hipsterotica

2009-03-23T13:12:00.001-07:00

The metallic buzz of the doorbell rattled through the haze of her hangover. Her delivery of hand-kneaded sourdough bread from the Hasidic bakery had arrived, earlier than expected.
She hastily fastened the Free-Trade Cotton Towel around her bosom. It was scratchy, like the paws of her afghan hound Mao. She raced the twelve feet to the other side of her Loft Studio apartment and pushed aside the beaded curtain covering her window, peering out onto Bedford Avenue. She was expecting to see the usual Yarmulke, but instead found her eyes drawn to the black and white houndstooth fedora on the street below. Behind the fedora stood a 1965 Baby Blue Triumph Tigress motor scooter. She gasped, and quickly lit a cigarette. It was a marlboro - she hoped he wouldn't be able to tell.
He reached her landing, his last steps followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of a Bic lighter. She quivered with anticipation. The smoke of his clove cigarette wafted through the cracks in her warped, reclaimed door. It didn't really fit in the frame, but then, neither did she. A single knock was all it took, and she yanked open the door.
She was overcome by the pungent aroma of yeast.
"Are you Agatha?"
A slight nod was all she could muster, and he thrust his loaf forward. She took it into her hands, it was big. Bigger than she remembered. She averted her gaze, but found herself looking at a pair of size 14 high-tops. Her eyes rose to his bony ankles, which poked out provocatively from under his pedal-pushers.
"Is that P-Jack Popsicle and the Theory of Licks?"
She had forgotten about the Hungarian electro-pop emanating from her Bose SoundDock portable iPod speakers.
"You know P-Jack?" She said, cocking her hips to the side, exposing the creamy, unblemished skin of her thigh. "Have you heard them live from Addis Abbaba?" He hadn't. Following her in, he noticed that the shower was running.
"I'm sorry, did I interrupt anything?"
"No, sometimes I let the water run and put on a towel, just to feel something real."
He was hard.
"Let me find the album." She crossed to the Gorilla Coffee Crate that doubled as a nightstand and bent over, fumbling with the clickwheel. As she leaned forward, her towel slipped, exposing a single, ironically large nipple. He put out his cigarette in the burgundy-stained stemless wine glass sitting next to the futon.
He could no longer maintain his disinterest. He strode across the floor and placed his calloused hand firmly on her hip. She turned to face him, and for a brief moment drank in his vacant air of superiority. As he bent down to kiss her, he thought back to his freshman year at Columbia and the Anthropology professor that taught him Ginsburg and anal.
She pulled his hand-stenciled Tamil Tigers t-shirt over his head, pushing him backwards onto her futon. She knew that his cum would taste of weed and asparagus.

Fin

2009-02-10T19:53:00.000-08:00

As we leave Film Forum I begin to feel the bottle of whiskey we snuck in with us. I know you feel it too as I take in the warmth of your embrace on the frigid winter night. The touch of your soft lips against my skin as we walk through the village, stopping only to look at records on the street, which no one is selling. No one is here but us. Moving quickly across Houston we drink more of the whiskey, and you tell me about your favorite noir. Your red sequined converse sparkle underneath the orange streetlights. We push each other into a nondescript alleyway and begin to peel off whatever layers of clothes we can afford to and I start to quote Godard while putting my fingers inside you. Although we are freezing I feel the blood inside my body rising to a temperature not seen since summer. "You really got me wet when you referenced Bergman during the movie." She tells me as I start alternating between licking her nipples and blowing warm breath on them. "I wanted to fuck you after you recited that bit from 'The Man who Fell to Earth.' I tell her as I take in another of her smokey kisses.

"Even though we walked to St. Marks from the Forum I don't feel cold at all" she tells me, still wrapped around my body as we arrive at her doorstep. " I want to give you something I've been meaning to since we met..." she tells me pushing me onto the bed. Walking in like a smoldering Barbara Stanwyk she gives me a femme fatale striptease before we fuck in the early morning sunrise, not letting the sunlight ruin our noir fantasy.

Noise Band in Your Pants

2008-12-02T20:50:00.000-08:00

I spotted you across the basement over the shoulder of the guitar player. In such a cramped space faces were only visible for a glimmer of a second. Our eyes met, mine piercing through your horn rim glasses, totally bypassing the sequin on each upper corner. I brushed my bangs out of my face, pushing the whole deal over to one side so it hung down to nose level just left of my face. Underneath my second hand hound’s-tooth blazer, Argyle cardigan, and Fighting T-shirt my chest started thudding with maniac excitement.

I swilled down the last of my PBR, which incidentally was almost the whole can, and started shimmying my way though the crowd. I parted the sea of band shirts, blazers, and second rate moustaches until I was standing just near enough to see the unlabeled bottle of homebrew in your hand.

I began to dance furiously and people somehow managed to make some space. The band was playing something that sounded like a cat being beaten with a salmon and a wah wah pedal, but with a little more lyrical content thrown in. It was danceable, and pretty soon you disappeared your beer and were keeping time with my spastic flailing and hopping.

