Vol. 1, Post #17 "Oooooo Dirty Picture!"

Dick pics, sex vids, the whole shebang…My ongoing sex tips for girls* (*girls who are holding on to mid-life by a thread). A modern love odyssey for Young Olds, AKA, people with readers.

The title of this post comes from the time that my ex B. and I were having manicures at our local nail salon in Astoria and the post itself goes out to my pal Acacia, who figures into this week’s story more than once.

The salon, called Mimi Nails, was run by (of course) Mimi, a Chinese woman probably about ten years older than me. Mimi was a fixture on Ditmars Blvd., not far from where we lived by Astoria Park. I first noticed Mimi one morning before we moved into our apartment, when I was sitting at one of the neighborhood pastry shops, watching the old women wearing widows-black file out of one of the many Greek Orthodox churches. They walked two and three abreast up the street, all stopping to greet Mimi, who stood outside of her salon like the Mayor, some of them showing off their manicures to Mimi, who loudly complimented the women on keeping their nails so pretty or, conversely, admonished them to come and see her and SOON! I liked how bossy Mimi seemed, and also how she clearly knew how to speak to both the widows’ brigade as well as the coterie of yoga moms and young Latina women who were buzzing in and out of the salon, all with a hug or a kiss or a finger-wagging from Mimi. I told myself that if we took the apartment (we had just seen it that morning before B. went off to work a Sunday shift in his kitchen), I too would go see Mimi.

We did take the apartment, and soon enough, I was sitting in front of Mimi, who wasted no time in getting “the whole story” out of me.
”Where you live?”

“What does boyfriend do?”

“You get married?”

And on and on.

One day, B. came with me to the salon. We both wanted manicures as we were going to a party that night and B. was no stranger to black or purple or dark green polish. Since it was his first time at Mimi’s, I let him sit in the chair of honor, in front of The Lady Herself, and I took a seat at another manicurist’s station. After GRILLING B. about why a man might like to wear polish, although seemingly thrilled that she was the one applying it to his nails (I can’t imagine he was her first male customer but who knows? We lived in the happily not-cool-part of Astoria — I don’t think I ever saw another man at Mimi’s, now that I think about it), we both settled in to our manicures. Mimi must have asked B. where were going that night, and when he said “costume party” she asked him what he was wearing.

I’ll assume that when he told her he was going as a “kitty cat,” and opened his phone, holding it up for her to see, he was showing her his costume as it appeared online, the ears, the nose with whiskers, etc. What I’m sure B. didn’t count on was Mimi’s next move, which was to yank B.’s phone out of his hand and start scrolling. Not even five seconds later, Mimi was laughing and yelling, in a high-pitched voice, waving B.’s phone around for everyone to see.

“Ooooooooooooo, dirty picture! Dirty picture!” Mimi cackled, holding up a photo of a very naked B. in a mask, whiskers, cat ears, and not much else, front and center on his phone, capturing the attention of everyone in the salon.

“Mimi,” I sputtered. “You cannot grab someone’s phone out of their hand and start scrolling. It’s not polite.”

“Dirty picture,” Mimi disdainfully replied, handing B. back the phone with admonishment and a final, definitive “Dirty. Picture.” She went back to doing his nails, every now and then shooting me a worried look.

Of course, B. and I laughed about this for weeks, if not months, most likely because he was A)  a total exhibitionist, and B) he had a great looking cock, and C) because Mimi was just…Mimi. To this day, having sadly left the neighborhood a few years back, when I walk past her salon, if she sees me, Mimi comes to the door and ruefully, pointedly asks, “WHERE you been?”

Acacia loves this tale ^^^ and we both like to cackle and yell out “Ooooo dirty picture” sort of randomly, because, let’s face it, it’s a fun thing to say. But that’s only part of the story.

Recently, one of my pals asked me for a recipe that I had been testing and retesting in advance of a former Beloved’s birthday: banana cream pie. I had been determined to make the mother of all banana cream pies for this Sweetie Pie and in fact had made three (THREE) different versions, with different crusts and different filling creams (note to all — this version was the crust that we liked best and I think it would make ANY pie shine but the crispy, buttery layers turned the BCP filling into a fucking work of art, and also, I creme brulee’d the bananas on the top of the pie. Yes I really loved this guy).

