Nuestra señora cremosa or Our Lady of La Leche

St. Augustine is not only the first city of what is now the US of A but houses quite the loveliest shrine to Our Lady of La Leche... snarky commentary omitted, but lovely picture of the creamiest of creamy... darling K... (still not converted yet!)

Let me preface this with the obvious, given the known history of Kirsten and my luck with cars and planning, something was bound to go amiss, but, I will get there eventually.

We wandered around the very tiny historic quarter after lunching with her mother and step-father and my parents and the girl, and ended up seated by the fortress sharing dirty secrets and such, and wishing that we could just drop trou and pee, but realizing that a tourist attraction at midday necessitated somewhat more discretion. By night was a different story, but again, I will get there eventually, maybe.

So K. was lamenting the fact that this blog has become somewhat tamer than before, and I realize that perhaps she is right. Here's the thing. I didn't think that I was such a potty-mouth (fingers) but I keep getting visitors who are referred by lude and lascivious key-words, and in fact I wouldn't be surprised if a technorati search for something like "sexy nude teen fucking stallion under water with fingers inserted into nostrils" wouldn't pop this bad boy up on someone's midnight blue-flickering screen, and I know I have never written about anything of the sort (until now, that is) so maybe, just maybe, I have been censoring myself a little. I'm no Larry David, y'know, I just say what is on my mind... and I realized that I must be morphing into a teenage boy because every thirty seconds my mind seems to be on one thing. Gaah. Whatever, I can't be responsible for my nomadic brain.

So here are some racy thoughts for the day. I guess. K. and I basically spent two days walking preparing food and talking, with a few drinks interspersed in the mix. So far, my goal of a glass of red wine a day has been met, in fact I had several. Bill broke out a lovely Syrah from Santa Barbara of all places, before we went out to the Milltop bar (on top of the grist mill) to hear her cousin Ian's guitar teacher play. He was very good, deep rich voice, amazing guitarist, and he played a great rendition of Dylan's "Hard Rain's A-gonna Fall". Fabulous:
Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.
But he ruined it, when I stopped to thank him on our way out the door, by calling me "darlin". Grrr. I'm not your darlin... Ah well. Then we went back to the illuminated fortress, where we wandered around the darkened park grounds. We were both totally relieved (ha, and totally relieved after allowing ourselves to deface, if only with ammonia, the beautiful monument to belicosity in the midnight moonlight) to be able to have wonderfully shame-free, graphic conversations about sex. This may seem strange, but it is not often that you get to have these discussions with friends, where you can talk about the kink that you want and not feel like you are being judged (or like you have to avoid eavesdropping menfolk, for sure). So here's the dirt. K. promised that next time I am in the bay area we are going to Good Vibrations, because I am extremely curious, but too damn shy to just walk into a sex-shop by myself. Internet she says, and I say... I'd really rather look at them in person, hold them in my hands... it is an investment, n'est pas? So why am I so embarassed? Isn't what I feel and want totally normal and acceptable? This is the thought that I was having, well, let me start at the beginning. I love the word for shame in Portuguese "vergonha" which is close to the Spanish, but sounds so much sexier (I believe the Italian sounds very similar). Just the way it slides off your tongue. The word even tastes good. And there is this "orgulho" the opposite, but intimately linked concept, just like the various "pride" movement followers who aim (in their own way) to validate that aspect of their lives about which others have made them feel shameful. (Sidebar, asexual pride? now that is completely counterintuitive... is it something like the anti-breeders? well if it floats their boat... but count me out!)

