Slip one of these on top of a copy of Happy Birthday Erotica for the perfect birthday gift!
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Sunday, December 2, 2007
29 Again
Here is one of my favorite stories from Happy Birthday Erotica.
29 Again
She was turning 29.
Again.
Twenty-nine, for the fourth straight year. And it was becoming increasingly difficult to get away with what had started out as a little white lie. Difficult to create a new circle of friends each year who would buy her age, who would celebrate with her, celebrate wildly, as if the world would end at 30. Somehow, she’d known this would happen, had predicted it back when she’d blown out 29 candles for the first time. Known in her soul that 29 was the number to be, the number to stay.
Slowly, she looked around the apartment. Todd’s apartment. He’d offered to throw the bash for her here, and most of the friends in attendance were his. She liked his place, near the beach, with the balcony overlooking the white sands. White sands at night, anyway, beneath the glowing light of the full moon. Venice Beach was perfect for a little bohemian get together. The guys in their long Hawaiian-print board shorts and Sex-Wax shirts were all about Todd’s age, mid-30s, the girls were far younger than Angie. Little surfer girls, who thought 25 was ancient, and 29 the absolute end of the road. You’re 30? Out to pasture you go. They snuck pitying peeks at her as they tied up their silky halters and adjusted their tiny little minis to reveal acres of tanned skin.
Angie looked as good as they did. She knew it. But looking good took more effort now. Her blonde hair was foiled every six weeks to get the sun-kissed gold streaks that framed her pretty, heart-shaped face, that emphasized the metal in her bronze-brown eyes. Her tan was equally manufactured, carefully applied all over her body, after a rigorous loofah-bath. She never went in the sun anymore if she could help it. Didn’t dare. Still, in the mirrored mantle over the unused fireplace, she still saw a kid when she caught her reflection.
24, maybe. 19 even, if one were to squint.
“You look amazing,” one of the girls smiled at her as she refilled Angie’s glass of bubbly, seeming to read Angie’s mind.
“You do,” Todd agreed aloud, before bending to add in a whispered voice, “Not a day over 33.”
“What do you—“ Angie stammered, her heart pounding, but he just shook his head and lifted the clear green bottle of Rolling Rock to his lips to hide his grin. Generally, she loved his smile, loved the way it made her feel inside, but this was different. Impish, somehow. Sly. Without another word, he headed over to the knot of friends gathered around the chips and dip. Was he messing with her? Did he know for real?
She’d worked so hard. Too hard. Last year, she’d spent her birthday with a man from her gym, a trainer, and several of his buddies, out on a boat in Marina del Rey. No one had thought to question her for real. To find out what music she’d listened to in high school, what year she’d been born. But just in case, she had all of the math memorized. Last year, she’d been born in 1976. The Bicentennial. That was easy enough to remember.
Each year, for the month prior to her birthday, she quizzed herself as she got ready for work, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, did her makeup, going over the pertinent facts for the hour it took her to primp.
To be 29 this year, she’d been born in 1977. She’d graduated high school in ’95 and college in ’99. Didn’t seem like too much to know, but things like that made a big difference in conversation. Small talk often veered to dates, which she’d learned the hard way, having to play dumb on her second 29th birthday when she’d messed up and gotten the year of her high school graduation wrong, having to cover up by saying she’d gone abroad for a year and had to retake the 7th grade.
Todd brushed her shoulder with one big hand, and she looked up at him, catching the glimmer in his eye, wondering if he knew for real, or if he was only fucking with her.
“Let’s go on the balcony,” he suggested, and she followed him, feeling meek, cowed, even as one of the giggling girls set a little sparkling silver tiara in her glossy hair. A princess. For one night a year, that’s all she wanted. You couldn’t be a princess in your thirties, could you?
“It’s beautiful,” she sighed as she watched the waves lap the shore.
He nodded, wrapping her up in his strong embrace, which made her feel safe, normally, but now put her off balance as she couldn’t see his amber eyes.
“Why’d you lie?”
Again, her heart throbbed. He knew.
“I—“
“Nothing wrong with being in your 30s.”
“There is in L.A.”
“But you’re not a starlet. There’s no expiration date on being a curator.”
Yes, he was right. She could organize exhibitions at the gallery until she was 100, and she knew it. But somehow 30 had seemed like the year that she was supposed to have all of her shit together. 30 meant she was supposed to stop buying $400 shoes, stop living frivolously, stop spending on her clothes what she should be putting into a 401K retirement plan, and she could bear none of that.
“I’m 38,” he reminded her.
She nodded. She knew it. He’d told her his age when he bought the painting right out of the gallery window, the one that was now hanging on the wall in his entryway. Todd had said in their first conversation that he’d finally made it to a point where he had a little extra for the things he’d always dreamed of. He’d bought the picture as a birthday present for himself, and he hadn’t paused or coughed or hid the fact that he was nearing 40.