When the song stopped, so did we, mere inches from each other, sweating with well earned perspiration. You glasses were steaming up, and I said something along the lines of “I do declare! It’s a scorcher in here. “ I offhandedly addressed you saying to nobody in particular, “wanna go get another drink?”

“Sure” you said and my whole body did a little heel tap. We climbed the stairs and stole some beers, you being out of your home brew and me being too distracted to care what cheap swill I drank.

Somehow one beer later we were out on the porch talking about Fred Penner’s Place, Kurt Vonnegut, and Mario Kart. It was nostalgic foreplay at its finest. I told you about my art career, and you told me about your shitty retail job saying you’d much rather follow your passion for art, though your parents couldn’t afford it yet.

A half hour later we were riding our fixies (I can’t believe you ride a fixie too!) back to my house on Main Street, weaving playfully though the deserted streets and passing a bottle of whiskey off back and forth.

We were up the stairs and in my bedroom in the blink of an elephants eye, you glasses messing up my bangs and your neon pink flats getting lost along the way. I quickly unbutton your Mr. Rodgers sweater to reveal an architecture in Helsinki cutoff with a bit of black bra strap peeking from the cut out neckline.

I begin to nibble and suck your neck, while your hands peel off layers, unbuttoning and unzipping. I pull off your loose shirt. You attack my neck with love nibbles while my hands slide under your shoulder straps and pull down with one swift motion revealing your Tom Robbins Heroine beautiful breasts.

For a brief moment I think of Chomsky, then think of what all his worries are depriving him of while I drop to my knees and begin caressing and sucking your breasts. You pitch your head back and moan, and I breathe warm air onto your tight nipple while my tongue flicks all around the areola and firm bud.

You pull off my shirt and we collapse onto my bed, which is covered with transformers sheets I found at a yard sale last summer. Our clothes disappear though it takes an awkward moment to untie my Throwback Vans high-tops. Somewhere in the background the Kings of Leon are pumping out some tasty rock riffs, while I lick and kiss my way down to your peach fields. I feel my scruffy beard rubbing against the downy brillo of your landing strip, and I push your legs apart to reveal a not unkempt, but non-kindergarten arrangement of pubic hair. I kiss and suck along the inside of each thigh, moving towards your pussy then backing off, then repeating. Between each thigh I place a closed lip kiss on your clit, then flick it once with my tongue. Each time you wince, and after three of four passes, you’re gyrating your hips against the bed to try and head my mouth off at the pass.

I begin to tenderly lick and kiss you clit while my hands explore your abdomen, breasts and inner thigh. Then I grasp your buttocks and begin to work you clit hard with my mouth and tongue, teasing, sucking, and flicking until you’re squirming the way I like you. I play your pussy like old school Nintendo, moving my head to try to make you jump higher or run faster. Then when you’re getting close to the warp zone, I slip two fingers into your pussy and begin with a come hither motion that would make David Bowie proud. You begin to spasm around my fingers and your hips buck unpredictably. I latch on and suck for dear life, until your spasms subside, then I ease off, kissing your clit tenderly while my fingers retreat and massage your lips and fleshy outer folds.

Once you’ve regained your head, I ask for some. You eagerly pull off my American Apparel Briefs and begin to bathe my cock with your tongue. I let you suck and play with it for while before asking if you’re ready. You look up at me and smile, and I see it in your eyes without you saying a word. I produce a condom almost as if by magic and roll it on. You straddle me and that pussy that tasted so good is all of a sudden the center of my world.

You ride me hard, moaning and rubbing my chest while I play with your tits and tell you how beautiful you are. I flip you over onto your back and put you though my driving lesson, until you’re tensing and grabbing at the sheets and wall. I put you on your knees and face you towards the large mirror on the wall so I can fuck you doggy style while still looking into your eyes.

I begin to pound away while you meet me on every stroke. I feel the clenching in my nuts and you lick your lips and smile saying “c’mon baby, I want you to cum.”

I give one last push and lose it, both of us half gasping half yelling incoherently, until my orgasm subsides. We collapse, me on top of you and catch our breath. After a minute I slowly pull out, making you shudder, and pull off the condom. My dick is still pretty stiff though, and you notice immediately.

“Got another in ya?” you ask.

“Definitely” I say.

a re-post to celebrate

2008-10-07T21:17:00.001-07:00

You grimace as you swallow yet another shot of absinthe. I think you're cute when you act tough. As you run your clove scented fingers through my unwashed hair I think of autumn and Helvetica. I want our love to be as authentic as that between Verlaine and Rimbaud. No second chances, no happy endings.

You push me against the cold bricks, dirtying my new vintage Velvet Underground T-shirt. You slide your hand over my stomach and back, softly singing from Tegan and Sara's latest album: "tell me where, tell me where".

I undo your bulky belt buckle and play with the band of your American Apparel boyshorts as you bite at my neck and collarbone. I want to be fucked tonight. I want to be pressed until my reality fragments onto the pavement.