Anyhooo. K. and I listened to music, but did not get raging drunk, instead we just shared tantalizing stories and fantasies until 4 in the am, after escaping the mosquitoes and palmetto bugs in the hot and steamy tropical night. Yes we had girly drinks, but that just wasn't the highlight. The highlight, of course was the dialogue. Interesting recurring theme. I was joking with my dad on the airplane that in order to become solvent, I should start writing for Hustler. He laughed and said, "well maybe not Hustler, but you should really think about writing romance novels". And then K. was talking about the same thing, she was contemplating a Tranny FTM romance novel and had done some research. Here are the major obstacles (I mean above and beyond personal pride and academic obligations) there are certain words that I can't use. During our three hour walk on the beach on Anastasia Island we discussed the problems with erotic vocabulary. There are many, a few examples will have to suffice. I can't write words like "pussy" or "twat" (nevermind "honey-pot") with a straight face and mean anything other than a very silly euphemistic reference in a jocund tone, and the word "cunt" just makes my skin crawl, and think of sleezy men in low-riding Chevy Novas. "Throbbing mound" also makes me giggle, but used correctly might not be too horrible, but is absolutely, without a doubt, Harlequin (though I have never read one, I swear!). Now, using anatomical references I actually do find sexy, sometimes, but you can't say something like "and then he inserted his glans between her inner labia, glancing off her clitoris with each thrust..." without losing half your audience (wait! what was that?! I know I learned it in 6th grade health class). And for the male organ I am also limited by my own prudishness or quirky linguistic aversions. "Cock" is ok, but it doesn't thrill me, "shaft" kinda works, but honestly the first thing that pops into my head is the sly seventies detective and the pumping bass, with the ladies in the background "mmmm. Shaft!" so clearly, this is a problem for me. "Turgid member" is overly literary and "sex" which might be the romance novel standard for either penis or vagina (or variation thereof... hmmm. useful for its ambiguity) is just a little too, qué sé yo, unimaginative. "Dick" can only be used with "head" and not that kind, you know, think Bush. As in Deborah's catchy phrase, translated from the Irish to the American: "Bush is a wanker = Bush is a dick(head)".

But now I have completely lost you, or myself. Here it is in a nutshell. How do you talk (or write) dirty without bursting into laughter at the ridiculousness of the language that revolves around the unspeakable acts? Here is the most linguistically complex problem we discovered. How do you refer to that wonderful part of the body, just under the curve of your buttocks, the top of your hamstrings, where caressing hands fit so nicely and work so furiously? There is no name for that part of the body, or way to describe it that doesn't totally destroy the erotic tone for me. Then also, K. remembered a sex scene from Scott Turow's Presumed Innocent (I read the book, long ago, but failed to remember this part) where the lover-turned-murder victim offers her "peach" to her lover for him to take her up the ass, saying "I bet your wife doesn't do this for you." Peach? Gimme a fucking break. I think I would have to vomit if I were to refer to my rear-end or anyone else's as a peach. Adjectivally speaking it might work, on some occasions, but definitely not as a pat euphemism. "Buttocks", a bit stodgy, "bum", infantile, "arse" (Brittish and also, unrelatedly, hateful, hateful expression... if a man whispered in my ear "let me rip into your arse" I might spit out, or snort, whatever liquid I happened to be imbibing, or perhaps choke on my own spit, and not because the act itself were distasteful, but that horrible word! - think: finger nails on chalkboard). "Bottom" can work, maybe, but it has all those connotations of being a top or a bottom, which might not be where you want to go, and if not, it is a just a tad too prim and proper, despite the depraved librarian (or school-teacher) possibilities that it offers (yeah, I would know). "Ass" is too prosaic (sorry prose, what I mean to say is, pedestrian), and "butt", well, even moreso.

Perhaps my standards are too high? I have this other major stumbling block. I have only begun to explore my own fantasy world (really, I have had myself on a super-rigid tight rein up until just about a year ago) and I am surprising myself with what I find, that said, I also have a very difficult time imagining fantasies for other people, that is, things that I wouldn't like, or do, myself. I insist that I am an extremely unimaginative person, only being able to envision slight variations on things that I have done (or might do) myself, and I can only base my fantasies in some sort of reality. This poses a problem if my protagonist is a gynecologist who falls in love with a lumberjack. What tools would they use? His or hers?

Wow. I have gotten way off track in my relation of this girl-trip, but then, most of our conversations could have been tangentially related to this ludicrous rant.
So anyway, after a long walk and a romp in the rough and ready Atlantic, grouper and snapper for lunch and the exchange of our CD burning wishlist (I am finally going to have the Cure's singles and DM's Violator!!!) we tried to pick up the rental car that I had reserved in the morning to find that A) the airport rental was in fact seven miles south at the Walmart (of all places) and B) that it had closed at 6 pm, of which the young man with whom I made the reservation failed to notify me. Seethe. Panic. Resignation. Nothing can ever be simple with us. So my daddy (here I come to save the day!!!) dropped I. and my mom at the park around nine and drove an hour down to Daytona to meet us, and K. and her mom and step-dad bustled into the car to drive me the hour north (I was mortified at putting them out:(. We coincided almost to the minute, and all was well. So much for being a grown-up, self-sufficient girl in the world. Sigh.

Now, I need to end this post here, I will post some more photos now that Blogger has its own photo-hosting! (I will still be using my Flickr account, albeit differently) but enough is enough.
Here's us just before leaving, what could we be laughing about, you will wonder...