“Men are different,” she told him, matter-of-factly. It was true. He must understand that. A man could be 60 and date a girl in her twenties and nobody blinked an eye. Look at Jack Nicholson and Laura Flynn Boyle or Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart. But you never saw it the other way around. There were different rules for men than there were for women. Even Todd, who worked with numbers all day long, keeping track of finances on movie sets, wasn’t going to try to argue that fact with her, was he?
“But what were your plans? Next year, you wouldn’t have been able to tell me you were 29 again.”
She remained silent. That was the biggest problem. She couldn’t have stayed with him. She had to move on. New circle of friends. New circle of lies. The way she was no longer with the trainer from last year, or the hack screenwriter from the year before, or the film editor with whom she’d spent years 27, 28, and the real 29.
He turned her to face him. “You were going to dump me?”
She saw the hurt in his eyes and quickly shook her head. They hadn’t been going out long enough for her to think that far ahead. 2 ½ months. Not a real relationship yet. She didn’t even have any of her clothes at his place. Yet he seemed to be waiting for a response.
“I don’t know,” she said, “I would have played it by ear.”
“And if we’d lasted, you would have turned 30 next year, then 31, and forever, you’d have had to try to remember the fake you—“
She shrugged. She’d just never thought that far ahead. “How’d you find out anyway?”
“I knew from the start. Saw your driver’s license when we were getting into that club in Hollywood. I work with numbers, you know. I did the math. Addition comes automatically for me—“
And she remembered. She’d been carded, which was thrilling, and she hadn’t considered Todd a keeper at the time, so she hadn’t worked hard enough to hide it from him. How had it slipped her mind? She was usually so careful.
“And then, when you said you were turning 29, my interest was piqued, so I kept quiet.”
And he’d let her run with it, making a complete and total fool of herself—
“Is that the only lie you’ve told me?”
She looked into his eyes again, dark brown eyes, and she thought she saw a deepness there, an understanding, that she hadn’t seen before. He was asking her this for a reason. Not to mess with her, but because he really wanted to know. And he wanted to know because he— oh, she didn’t want to think it, because that might jinx it.
“I want to know,” he said, flat out, “because I need to trust you.”
“Yes,” she stammered, “that’s the only time.”
“Good,” he nodded. “Because I can see a real future for us, Angie. But not if you lie.”
A real future. That went with the real life. That went with the fact that she’d been born in 1973 not ‘77, that she could actually remember the fireworks from the Bicentennial, proof positive that it wasn’t the year of her birth.
He looked at her soberly, and she wondered what he was thinking. There was no way to read his eyes. “But if we’re going to be honest,” he said, “I need to tell you something, too.”
She waited, wondering. “You’re 60,” she finally grinned.
“No,” he shook his head. “I didn’t go into that gallery just to buy the picture,” he said. “I’d seen you in there for a month before I got up the nerve to come inside. I would have walked out with you instead of the picture if I could have.”
The best birthday present, she started to think, was to be with him. The rest of it, all of it, the numbers and the dates, were things that she could spin around in her head so that she wouldn’t have to pay attention to what was really going on close by her. That wasn’t to say she was unfocused. At work, she could create the most coherent shows, arranging the pictures just so, spending hours sweating over the smallest details. Art was easy. Real life was difficult.
She watched the partiers through the sliding glass door, and she didn’t feel any longing to join them. Running around playing younger than she actually was suddenly seemed far less important. Being with Todd was what mattered.
“But we do have to deal with the fact that you lied—“ Todd said, bringing it all around again.
For the third time that evening, her heart pounded so hard that she felt he might be able to hear it.
“With a birthday spanking—“
Oh, god—
“One for each and every year.”
She lowered her head, but he caught her chin in one hand and lifted her face to his.
“You agree with the terms?”
So meek she was, even tiared, like a princess. “Yes,” she finally managed to say. “Yes.”
“When they leave,” he nodded toward the window, indicating his slew of beautiful guests, “when the last one leaves, I mean, you’ll bend over my lap and take it like the naughty birthday girl you are—“
She said nothing, eyes locked on his, feeling a burst of nervousness mingled with a wave of anticipation flood through her.
“You understand?” his voice was so deliciously strict she could have come right then with very little assistance.
“Yeah,” she finally managed. “Yes, Todd.”
It was hell waiting. She found herself mingling with the partiers, laughing, telling stories, but keeping an eye on the clock the whole time. They’d all have to leave by one, wouldn’t they? Or two at the latest. She watched Todd surreptitiously. He wasn’t drinking anymore. Didn’t have a bottle of beer in hand for the rest of the night. Was he as excited as she was? She couldn’t tell from his poker face.
At one point in the evening, she sat on the edge of Todd’s sofa and chatted with several of the young girls. She’d never really talked with them before, she’d only looked at them enviously, considered them the competition. It was a surprise to learn that they were interested in art, found from their comments that they actually looked up to her. She’d never thought of things like that. That youngsters might actually want to have what she had. A top job in a stellar gallery. A closet full of Manolos and Louboutins.