I slowly work my fingers inside you and discover that you're using the smartballs I bought you for your birthday last month. Strong PC muscles are almost as sexy as Mireille Darc's monologue in Jean-Luc Godard's Le Weekend. You're fumbling with the clasp on my bra when the intermission ends. People begin wandering back towards the auditorium, but I decide that the second act of the postmodern feminist interpretation of Candide can wait. I pull your head against my chest and exhale, "start again, start again."

2008-10-06T22:32:00.000-07:00

2008-10-06T22:19:00.000-07:00

She pushed him like a living toy onto the college grass. His mouth wooed her. Did you see the words? They caressed her sensuous pale skin like two sails on a sound. They fucked purposely out of sync with the inside music as April imagined the soundtrack of "Run, Lola, Run" beating away inside her brain. She rode his peacebone harder and harder until, amid his loud water cursing, he essploded. A little too soon, she thought, but this wouldn't turn into something anyway. Quite suddenly, she gasped, and spasmed in fireworks. At the top of her voice she screamed "This one's for Reverend Green!" in a burst of ironic joy. It was the type of night when you collected your animals with haste.

2008-10-06T22:08:00.000-07:00

Wafting from the window of a studio apartment was the damp dark smell of a wet clove cigarette, still burning, burning like the desire in the loins of two young hipsters lounging on a fire escape. The metal was cold and glistening with water from a rain that minutes ago left them both soaked.

Jade lifted her sopping head to stare intently into Kenneth's bottomless eyes. She had to squint to see into the depths of his soul. He was, after all, wearing thick black framed glasses. Kenneth wiped the droplets off of his lenses with his striped vintage shirt. As he lifted the fabric, Jade got a glimpse of what was underneath. His abdomen, shining like the moon, glowed delicately. She breathed in sharply. He set the glasses back onto his slightly crooked nose.

"Jade..." said Kenneth, with a look of utmost desire and emotion.
"What is it baby?"
"Wait…Hmm hmm hmm woop woo woop..." huffed Kenneth, eyes shut in concentration. Jade wrinkled her nose in confusion.
"Baby, what the fuck?"
"I was quoting an Animal Collective song. It just came to me."
"You are so right." Jade began rubbing her hand down his chest, smoothing out the wrinkles of his shirt. Ever so slowly, she began unbuttoning his faded jeans.
"What are you doing? Someone could see!"
"Yea. Doesn't it make you hot?" Kenneth began to howl.
"Oh baby I know you like it rough." Jade snarled.
Kenneth let out a moan as Jade began running her fingernails along his shaft. It was already beginning to stiffen. They frantically ripped off each other's garments. As he was beginning to remove her scarf she grabbed his wrist.
"No. Let me." She put his hands behind his back and tied him to the handrail.
"There is no escape from this fire escape. Hahahaha." She giggled, pushing him down on his knees. Kenneth chuckled nervously and tested his strength against his bondage. It was to no avail. Her knots were strong from her participation in the subversive underground knitting movement. He gulped a small gulp, but a gulp nonetheless.

Jade began to undo her own pants. There were many zippers to unzip. She stood before him in her skivvies that portrayed many small owls doing macramé.
"These are my sex panties. Do they make you hot, you sweaty bitch!?!?!" Jade yowled. Kenneth cowered before this Amazonian woman. He fervently tried to hide behind his overgrown bangs. Her musk hit him in powerful waves. It was a mix of cigarettes, stray cats, moldy literature, residual love-making, and tempeh. He squeaked.
"Did you say something my little mollusk? Are you ready to come with me to my octopus's garden?"
"Are the Beatles clichéd yet?" Kenneth whispered.
"They're so clichéd that they're cool again." Jade hissed, flicking sweat and spit onto his pallid dick as she spoke. He braced himself. They were both in a fever from all the tension.
"I want to fuck you like an animal!" Jade screamed.
"That is so 90s! The 90s are in! Give me that grungy pussy and fuck me already you fucking bitch!" Kenneth yodeled. Jade got down on her hands and knees, and slowly slid onto his ready cock. Kenneth came.
"Fuck." he cursed quietly.
"I'm going to go wash up." She got up and went back into the apartment.
"Wait a second! This hasn't happened to me since the Morissey concert…" Kenneth grumbled, fidgeting against his bonds. It was just about dawn. The city was lifting its monstrous head from slumber. Kenneth yelled into the window as he saw Jade stir frying tofu for breakfast.
"Let me in!"
"Breakfast is almost ready!" Jade replied.
She smiled as her neighbors began to leave for work.

2008-07-01T22:37:00.000-07:00

She saw him from a distance. He, like her, was swaying listlessly to the band onstage, hair fluffed high, hands in the pockets of his vintage leather jacket. He probably got it at Salvation Army. She nurtured a small feeling of superiority. She got all of her vintage clothing at a privately-owned thrift store that was only open two hours a week. No one knew about it. It was her special, dark place, and she couldn't wait for it to sell out so she could tell everyone she went there before it was cool.