Remembering that I made a video of the various banana cream pie candidates when I was testing them out ahead of my guy’s birthday, I also remembered that I probably had saved this video on my hard drive, where I store everything by specific month. It’s not a perfect archival system but it works. Why I made a video of the BCP options is another story, but the point being: I knew I had BCP intel saved on my hard drive, and I knew under what month it would be saved.

I fired up the hard drive and clicked back into that month, scrolling through all of the photos and videos in search of my BCP bacchanal, when I stumbled on a video with a blurred image as title screen. In other words, I had no idea what was in the video until I hit “play.” And then, boy oh boy, did I know.

“Do you want me to tell you how amazing you feel when you’re inside me like this?” was the first thing I heard, in my own voice, as soon as the video started to play. And what came next could only be described as a veritable fuckfest between me and the BCP recipient, this scene clearly filmed the night that we celebrated his birthday, as I could tell from the plates of half-eaten dessert that were on the floor alongside the bed as the camera angle shifted.

I watched the video about five times, sometimes freeze-framing it to get a better look, sometimes just listening to it while I was clicking through another folder to find the recipe itself. I was amused, slightly turned on, and somewhat incredulous that I never “named” this video, or at least, never put a password-protected lock on it.

Recipe found, I spent the better part of two or three hours, sifting through dozens of videos like this one — me and my lover, fucking this way and that, both of us seriously middle-aged, neither of us remotely ready for our Sports Illustrated Swimwear Issue centerfold.  

Besides the fact that most of the sexy chitchat/fantasy role playing was fairly hetero-typical, I was sort of astonished that I had so many of these videos. I mean, yes, this man and I loved to film each other and in fact, made each other a ton of videos when we were apart, as well as when we were together. When separated, we made jerking off videos and we made sweet, Good Night Loveydoo videos, and while together, we made plenty of videos when we were fucking, but we also took a lot of videos of the other person when they didn’t realize the camera was on — videos like the one I unearthed of him putting on my very girlie reading glasses before he got out of bed naked to look for a remote control that we thought we lost under the bed, or the one of me, naked, in the window of his loft, leaning out with an outstretched hand to see if it was raining, my pale-as-the-moon butt hogging the camera. We were, let’s face it, enchanted with each other, and we filmed each other and made films for each other all of the time.

And now they were just floating around my hard drive, untitled. Co-mingling with the videos of banana cream pies.

I told Acacia, when we were yakking on the phone later that day, “Ok, you’re in charge of coming over and taking away the hard drives if I die suddenly. I’ll write this into my will — ‘Acacia is in charge of all computer archives/hard drives as Alexander will never stop throwing up’ — but in the meantime, if I die without a new will in place, just come and take them away.”

Besides rolling her eyes (I could see this, even on the phone) and yes, of course, agreeing, she asked me, “Do you want to go through the hard drives and delete them?”

No. I do not.

I like that they exist, those videos. I like all of the super close ups of fuzzy body parts intertwining with other body parts, and the Holy Fuck That IS An Ugly Face You Make When You Cum, and all of the sweet kissy good night wishes, and all of the stupid fuck ups, like the time I was making him a video sort of walking backwards towards my bed, wearing a negligee, not only saying I love you and sleep tight, but then planning to gracefully cut to what can only be called one of my less attractive angles as I show him how much I miss him. Yeah, that all went according to plan until I tripped over the dog.

And I like seeing those naked still photos of him (for that matter, I like seeing the ones of my other ex as well, the one with the cat costume and the beautiful dick), along with those naked photos of me. I like the obviously posed photos, each of us trying to look so sensual or at least trying not to laugh, and the raunchy cum shots, and the ones of where we’re just waking up and texting each other good morning kisses with sleepy eyes.

I think back to my conversation with Acacia about this and how I’d really feel if my (grown) son was the one who had to go through my digital diaries of videos and photos, deciding what to keep and what to toss.* It’s probably a horrible burden, to saddle a child with the task of sorting through a bunch of images of his mother getting royally fucked or rubbing one out for the camera. I think that where I’ve landed in all this is to just leave the videos and pics alone for the time being, that at some point, when I’m older and have possibly more common sense, I’ll make the effort to gather them into one folder, to put a password on them (a password that I’ll surely forget, but ok fine) or maybe even just finally delete. But for now…nah…like the banana cream pie, how sweet it was.

*At the same time, I’ll also be dead, so who cares?

(Photo atop the post is RIGHT before I fell over the dog)