“And your dress,” one of the little girls cooed. “I love your dress.”
“Wish I could afford one of those,” her friend sighed. “Can’t buy anything over The Gap or Contempo on my salary.”
She remembered what that was like, a decade ago when she first was starting out. Remembered thrift-store shopping and borrowing clothes from her buddies. New thoughts flooded through her mind all night, but each one would eventually hit the wall of “birthday spanking”—and she’d look over at Todd. He always seemed to be looking back at her, sending a fresh wave of nerves through her, even when all he did was smile.
Finally, the last couple left, and she and Todd were alone. From the stern expression on his face, Angie thought he might give her a talking to, and then, when he didn’t say a word, she thought he might let her back out. But Todd had his own plans. He simply gripped her wrist and pulled her over to the sofa, bent her over his lap, and lifted the patterned Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress all the way up to her hips.
She had on lilac lace-edged La Perla panties underneath the thin wrap—panties she’d chosen with thoughts of an entirely different post-party event—but Todd didn’t hesitate to admire the expensive knickers. He let one hand come down firmly on her ass, and Angie jumped at the unexpected sting. It had never occurred to her that he was going to treat this as a real, punishment spanking, but clearly he was. Todd spanked her other cheek just as hard, and she yelped, doing the math suddenly in her head. Two. He’d only given her two. And she had—Christ, 31 to go.
“Liar,” Todd hissed as his hand landed a particularly stinging blow to the undercurve of her ass. “This is what happens to bad little birthday liars.”
“I’m sorry,” she managed to whisper.
“No,” he said, his voice rich with a dark humor. “You’re not yet. But you will be.” And he was right. He spanked her steadily on her panty-clad ass until she felt tears form in her eyes. Then, when she thought he was giving her a break, he surprised her even further by pulling her panties down her thighs and spanking her on the bare.
How far was he going to take this, she wondered? Was he actually going to make her sob?
Todd had a hard hand, and he used it against the lush curves of her ass. She knew that she’d have a difficult time sitting down the next day, would be sleeping on her stomach that night, no sheets necessary to keep her warm. The heat of her ass would do the job just fine.
When he reached thirty-three, she felt a relief cascade over her, but Todd didn’t let her up. “Don’t forget,” he murmured.
“Forget?”
“One to grow on,” he said, before landing the firmest blow of the evening, right on her sweet spot.
Angie cried out at the pain, and Todd immediately slipped her panties all the way off her lean legs, and then swung her around in his embrace. She thought he was going to hold her, comfort her poor smarting behind, but then nothing he’d done this evening had been precisely what she’d expected. With a little adjusting, he spread the fly of his jeans, releasing his hard-on. Angie didn’t have to be told what to do next. She lifted her hips and then slipped down on his cock, feeling all the stinging pain in her backside concentrate to a pulsing throb, enhancing this delicious moment of pleasure.
Todd gripped her hips through the silky fabric of her patterned dress, working her up and down on his cock. She held his gaze with her own, feeling the wetness on her tear-stained cheeks, feeling the rush of the impending orgasm wing through her. Her ass felt on fire as he continued to fuck her, but there was no denying that the spanking had made her the most turned on of her life. She and Todd had shared exciting sex previously—out on the balcony, up in the hills against his car—but nothing like this. This was brand-new, the best she’d ever had.
When Todd pressed his fingers between their bodies, stroking her clit, she came. She kept her eyes on his as the pleasure flowed through her, and he bucked his hips once more, coming a beat later, filling her.
“No more lying,” she promised to Todd, looking meekly into his eyes.
“Good girl,” he said, nodding. “Because spankings don’t have to wait for birthdays.”
She grinned at him, knowing suddenly that it didn’t matter—the numbers didn’t matter. And knowing for certain that she was never going to be 29 again.
XXX,
Alison
I would like you to dance--Birthday
Take a cha-cha-cha-chance-Birthday
I would like you to dance--Birthday
—The Beatles
P.S. If December is your birthday month, don't forget to post a comment here for a chance to win a copy of Happy Birthday Erotica
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Birthday of the Month
Post an "it's my birthday" comment during your birthday month for a chance to win a copy of Happy Birthday Erotica!
XXX,
Alison
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Happy Birthday Erotica
Forget the French perfume and the boxes of candy, the Hallmark cards and the gift certificates. The birthdays in this collection are observed in more carnal ways, with suitably sex presents for all. In Marilyn Jaye Lewis's "The Birthday Party," an unexpected ménage à trois in the dark proves the perfect gift. And in Kate Laurie's "Her Birthday Suit," two women give their skeptical girlfriend a stud who insists, "A promise is a promise. I can't leave you until you are absolutely satisfied."
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