As she watched, he adjusted his shades — necessary in the harsh indoor light of the Two Gallants concert. She couldn't see his eyes, and suddenly, she desperately wanted to. Would they be gray like the buildings in Williamsburg, or brown like the dirty orphans that lived on her stoop? She snapped her gaze down to his skinny jeans, and stared at his Keds. They were the same color as hers: white.

Self-consciously she wondered if her retro 1970s dress was ironic enough. It was garish, but not garish enough. Maybe someone thought she bought this dress sincerely.
Well, there was only one thing to do: look as uninterested as possible. She sucked at her Parliament Light, wondering if she'd get a chance to snort the coke she'd snuck in.

"Hey, could I bum a cigarette?"

Like a yuppie soccer mom looking at the window display of Pottery Barn, he was at her elbow, peering at through his shades, her aviators, and the long greasy bangs that hung down her face. She pretended not to hear him, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

"Hey, Carly Simon. Could I bum a cigarette?"

Carly Simon? So he was into seething out-of-control party girls. Didn't he realize that she didn't care about Carly Simon, out of control party girls, or anything else that he was saying? She raked her grimy fingers through her bangs, pulling them back over her eyes, and pulled on her Parliament Light.

"Why should I? Aren't cigarettes just a social construct?"

He paused, taking a swig of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. Then he leaned close to her and whispered, "I want you. Even if your dress is too sincere."

He took off his shades, and she saw that his eyes were blue. Blue like the veins that stood out from her pale white arms, blue like the veins that probably ran down his skinny, soft, white stomach.

She grabbed his oversized belt buckle, pulling his skinny hips close. The PBR in his hand spilled onto the people around them, but concerts were exhibitionist manifestations of the Panopticon, anyway. She slid her hands under his flannel shirt, running her hands over the wifebeater he was wearing underneath.

Before she could deconstruct the rest of his outfit, he slipped his hand down her teal leggings and into her Hello Kitty panties. She tried to appear as apathetic as possible as she dug her fingernails into his pale, slouching back. This was almost as good as the time she read Proust for the first time...but not as good as the time she read James Joyce's Ulysses for the first time. The only time she'd had sex that good was when the graffiti artist on the subway and she had copulated on the 6 train as a form of social commentary.

Now he was muttering band names into her hair, caressing her hair with the same attention he'd show a record player.

"Do you want to fuck on my used mattress in a studio loft in Williamsburg?" she whispered.

"No."

"Oh." She awkwardly turned to the side, and he slid his hand out of her underwear. "Whatever."

2008-07-01T22:00:00.000-07:00

We drank and danced all night, and I normally fuck DJs over rocker guys, but open bar will do strange things to a girl. He danced like he was being attacked by a swarm of bees, and I knew he liked me when he only made out with two of my friends in the bathroom. He said he lived in “east Williamsburg”, but I know that meant Buschwick, so I suggested my place. He pulled my hips to his and kissed me allover my neck on the F train, and finger fucked me while we waited for the L train at 6^th avenue. I bought a 6 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon on the way back to my place, as the commute was sobering me up and he wasn’t as cute outside of a dark club.

I took out his cock and his jet black fashion mullet wouldn’t have led me to believe he was a ginger, but his pubes proved me wrong. He nibbled on my ear and told me to check out his band’s myspace. I decided to put on my “Rap” playlist on my iPod, because it’s cool to be open to different types of music. He said something about not having a condom so I quickly dumped out my huge black purse I only spent $20 on at canal street to find one of the twenty free NYC condoms I had stolen from Union Pool the previous night. He picked up the photobooth pictures from the spilled contents of my purse, and commented on how hot the guy with me was. Bisexuals are so progressive. In our sweaty throws of passion, I completely ignored my roommates desperately trying to sleep on the other side of the wall. I knew all they could hear was the squeaking of us fucking on my ikea sofa futon.

As I took pictures on my camera phone of him passed out on my couch the next morning wearing nothing but baby blue American apparel briefs, I knew there was a revealing myspace bulletin in his future….when I came out of the bathroom and he had dressed himself in MY cheap Mondays thinking they were his, I knew he was the one. We laughed a kind of laugh that only comes from the happiness of finding that perfect sweater vest at beacon’s closet. He asked if he could use my eyeliner before he left, and as I watched him leave I knew we would have a long happy relationship for the next three months.

2008-02-04T20:46:00.000-08:00

As I bent over to see what he was reading on his sleek white-as-cum 13" MacBook screen on his lap, I could see he had taken off his black H&M jeans. Licking my lips, I pulled out his (also 13") cock. And in mid-blow, as I read the latest neo-feminist screed on Jezebel, I said to myself, "Oh god" -- both reacting to the size of his massive cock and the total injustices faced by women today.

With my right hand, I could feel his balls rippling (I know "wtf right?"), ready to burst, through his pine green boxer briefs from American Apparel...

