glance. I waited to put on a show for her, posing in a
skirt with no top, posing in a sweater with no bottom,
posing nude and giving myself a mischievous smile.
When she stopped and stared, I'd start teasing myself
- rubbing the soft underside of my breasts, circling
my insistent nipples, stroking the insides of my
thighs ...

The fantasy had to stop there, though, because she
never noticed. Two women went to the upper part of the
store; neither of them so much as glanced at me. I
slipped in and out of more clothes than I could even
remember - unbelievable, that I'd try on an $800
leather skirt and not even savor the moment - until I
reluctantly handed them back, put on my boring old
clothes, and headed out into the dwindling light.

It was colder now, but I was burning. The last
daylight was fading; the cute shops were closing, the
bars were getting louder, the restaurants were setting
their tables and the locals were heading home with
shopping bags in their hands. I had nowhere to go, no
one to report to, no place to be - and I was feeling
wanton.

I don't remember making a conscious decision to get on
the subway. I don't remember really thinking about
where I was going. It just seemed like the next
logical thing to do ... the kind of slippery lack of
thinking that's responsible for so much erotic joy in
life. I remember getting off the train at the Port
Authority. I remember crossing through a maze of
tunnels and finding myself on a busy corner, my breath
visible in the air. And I remember hunting for the
urgent pink signs.

And there I was - safely locked inside my own little
booth, with a big video screen in front of me and a
fistful of dollar bills in my hand. I was going to get
my rocks off like a man - no apologies, no eye
contact, just a raw visual smorgasbord. I first
learned about peep-show booths in college, when some
dorm friends drove us down to Rhode Island at two in
the morning and insisted that we girls check it out
ourselves. I'm sure I wasn't the only one who
struggled with my lust that night, but that's another
story. The guys explained the basics - money goes in
here, channel changer is here, make sure the floor and
the walls are clean, make sure no one's reaching
through a glory hole. And have fun.

The first thing I saw was a woman's asshole filling an
entire screen. A cock was poking into it easily,
pulling out, and poking back in an inch each time. I
felt a literal shock go through my body, like someone
had pulled a gun on me: My breath was suddenly
shallow, my muscles tensed sharply, my fingers and
toes started tingling. Next channel: Some silicone
queen was bouncing up and down on some surfer guy,
only he was fucking her ass, not her cunt. Next
channel: A woman slowly licked her way up the shaved
slit of a leather-clad mistress with a riding crop.
Then another couple going at it. Then two women on the
same dildo. Then a woman fucking herself with a dildo
with a cock in her ass. Then three guys shooting come
on a woman's face.

Perhaps you think conventional male-produced
pornography simply objectifies women and reduces them
to a collection of body parts, all designed to further
the patriarchal oppression of a system that judges men
by their wealth and women by their looks. I won't
disagree. I marched around proclaiming that kind of
thing in college; I actually believe it's true. But my
god, this stuff turned me on. Within moments my shirt
was bunched up around my neck, my skirt was in a loose
bundle at my waist and my fingers were flying. I
stopped only to feed more dollars into the machine,
two and three at a time. I came hard and fast and it
never stopped; I rode a long wave, minute after
minute, pinching and pulling and sliding my fingers
deeper and deeper up inside of me. I tried my
damnedest not to moan - no sense giving the guys a
reason to linger outside my booth - so I bit my lip as
I twisted harder on my nipples and jammed a fourth
finger into my now-wide-open pussy.

The images were a blur, and even though I tried to
study them carefully - How can she do that? Doesn't
that hurt? How does she get it out of her hair? - they
just flew by in a haze of flesh and juice. I didn't
realize anal sex was so popular, or that so many women
did it without a condom in this day and age. I didn't
realize women could handle a dildo as big as my arm,
much less ride it fast and wild. I didn't realize that
shaved slits are in. I didn't realize how much this
stuff turned me on.

I made myself stop when my $10 was gone - the machine
would have taken the $5s and $10s in my wallet, but I
knew my limit. I was getting frankly worn out, and as
I worked the tension out of my system, I came back to
earth and realized I wasn't in a terribly safe place.
So when the screen suddenly shut to black - right in
the middle of some guy's money shot - I caught my
breath, licked my fingers clean, straightened my
clothes and burst out into the night.

No one followed me as I walked back to my hotel, just
north of Times Square. I could feel that my pussy was
a mess - thick juice matting in my pubic hair, smeared
all over my thighs - but it felt good to feel wanton.
I could feel my chest flushed, burning, boiling ... I
walked quickly, just another anonymous New Yorker
covered in black, blending into the crowds. But my
mind felt like a neon sign, flashing over and over
again: Pussies. Assholes. Cocks. And a sweet, sweet
blonde in a red leather skirt, bending and prancing
and savoring the feel of her own flesh.

__________________________________________________
Do You Yahoo!?
Yahoo! Shopping - Thousands of Stores. Millions of Products.
http://shopping.yahoo.com/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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