"The Real Reason I Have Long Hair," smut from the archives

More of my smut from the archives. It's surreal to reread old stories; even with these short shorts, I see so many repetitions and places I could improve, ways that writing the Lusty Lady column and just the last few years working with words full-time have honed my writing. But I'm still proud of all the old stuff and in the middle of adding stories to my site, so here's one from Carol Queen's Five Minute Erotica anthology, which came out in 2003. A second volume will be out in December, featuring two of my stories, "Our Little Secret" and "Nurse Feelgood." More on those later, but for now, a short little story that brought me back to San Francisco sluttiness and a night at the Luxor from my twenties. I still have longish hair but it's shorter than it once was. Also funny is how far I've come, sexually, I guess. Some of this reads to me like I'm practically a virgin. But that's why I think writing is so important, to me, anyway; it captures a specific moment or idea, which we are free to expand upon or change as we grow up.



The Real Reason I Have Long Hair

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

My grandmother wants me to cut my hair. I don’t want to. I can’t tell her why, but I can tell you.

It all started after a night out with a friend. We were sitting in her car after she’d driven me home. I’d called the friend I was staying with minutes earlier to let her know that I’d be home soon I learned over to give her a hug and thank her for the evening, and in a split-second the entire tenor of the evening changed. It went from an innocent hug to a goodnight kiss, and then t happened: she pulled my hair. And she didn’t pull it lightly, by the split ends, the kind of tug a 6-year-old uses to tease the girl sitting next to him. No, it wasn’t like that t all. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever experienced before. She grabbed my hair by its roots near the back of my neck, and, using a surprising amount of force, tugged me by the hair. I felt that pull run right through my body and my cunt tighten. With each pull, I felt almost like I was getting fucked, or teased, the way the intensity built up and up until I could hardly breathe. It was a magical, thrilling moment that not only caught me off guard but also got me as aroused as I’ve ever been.

Having long hair has always been a sensual experience for me. When I’m naked after a shower and my hair has just dried, I love to lean back as far as I can and feel my hair across my back like a lover, brushing against the curves of my as. I love to tease my lovers with my hair, flicking it back and forth as I flirt, dangling it over their skin while we make love. I can use my long hair to flirt with, or to hide behind. It’s also a bit of a camouflage; some people make assumptions that girls with long hair are “nice” and we’re not supposed to be as brazen as girls who’ve copped all their locks off. Long hair is supposed to be a bit dowdy, a bit old-fashioned, but for me it’s not; it’s intimately connected to my sexuality. And in many ways my actions are like a girl with short hair; I’m very independent, headstrong, outspoken. But there is a totally girlish side of me, one that delights in something as seemingly retro as long hair.

Every time it’s too hot out or my hair gets too frizzy, I have the urge to take a pair of scissors and chop it off, lose the split ends and extra care long hair requires, become cooler, or dykier, in the process. But always, always, I resist. Long hair makes me feel powerful, sexy, beautiful, and every time I’ve cut it off, I’ve missed it desperately.

In a total act of topping from the bottom, I often command my lovers to pull my hair, hard. When they do, it sends shivers throughout my body, a current of energy channeling from the roots of my hair directly to my cunt. I et frenzied and frantic as they pull over and over, each tug building on the next. It’s like being teased, touched lightly or indirectly when you just want to be pounded hard. Because while having my hair pulled can bring me right up to the brink of orgasm, it alone is not enough, and that maddening tease, that thrill as the sensations chase me closer and closer, is like nothing else.

When I’m having an intense hair pulling session, I lose myself completely, get frantic and needy and one hundred percent out of control. I want things I’ve never wanted before when my hair is being pulled, things that scare me and test my boundaries. Tears spring to my eyes, but they’re not from a direct sense of pain, because it doesn’t hurt, at least not in the way I understand pain. When a lover pulls my hair just right, with that perfect combination of dominance and affection, my head bends back in pure submission and delight. Parts of me I don’t usually think of as erogenous zones come to life. The girl who pulled my hair and almost made me come under the street lamp also pinched my neck (nobody had ever done that before), precisely and deliberately coinciding with her hair pulling, sending further spasms throughout my splayed-out body.

On vacation with my lover, he was pulling my hair as I straddled him, our bodies rubbing together, and all of a sudden, I wanted him to slap me, hard, across the face. I’d never wanted that or anything like it before, and the thought and image scared me even as they turned me on. I opened my mouth but couldn’t get any words out, couldn’t voice this seemingly wrong desire. So he kept pulling my hair and biting my nipples, working me into such a frenzy I thought I would explode. I knew that all of this pain-as-pleasure stuff was new to him, but it was also new to me, in a way; I didn’t expect his hair pulling to have such an effect. It can totally make me lose my balance, both mental and physical, spin me and twist me around so I hardly know where I am or what I want. That kind of dizzying desire is scary, but also special (perhaps because it’s so scary).

It’s also a special kind of activity, not something I do with every lover. That very first night, what made it so special was the surprise element, the way I didn’t know what would come next or where she would take me. What makes me keep wanting more and more is that I still don’t know what will come next—what bizarre thoughts and fantasies will enter my mind and body when someone pulls my hair.

So now you know my secret, the reason I put up with the knots and tangles and hassles of having hair halfway down my back. It’s not just a fashion statement; it’s a sexual proclamation for those who are bold enough to handle it. Just don’t tell my grandmother.