2008-01-13T03:04:00.000-08:00

I smile as you enter the bedroom, your halloween makeup starting to smear only ever so slightly, even after dancing all night. I run my hands through your beehive hairdo as you slowly strip me of my cheap mondays. Zach Condon sings softly over my speakers while I help you pull off the black tank top you have on, revealing those fantastic breasts, held together by the agent provocateur bra I worked weeks at the cafe to buy for your birthday. You're wearing my neon orange american apparel underwear, which makes me smile more. "I was wondering where these went" I whisper in your ear as I slide them off. My mouth following down from your ear, down your arms with all the hand drawn tattoos and further down your body... I can hear you moaning softly, sweetly. Your eyes closed tightly, I start to peel off your thick black fake eyelashes. As we begin to fuck I start to think that I love you, but that you were still only the second hottest Amy Winehouse at the party.

2008-01-12T02:00:00.000-08:00

You grimace as you swallow yet another shot of absinthe. I think you're cute when you act tough. As you run your clove scented fingers through my unwashed hair I think of autumn and Helvetica. I want our love to be as authentic as that between Verlaine and Rimbaud. No second chances, no happy endings.
You push me against the cold bricks, dirtying my new vintage Velvet Underground T-shirt. You slide your hand over my stomach and back, softly singing from Tegan and Sara's latest album: "tell me where, tell me where".
I undo your bulky belt buckle and play with the band of your American Apparel boyshorts as you bite at my neck and collarbone. I want to be fucked tonight. I want to be pressed until my reality fragments onto the pavement.
I slowly work my fingers inside you and discover that you're using the smartballs I bought you for your birthday last month. Strong PC muscles are almost as sexy as Mireille Darc's monologue in Jean-Luc Godard's Le Weekend. You're fumbling with the clasp on my bra when the intermission ends. People begin wandering back towards the auditorium, but I decide that the second act of the postmodern feminist interpretation of Candide can wait. I pull your head against my chest and exhale, "start again, start again."

2008-01-11T02:54:00.000-08:00

Something sharp was digging into her hip. She
unlatched the carabiner on his pants, sending all 30
keys crashing to the ground, and his Dickies following
quickly after. His too-tight briefs were pink, but
she just knew they were organic.

In the dimly lit room she could make out a poster. She
panicked. Was that Brooke Burke? He pushed her down
to his uncircumcised dick (he told her his penis was
ironic), and she was pretty sure his pubic hair was
shaped into a landing strip. His balls were definitely
shaved. Everything smelled like cologne.

"Oh that feels so good. How about some music? Have you
ever heard of Arcade Fire? They're kinda indie."

She heard the unmistakable bassline of ‘Haiti’ through
the Bose Wave Music System. "Have you heard this
yet?"

A wave of nausea washed over her.

"Yes."

Mid-blow she quickly scanned his bookshelf: Dan
Brown’s "The Da Vinci Code". Dan Brown's "Angels and
Demons".

"Oh fuck no," she said.

"I hope you don't mind, but I get a little racist when
I fuck."

Her head was spinning. She was going to vomit.

"Where are we?"

"Williamsburg, baby. Williamsburg. With the artists."

2008-01-10T00:09:00.000-08:00

SMS: After you cut my hair I'm going to play with the hem of your dress until you sigh like Jennifer Tilly and kiss my breasts while we listen to Andrew Bird until sunrise.

2007-10-11T10:39:00.001-07:00

"Don't forget to write, let us know what you're up to over the next few years." –Win Butler of Arcade Fire

Walking across the Triborough bridge. It smells like summer in New York—which isn’t a good thing. But we are making this pilgrimage together—with the rest of these well dressed figures for the final night of touring for Arcade Fire and LCD Soundsystem.

The show is loud and perfect. “New York I love you---but you’re bringing me down”. Arcade Fire is a cathartic encounter. Takes the air out of me, when you hold me from behind during Neighborhood #1—“Then I’ll dig a tunnel…from my window to yours.”

My feet are numb from hours of standing. You hold my hand the whole way home, the headlights of the cars guiding our way back to the city.

2007-07-17T15:39:00.000-07:00

She knows he’s ready because she can hear the clatter of his all his belts – four, possibly five – as they hit the floor, buckle against boards.

He’s not so much in the bedroom as standing silhouetted behind the painted sheet that separates where he’s placed his bed from the rest of his studio. And it’s not so much a bed as it is a box spring and a mattress on the floor. But it’s real, she thinks. You know? Real. Like Bjork.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m ready.”

She moves around the hanging sheet, and he stands there, all his bones surfacing against his pale skin, paler in the blue light from his iBook. He is skinny, skinnier than the boys she remembered in high school, but there is a dichotomy to the way his face is white and his hair is black, sweeping over one eye – the way his body his tense but his lips are soft with organic balm. She knows he will taste like ginger, and she knows she will taste like coffee and Parliament Lights.

Pulp is playing – softly – and is it appropriate that it’s the Hardcore album, the one with the picture of the porn starlet on the front, right before they do the inevitable and fuck? Fuck hardcore?

Her clothes are wet from riding back to his studio in the rain, clinging to him on the back of his moped, and the buttons on her denim jacket stick. The light glints off all her one-inch pins (Cursive, The Paper Chase, Nine Inch Nails (just to be kitsch) and a plea to put an end to sweatshops), and off her black fingernails and all the piercings in her ears and the one in her lower lip.

