Wilma's Webworld

Fucking our way into the New Year

Titi de Paris and I are having some kind of a sustained, or at least reiterated thing with this guy who has a fuck pad that's a cigarette's walking distance from our home. It's a nice walk: we smoke a bit at home, and then the stairwell down to the street almost always seems really long, like, as Titi asked one our way out the other night, "Who added storeys on to this building?" But the last time we went, on our way out, I had somehow mentally prepared for that sensation and ended up feeling totally in sync with the time lag I knew I'd feel. Feeling in sync with a lag seems to me like somewhat of an accomplishment -- it might well be in that kind of a rhythm with its relation to lag that writing, these wintry, unwriterly days anyway, gets done.

Out the door and a little high, the bitter cold of the few days before having died down, lapping along prodded by a promising lag, feeling legs wrapped in leather and a chest trying to fill up its shirt: it's a nice walk to the Klebs's piaule --

Irreparable Tattoo 2

It seems impossible to me that there would be degrees of irreparability. Nonetheless, I followed my tattoo-artist’s suggestion to return to consult him at least two months after I got the salamander inked on my back for a touch-up. I had to go to Neuilly, because that’s where Abraxas has settled Bruno to do most of his work. It was kind of a nice detour since I never go the wealthy west end of Paris, and the atmosphere of the place made me feel like I was back in chic and quaint Rockridge in Oakland: little shops, cafés, families… When Bruno saw my face he thought he’d done work on my calf, but when I showed him my shoulder, he said, “quand-même,” and seemed surprised not to remember the fairly expansive tattoo he’d done.

Sex Spots 2

I knew what I was getting into when I decided to name this series of meditations about public sex “sex spots.” What I didn’t know was that the impetus for writing this second instalment would come from seeing the sex spot I referred to in part 1, discovered in San Francisco, and photographed recently by Titi de Paris in Paris gaping in the March, 2005 gallery of this site between the series of sexy porn stars who were edging along my late-morning masturbation today. I am referring, of course, and far more directly than I often do in speech, to my asshole. It’s a very strange thing to be clicking along on porn and then, all of a sudden, to come across your own body in a position that you normally cannot humanly see yourself in. It definitely ran the masturbation session aground as I took some time to recuperate from the (rather mild and pleasant) shock of seeing it there. That pleasure also stemmed from a certain amount of pride at the fact that, first of all, it was in the company of men far sexier than I’m in the habit of thinking myself as being, and second of all, that it was posted in a gallery devoted to men who wear “fine ol’ chaps.” The gallery is described as containing “90 pics of men who know how to wear ‘em well – and exactly what to do with ‘em.”

I think my Sir would be proud.

Sex Spots 1

My name is Wilma and I have been having public sex for…*counts on fingers*…about nine years. Well, unless you count the time in high school where I gave my first blow-job to Rodney up by the water-tower in my hometown, and the cops came and knocked at the steamed-up window. But it wasn’t until 1996 (or so) that I gave into the temptation to enter through the doors of a full-fledged sex club. It so happens that it was the Docks in Paris late one winter afternoon. Things were a little rough between Titi de Paris and me at the time. It must have been, now that I place it chronologically, sometime shortly after the December, 1995 strikes that famously paralyzed almost everything in Paris except for the Catholic high school where I was working as an English assistant. Since I was still somewhat unsure about negotiating notoriously complex French politics, I remember listening with dismay to the scornful reactions to the strike by the obviously right-leaning colleagues I had to share the smokers’ section of the teachers’ lounge with.

Sickness and Health

Whoo, wee – thank the deities for Lulu and the Titi de Paris without whom I would probably not have survived my last several very cranky days of gastritis. I haven’t been sick in the company of a pet since I was a child. Not only did Lulu-Cat often end up fulfilling the function of the hot-water bottle curled up on my belly, but she also seemed genuinely pleased to be in the company of another mobile being sprawled out immobile and napping. Titi de Paris ditched Arabic class on Tuesday at the bastard stomach-bug’s peak to bring me more ham, yoghurt, and coke, as well as to rest his weary bones in some kind of a preventative measure.

Speaking of preventative measures, it hasn’t helped my crankily sick state of mind to watch the New York Times put vicious and disease-ridden gay male sexuality under its voyeuristic microscope over the last several days.

Irreparable Tattoo

I’ve had several requests for more pictures of my tattoo, and given that I also recently, while laying down waiting for sleep, had the weird feeling that the little critter was starting to move, it seems that it is begging for some kind of attention. But, given that I do have a PhD in literature from an eminent institution that has given me work but no job and left me with lots of thoughts I don’t quite know what to do with, I have also been planning a blog entry on the irreparable of the tattoo. Pix first, though, for the hungry consumers: the first two taken tonight after almost a month of scabbing, the last taken the day of. The effort at thought is but a further click away for any of you who are hungry for something else.

Body Work

So two days ago I shaved off my beard.

This
is what was my beard. Lulu watched me from her newfound bathroom-sink perch as I shaved it off in repeated scratches that garnered her attention. My face felt tingly, cold, and weathered afterwards. I had had a beard for two years. And now I blog.  And my beard is slowly growing back.

As of today, its new hairs have company as guests on my body's terrain: I ended up taking an even bigger plunge than I thought I would, and there is now a very large salamander climbing over my shoulder. I say very large because after our breakfast of Kentucky country ham, biscuits and eggs, ("mangez bien" the guy at the tatoo parlor had told me) I had a pre-inked panic no doubt de rigueur for a first tatoo. Titi and I decided that we could tell Jerry, the guy I thought was going to ink me, that the drawing he'd done was too big. When I got there, I found out that it was actually Bruno who was going to do it, and that  Bruno had decided the slimy creature was too small, and they'd blown up the original drawing by a notch or too to make the stencil. After some more hesitation and nervousness, though not really any more panic, I allowed myself to be convinced and before I knew it Bruno was having away at my back. 3 1/2 hours worth. I would say, generously, that maybe 2 hours of this was actual pleasurable, endorphin doused giddiness. And the other hour and a half hurt like fucking hell. Now I have to go wash it, so that it scars in the right way, and will ask Titi to take a picture.