The tension in the room is palpable, though the air is cool. She slips out of her tunic dress, peels away her lace, footless tights and slips out of her ballet flats. She unhooks her bra and throws it aside and as she rolls down her panties, he can see she hasn’t shaved in at least a week.

But it’s okay with him. He hasn’t shaved in four days.

She steps closer to him; he is trembling. As she presses her body against his own, he whispers into her ear,

“Don’t you think it’s strange we’ve been going to the same coffeehouse for three months and still haven’t fucked?”

“No,” she says. “I knew it would happen when you wrote that thing on the bathroom wall with a Sharpie.”

“You knew that was me?”

His hand reaches down to feel between her thighs, to softly thumb her clitoris like he would the E string on his acoustic guitar.

“Who else would write, ‘Wait, they don’t like you like I love you, Amelia?,” she asks.

He pulls her down to his mattresses, and it’s a long way, and an entanglement of their tiny limbs, but once they are there, he is on top of her, kissing her madly.

As he slips his knee between her thighs, spreading her legs with the same joy as when his favourite band puts out a new album and he’s yet to see the liner, he feels his cock grow hard and his heart start to pound to the bass line that backs the voice of Jarvis Cocker.

“I knew when I saw you reading that dog-eared copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being that I would make love to you,” he says.

She takes his cock in her hands, stroking and then surprises him:

“Roll over.”
“What for?”
“Just do it.”

He is confused, but he climbs off of her and settles down on his stomach. She sits and reaches for her messenger bag.

“What are you getting?”

“Relax, Winston.”

He thinks of Frankie Goes to Hollywood and tries. He can’t see her behind him, but he can hear the clicking of something metal, like a belt. Like his belts that clattered to the floor.

He can see her shadow falling over him as he stares at his hands splayed out before him, the Ms indicating he is only 19 still visible from the show the night before.

And then he feels it, a cold, wetness at his anus.

“What are you doing?”

“Shhh,” she says.

“I’m going to use my strap-on.”

He tries to roll over but she pushes him back down.

“This is progressive, Winston,” she says. “Don’t you want to be progressive?”

And Winston does very much want to be progressive. He closes his eyes and he lays there, and he keeps thinking about that Frankie Goes to Hollywood song, and keeps trying to relax as she begins to ease the plastic through the threshold. His cock is still hard, and his mind racing from the Aderall he snorted off the back of the coffeehouse toilet six hours ago.

She softly sings My Body is a Cage from Arcade Fire’s last album to him.

“My minds holds the key,” he mutters to himself as he resists tensing. “My mind holds the key.”

2007-07-17T15:34:00.000-07:00

Your calloused fingers, rough from playing guitar with no pick, dig through mounds of my perfectly quaffed fringe mullet. You knaw at my small breasts and moan, "Baby, you're tits are just like Chloe Sevigny in the Black Rabbit." I don't correct you even though I know it's really, "The Brown Bunny, that lame VincenT Gallo flick." Fuck that, I just want you to dive head first between my thighs while I smoke Cadillac Newport 100s and think about the perfect tattoo to get on my wrist. It's say, "All things know/ All things know", a nod to Chicago but Sufjan Stevens, totally subtle yet any real fan would know. Sometimes I feel so deep I could drown in my own thoughts. I met you at the Beauty Bar. I hate drinking but managed to slug down a few Stella Artois so you'd think I was drunk when I brought you home to my Williamsburg apartment. Damn, what's a girl gotta do to get laid in this city? I mean, I talked your ear off about Rainer-Maria Rilke and Bukowsky. You'd have to know that I was at least somewhat educated. As you tug at the belt loops of my vintage levis and I kick off my Marc Jacob pumps your geisha-themed sleeve tattoos graze my inner thigh. I just about came when I ripped your shirt off and saw the label, "Marc Jacobs". This was so meant to be. Ps. Thanks for the rim job!

2007-06-05T18:58:00.000-07:00

You just scored some Coachella tickets from your best friend and ask me
if I want to go with you. I respond by taking off my thrift store shirt. I tell
you that undergarments are a symbol of the patriarchy and you agree. You
begin kissing my neck and whisper, "I want to hear you moan like Bjork
singing Joga." We fuck so hard that your carefully gelled hair falls down
into your eyes, and I think you look a little bit like Brian Wilson in his
younger days.

In The Backseat With The Headlights

2007-05-04T15:42:00.000-07:00

The Headlights on Myspace

The Headlights Website

-All questions answered by Erin of The Headlights

What album do you like to listen to while making out?

yo la tengo, and then nothing turned itself inside out.

What song describes your first kiss?

ummm. some beach boys song maybe.

What is your favorite sandwich?

we went to this place in portland, oregon called Gravy. They had this AMAZING grilled salmon sandwich. i dont know if its my favorite...but it was really good

Do you find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?

It's hard to be away from your mate on the road. But it really just depends on the couple.

Describe your perfect date?

making a great meal together at home. watching movies. just being home with the person you love.

Favorite Superhero?

Quail man...come on I know some of you watched Doug too.

What song turns you on every time you hear it?

D'Angelo record Voodoo is unbelievably sexy.

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?

Guitar.

Leather or lace?

lace.

Do you date other musicians?

yes i date another musician.

What do you like to do after sex? Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars, eat pop tarts?

That is for only us to know.

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?

I haven't had a first date for a while. My boyfriend would tell you yes though.

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy?

nope...that sounds like the making for a really bad song.

If you could make out with any musician who would it be?
hate to be cheesy but, my boyfriend.

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?
I think that music is always closely tied to emotions. so are love and sex. therefore, it's a perfect match.

Lastly…..what is your favorite love song?

This must be the place (naive melody) Talking Heads

2007-03-12T22:58:00.000-07:00

You’ve been on tour for 4 days. I’ve read Side Effects by Woody Allen, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, and The Neon Bible. I listened to the new AIR album 8 times and still can’t get into it. I heard all the voices in the background during every call, while the line on my end just echoed some shitty Gorilla vs. Bear band—that I will probably end of loving.

I was mad when I got The Break Up in the Netflix envelope. I can’t believe you hacked my netflix account in order to make sure that I don’t watch Devo: The Complete Truth About De-evolution without you. The Lake House has mysteriously found its way as #3 on my queue list behind Employee of the Month and The Last Kiss. Fuck off! Thanks to you-- I might never get Zach Galifniakis’ new DVD or Sherrybaby starring Maggie Gyllenhaal. In your honor I put in Secretary with Ms. Gyllehaul and got myself off 3 times in the first 40 minutes.

When you get home I want you to walk through the door smelling like road trips and whisky. Turn up the speakers and play me the new Wilco album while I’m still sleeping and then climb in to bed and put your hand inside me. Fuck me back and forth with your fingers until I start to suck your dick to the sounds of Jeff Tweedy echoing in my Art Noveau/Flea Market studio. An hour later we will make vegan breakfast and then sleep for 3 days straight.

In The Backseat With The Submarines

2007-02-20T16:48:00.000-08:00

www.thesubmarines.com/
myspace.com/thesubmarinesmusic

What album do you like to listen to while making out?

blake: depends on what kind of make-out but, sometimes 'astralweeks' by
van morrison.

John: The Best Of Bread by Bread. David Gates is so dreamy.

What song describes your first kiss?

blake: 'thirteen' by big star - mine was under the desks in first grade.
catholic school will do that to you.

John: Mine was in 5th grade and i can't think of a song that discribes the
situation. I wrote Holly Meyers a note asking her if she wanted to kiss
after school. When we met, I was absolutely petrified with anticipation
and she had to make the first move. Maybe an Alfred Hitchcock soundtrack?

What is your favorite sandwich?

blake: fresh mozarella, basil and tomatoe - with everything really fresh
and some amazing french bread and really dry white wine. ummm.

John: A total guilty pleasure is the grilled cheese with spinach and
chipotle sauce from Millie's in Silverlake.

Do you guys find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?

blake: we're in a lucky situation of getting to tour as a couple. hotel
rooms and strange places do it for me, so...i would say it helps.

John: yeah. i agree with blake. it's fresh.

Describe your perfect date?

blake: hmmm well that has changed a little. truth be told i think we're
both ecstatic just to see a good movie, have a lovely meal, drink some
wine and come home. leisure's become a real luxury.

John: that sounds perfect. doing all of the above at home is just right too.

What turns you on?

blake: the unexpectedly innapropriate. or the unexpected and
innapropriate.

John: This is too naughty. I shall not reveal.

What song did you lose your virginity to?

blake: i think it was totally quiet, but maybe that's because i was just
concentrating.

John: I belive the record was Murmur by REM. I don't remember a specific
song.

Favorite Superhero?
John: Bootsy Collins

What song turns you on every time you hear it?

blake: almost anything by serge gainsbourg.

John: Especially if Bridgette Bardot is breathing in it.

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?

blake: on its own, definitely the cello. otherwise, if played by the
right person, they're all sexy. i've even seen sexy triangle playing!

John: The tambourine is fucking hot! I also love the cello but maybe
that's more romantic.

Craziest place you've ever made out?

blake: i still appreciate the airplane. it takes some incredible coaxing
to relax on a plane for me, so it's quite a nice thing when it happens.

John: Yeah, that was a long flight. It was exciting-even when the drunk
Afrikaner dude was banging on the door.

Leather or lace?

blake: thousands of of butterflies, blades of grass and rain dripping off
the spout.

John: Lace would go well that.

What do you like to do after sex? Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars,
eat pop tarts?

blake: have a great laugh, an all-out good giggle and then maybe it's
everybody into the shower! soap! fun! depends where i am, really....

John: "Everybody"!? That sounds like an orgy, Hazard. Where was I? For me
doing absolutely nothing is perfect. I'm never more relaxed in my life
than after.

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?

blake: i don't know, it's all so primordial, animal, chemical and basic.
i'd think music, sex and love have probably been influencing and helping
to create the other since the beginning of human contact.

John: The beat.

Lastly…..what is your favorite love song?

blake: tough to narrow it down! some favorite sad love songs are:
'for no one,' by the beatles and 'maps,' by yeah yeah yeahs. perhaps
favorite of all-time is 'birthday,' by the sugarcubes. it's not an obvious love song, but it's so deliciously weird about love and fondness.?

John: "God Only Knows".

2007-01-12T22:49:00.000-08:00

I am wearing short-shorts made of Channel wallets duct-taped around my
waist. I smile as you brush against me, whispering "I'm like a new
Joanna Newson song, I take my time and make it last.' You look at my
Nikes and get a rather disgusted look on your face - but it turns to a
smile as you realize they are 2nd hand throwback-dunks. You know I
didn't support poor labor standards, and that I most likely have made my
own Spank Rock mash-up. It makes you hot, we go back to my place and I
set all 6 of my Tech 1200s up on day-timers so we don't have to stop.
The TV is on, News Hour with Jim Lehrer - lets you know I'm educated.
Prolly after sex I will talk about how we didn't really win in
Afghanistan. In the morning we'll get veggie cream-cheese bagels, if you
can walk.

2007-01-11T12:51:00.000-08:00

She was on her hands and knees. He moved behind her, and using his
hand to guide himself, slide into her. Rocking his hips back and
forth, he found a steady pace and slowly fucked her.

She quietly moaned, and said,"Oh my god you're dick is so big. You're
dick is bigger than Colin Meloy's ego."

"That's right it is isn't it, yeah it fucking is, yeah," he replied,
and then informed her, "You're tighter than Bloc Party's set list."

As she neared orgasm her moans grew louder, and louder. She yelped
out,"Oh god, yes! That feels so good, talk to me dirty, please."

He replied,"Dirty, huh? Okay you dirty slut, yeah I bet you like my
dick, huh?"

"Dirtier than that!"

"Alright... you're just a cheap sell out. Yeah you sell out bitch.
Take the dick like you did for the major label. I'm Capitol, and
you're Liz Phair, suck the corporate cock!"

"Oh my god! I'm going to cum!"

2007-01-10T18:14:00.000-08:00

We arrange records on the floor-7 across and 7 down. I hate your picks and you hate mine despite the similiarity of them all. I’m the Courtney Taylor to your Anton Newcomb and so to compromise we make a pact to listen to whatever album I cum on—regardless of whose pick it was.

We lay across the records and start to kiss. Malajube is blaring on your iMac—I have no idea what they are saying but I fucking love it when you slip your fingers inside me during Montreal -40 degrees Celsius. And by the time La Monogamie comes on I’m sucking you off as you pull on my long brown hair.

I become so wet and even dizzy-- like that day last summer when I found out I won the ebay auction for that Pavement “Slanted and Enchanted” Vinyl LP on my first bid. I lay down as your hard cock slides inside me to the rhythm of Casse-Cou. Three minutes later I’m cuming harder than the time you fucked me on your pork pie drum set.

I pull out the record from under me—it’s Kraftwerk “Computer World”. I win.

In The Backseat With My Brightest Diamond

2007-01-09T16:39:00.000-08:00

www.mybrightestdiamond.com/
www.myspace.com/mybrightestdiamond

What album do you like to listen to while making out? Prince's Purple Rain.

What song describes your first kiss?
Raspberry Beret.

What is your favorite sandwich?
Starfish and coffee.

Do you find that being on tour helps or hinders your love life?
Hinders.

Describe your perfect date? Purple. Rain. Motorcycles. Big hair. Airplanes. Kissing. Bad movies.

What turns you on?
Prince.

What song did you lose your virginity to? No songs were played.

Favorite Superhero?
Wonderwoman.

What song turns you on every time you hear it?
I hate you (because I love you). That part in the song where Prince is "in court" with the girl and he says, "Raise your right hand. Tell the truth. Did you do it to your other man, the same things that you did to me? Right now I hate you so much I wanna make love, until you see, that it's killin' me baby, to be without you, cause all I ever wanted to do was to be with you!" and then he hits this really high note, and I fall over every time.

What do you think is the sexiest instrument?
Prince's guitar

Craziest place you've ever made out?
In front of the entire middle school after the 8th grade farewell.

Leather or lace?
Velvet.

Do you date other musicians?
Never.

What do you like to do after sex? Sleep, cuddle, smoke, thumb wars, eat pop tarts?
Be quiet.

Do you kiss/make out on the first date?
Um.. depends.

Have you ever written a song to get a girl/boy? Only once I wrote a song to get RID of a boy. I try not to be so passive aggressive anymore.

If you could make out with any musician who would it be?
Prince.

Why do you think music is so closely associated with love/sex?
Music is primal and has rhythm, direction, pace, climax and ecstasy.

Lastly, what is your favorite love song?
How come you don't call me anymore.